The Flirtation

by Kayley Loring

  “And you’re desperately in love with him.”

  “Obviously I am not in love—it’s strictly business.” I grabbed the small, unopened box of condoms from my bedside table—the one on the other side of the bed from where I kept Mr. Potter. They expired in a month. I figured I might as well pack them, in case somebody else on the island needed them, so they wouldn’t go to waste.

  “You’re packing condoms right now, aren’t you?”

  I gasped. “You witch!”

  She flushed the toilet and put the phone down on top of the vanity while she washed her hands, then took a moment to gargle with mouthwash, wipe down the tiles and tidy up around the sink. The Davis women are natural born multi-taskers.

  “You don’t know me!” I sighed very dramatically. “This is the biggest contract of my career, we’re still technically in the post-integration phase, which is critical. I have to stay focused. I can’t get sidetracked.”

  She spits out the mouthwash. “Honey, you need to get sidetracked—hard—multiple times. You need to get snogged and shagged and buggered senseless. You gotta seal that transatlantic deal. You need to ride the ol’ Union Jack flagpole if you know what I’m saying. You need to integrate with his post!”

  I had to sit down, I was laughing so hard. “Stop! Oh my God! Seriously, this is not part of the plan. I need to become a manager when I’m twenty-nine so I’m on track to make partner by the time I’m thirty-five, marry a nice, un-ambitious but totally respectable and responsible man when I’m thirty-six and adopt an Asian baby that my husband can stay at home to take care of while I start my own firm.”

  “Fantasy.”

  “Also he’ll be a really good cook and excellent lover and have a trust fund while still being very down-to-earth. Also I will magically maintain the same weight throughout my entire life without ever having to exercise!”

  “I know you’re saying a bunch of words that mean a lot to you, but all I’m hearing is ‘blah blah blah I need to have sexual intercourse with an Englishman and also get a life.’”

  “Yeah you know, one day I do hope to shag an Englishman, one in particular, well two in particular, including 2003 Jude Law, but I don’t have the time or the emotional bandwidth to deal with it at this particular point in my life. Maybe I can have a hot fling with Luke after I’ve made partner, right before I meet the man I will marry! Yes, I can definitely squeeze that in.”

  “I am so sad for you right now. You should take that red dress you wore to that fundraiser last summer!”

  I sucked in my breath. “I can’t take that! I look way too good in it! It’s way too sexy!” I went to the closet, pulled out the red dress and packed it into the suitcase, along with some strappy heels to go with them. “My body hasn’t been exposed to sunshine since we went to Florida with Mom. My skin is practically transparent.” I found a hot pink maxi dress in a dark corner of my closet and tossed it into the suitcase. It seemed like the kind of thing one would wear in the Bahamas.

  “Well, Luke’s from England, he’s used to pale skin.”

  “Yeah, he doesn’t look all that pale to me, but maybe it’s just good lighting.”

  “He probably goes to Greece for the weekend or something.”

  “I wouldn’t really know, we don’t talk about specifics when it comes to our personal lives.”

  “Oh good that means you’ll have something new to talk about while you’re shagging.”

  “Please. It is a work trip. Besides, we might not even get along in person—and also it doesn’t even matter because it’s a work trip.”

  “Your sex life needs work.”

  “Stop. I shouldn’t even be discussing this with you.”

  “You should discuss how his penis works! It’s time for him to FaceTime with your vagina.”

  I snort-laughed, and then suddenly froze up.

  “What is happening? Did FaceTime freeze or did you?”

  “Nothing. No. I’m fine. I just don’t think I’m emotionally prepared to deal with him in a tropical non-business environment.”

  “Because you’re afraid you’ll fall in love with him and you aren’t capable of making a real commitment?”

  “Excuse me, I am the most committed person I know—besides Luke.”

  “Sounds like a match to me! Why can’t you let yourself be happy?”

  “You honestly think I’ll be happier if I fall in love with a man who lives in London?”

  That shut her up for three whole seconds. I guess part of me was hoping she’d convince me that I would definitely be happier if I fell in love with a man who lived in London—but that was a losing argument and my sister would never willingly lose an argument. “Answer me this: do you even flirt with anyone else at work?”

  “Of course not! I basically glue my legs shut and stare at the floor when I have lunch or dinner meetings with men.”

  “Exactly.”

  “No, not exactly—it’s different when you’re in the same room with them.”

  “So you flirt with Sir Flirty McFlirtson because you feel safe.”

  I thought about it for a second. “Yes.”

  “And did you feel safe because he was a million miles away and you figured you’d never meet him?”

  “Obviously!”

  Jackie went silent for a moment, in quiet big sisterly judgment. I busied myself with packing and braced myself. “You remember when you were in junior high and I wanted to take you to the Rocky Horror Picture Show with me and my friends and you were like, terrified and refused for months and even had nightmares about it because you thought it was some kind of horrific scary movie that psychos went to, and then on Hallowe’en Jimmy and I basically kidnapped you and you had the best time ever and wouldn’t stop doing The Time Warp for a year?”

  I did remember. “I have no memory of that.” I knew exactly where she was going with this.

  “It’s like that. Whenever you resist something or someone to this degree, you always end up going nuts for it.”

  Exactly. I can’t afford to go nuts for this guy. Duh. “That’s not entirely true,” I said. “I hated kimchi exactly as much as I thought I would.” I sat down on my bed and suddenly went full-on drama queen. “I can’t handle a transatlantic relationship at this point in my life! You honestly want me to move to London to be with him?! I couldn’t just move in with him right away, you know, I’d have to get my own flat just in case things don’t work out, and rent’s even more expensive there than it is here—yes I’ve looked into it for my clients not because I was making plans—and what would I do for work? I’d need a work visa and I mean I barely even understand Brexit and the EUC, how can I be a business manager in England?! How?! I thought you liked me. I thought you liked having me around.”

  “Uh, first of all, take a deep breath and calm down. Secondly, we see you like six times a year in person, and we mostly communicate through our phones anyway so I’m not sure what the difference would be. And third, who’s talking about moving to London—just have a quickie fling! It doesn’t have to turn into anything and it doesn’t have to change anything. What happens in the Bahamas stays in the Bahamas.” She stared at her phone and watched my face, surprised to see that I was actually considering this, so she went a little easier on me. “Maybe you should just have sex with him once first, you know, and then worry about the rest of your life later. That’s kind of what people do in this type of situation.”

  “Excuse me—it’s my job to consider the financial consequences of major life changes before people make them.”

  “Well, it’s my job to encourage my little sister to get laid more often.”

  I took a deep breath then exhaled. “I’m nervous. This feels like a big deal.”

  “Okay,” she said, and I could tell she was changing tactics. “You know, some people look a lot better on camera than they do in real life.”

  “This really isn’t helping.”

  She dipped out of frame as she picked toys up off the floor. “He might
be gay?”

  “Well now you aren’t even trying.”

  Her head popped back up as she said, totally straight-faced: “You’re forgetting the most likely possibility.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He might not find you attractive. He’ll be completely repelled by your neurotic American ass and won’t want to have anything to do with you.”

  I went silent. I knew she was joking, but part of me was terrified of the prospect of being rejected by the one man on earth who’d held my interest for a full year. What if I really was just some silly American business associate to him? Surely he was used to dating countesses or European ballerinas or billionaire businesswomen.

  “Hey,” she said. “I was one hundred percent kidding. He’s nuts about you.”

  I stared into my underwear drawer. “I have to go.”

  “Okay. Travel safe, let me know when you’re there. And don’t forget—if he talks about ‘soccer’ he really means ‘football.’ Or is it the other way around?”

  “You’re the other way around. Love you.”

  “Love you back…Hey, Ave?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This has been the longest phone conversation we’ve had in years and it was about Sir Flirty McFlirtson—think about what that means--love you bye.” She stuck her face up into the camera and made googly eyes as she ended the call.

  I reached into the back of the drawer, and pulled out the lacy La Perla slip that I’d purchased two years ago for some future hypothetical special occasion. It had lived at the back of the drawer ever since. Well, if being with Luke in a villa on the beach at the Bahamas isn’t a hypothetical special occasion then I don’t know what is. Wearing it will not indicate the intention to have sexual relations with him, any more than him sending me jars of marmalade meant that he intended to have sexual relations with me. I should at least put my best “face” forward, and this item of lingerie will make my face look hot.

  My phone vibrated while I was attaching it to the charger that’s always plugged in by my bed. It was a text, from Luke:

  See you in the Bahamas?...Something I never thought I’d be saying to you…

  I couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across my face anymore than I could stop my fingers from immediately typing: Not if I see you first! ;-)

  I instantly regretted hitting “send.” Maybe that doesn’t read as flirtatious. Maybe he’ll take it as obnoxious. That’s a perfectly professional winky face, right?

  He wrote back: Not if I kill myself two hours into the flight because I can’t check my email. :-/

  Yikes. Dark. Was he not looking forward to seeing me in person?

  I got another text from him: Will be nice to finally meet you in person, though…

  Dear God. Death by ellipses. If it weren’t for those three dots, that would have been a perfectly innocent sentence, but…

  Again, my fingers worked faster than my brain: Indeed…And don’t worry, I promise not to email you while you’re on the plane so you won’t miss anything important. ;-)

  Gah! Again with the winky face! I never use winky faces in texts—I hate winky faces! I am an emoticon-free texter. Maybe I was suffering from anticipatory jet lag. No wait, it’s the same time zone.

  There was a very long, unfunny, excruciating, not at all flirtatious pause, which was at last followed by: Hah! Very good—see you later, then.

  Aaaaand good night.

  I gazed over at the bedside table drawer, where Mr. Potter lived, and then remembered to remove him from my bag and put him back there. Why can’t it just be you and me?

  I didn’t expect to be able to sleep that night, because tomorrow I’d be seeing Luke Mason, face-to-face. But I slept. I slept so well, I suppose, because on some level I knew that meeting Luke in person would finally wake me up.

  Chapter 4

  Luke

  Part of me was kicking myself for not knowing how to respond to Avery’s saucy texts, part of me was dying to see her in person, part of me needed to keep the Atlantic Ocean between us so I could continue going about my life as it was.

  I was in the middle of packing for the trip. I still had a beach holiday bag packed for my mini-breaks with Chiara, so I only had to add a few days worth of clothing and a few jars of Frank Cooper’s Vintage Oxford marmalade. Avery had exquisite taste—preferring the same fruit preserves as the Queen herself. I couldn’t wait to see her face when I presented them to her. Presenting her with marmalade, you dickhead, when you really want to present her with something else entirely. I was about to reply to her last text with something devastatingly clever and boldly flirtatious when my personal phone rang. It was Chiara, finally calling me after I’d texted her that we needed to talk.

  She knew I was going to cancel our plans before I’d said a word. I barely had a chance to say a word. She was yelling before I’d even answered the phone. She’d changed her plans so she could come to London to see me on Tuesday, I obviously didn’t care about her, why didn’t I just marry my job and stop wasting women’s time? These were all questions that deserved answers, but all I did was tell her I was sorry, agree that she had every right to be angry, and let her continue yelling at me until she’d worn herself out. It had been my modus operandi for a decade, and it had worked well for me indeed. I had learned that if I didn’t fight back, eventually the women would realize they were fighting with themselves, and I would be in the clear. They may still think I was a twat, but at least they’d have no memory of me ever saying or doing anything genuinely terrible to them. In the past, when I’d engaged in arguments with lady friends about “our relationship,” the arguments had been ongoing. I mean they just never ended. They would cut into the time that I should have been spending studying, or working. It was part of my business plan to never engage in an argument with a woman. But I did truly feel bad about letting her down.

  I held the phone away from my ear while she vented, occasionally chiming in with an “I know, I’m sorry, I’m awful.” Chiara was feeling disappointed at the moment, but eventually, I was sure, she would understand that I was keeping her at a distance for her own good. I wasn’t the man for her.

  But who was I the man for? I was thirty years old and had never lived with a woman that I was romantically involved with. I had become such a bachelor, but my bona fide workaholic father has had four failed marriages, and I promised myself I’d never be like him. I would not get married unless I could genuinely commit to the woman and our future children, because I didn’t want to hurt or disappoint people like my father has.

  Chiara was the one I was on the phone with, but Avery was the only woman on my mind. Would I be the one who’d be disappointed and hurt this time, if I let myself enjoy her presence just a little too much? Was she actually in love with that absent boyfriend of hers? What would she smell like, I wondered? How tall would she be? Should we hug when we meet at the airport, like Americans always seemed to do, or would that be untoward? Should we engage in the same manner as we did over Skype, which was—by my standards anyway—outrageously flirtatious. I didn’t usually flirt so brazenly with women, but she brought it out of me. It was probably how she was with everyone. I was reading too much into it. Wouldn’t she have a laugh if she’d known how confused I was for a minute.

  Focus, focus. It’s a work trip. We work well together as work associates, and that’s it.

  I just hoped I wouldn’t have to see her in a bathing suit or pretty sundress, because I knew my limits.

  By the time Chiara had hung up, she was calm and resigned to a future without me in it, convinced that it was entirely her idea to cancel our Valentine’s Day plans and to never see each other again. I told her that I was sorry she felt that way, because I very much enjoyed our time together (which was the truth, for the most part) and left it open for her to get in touch with me when she wanted to.

  At that point too much time had passed since my lame text to Avery, so I decided to leave it. Best to leave things open, so we didn’t ha
ve any expectations about how things would go once we were face-to-face.

  God, that face…

  Chapter 5

  Luke

  The eternal flight was ten times worse than I’d anticipated it would be. Buck Reynolds had graciously paid for a Business Class seat from London, which was spacious and comfortable and there wasn’t even another passenger next to me. My assistant had given me a pill to help me sleep, but it just made me doze off every now and then and I kept waking up from strange filthy dreams about Avery. I was able to work on some documents for our client debriefing when we were somewhere over the middle of the Atlantic, but the inability to distract myself by talking on the phone with anyone other than Avery or emailing anyone other than Avery had left me in a reclining seat with nothing but my thoughts of the client that I shared with Avery, the bed that I wanted to share with Avery, and all of the things that I secretly wanted to do to Avery’s body.

  I rang William’s mobile almost as soon as we’d landed at the airport in Freeport. I’d received so few emails since I’d last checked, I was worried there’d been some kind of natural disaster that prevented people from my homeland from getting in touch with me. It was after three in the afternoon here and five hours later in London. “I’m here, what’s going on, what have I missed—start with the emergencies.”

  “How were the flights??”

  “What? It was an eleven-hour anxiety dream. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Nothing much, I’m having a bit of dinner in front of the telly — ”

  “What’s going on at the office?!”

  “Things were fine.”

  “What do you mean ‘things were fine?’ I’ve been off the grid for nearly ten hours. What happened when Roger called? Is he livid?”

  “No, not at all. He laughed for about ten minutes when I told him you were on a plane to the Bahamas, and when I told him it wasn’t a joke he said ‘oh’ and we rescheduled.”

  “William, it really doesn’t benefit me if you aren’t telling me absolutely everything.”