Play Dates

by Maggie Wells

  Needing a moment to gather herself, she forced a weak smile for her assistant. “Hey, would you grab a bottle of water for me?”

  Nicole hopped to her feet. “Sure thing, boss.”

  Teeth set on edge, Monica continued to grip the armrests as she watched the younger woman scurry away. The warren of cubicles they called the bullpen was alive. An electronic board scrolled acronyms and numbers. Monica was proud of the team she’d assembled. Pleased by how far she’d come since she’d wormed her way into one of those cubicles. This was a man’s world, but she’d conquered every obstacle put in her path to a corner office. Proved she had the chutzpah to make the boys shut up and listen. This was her queendom. This modern-day bedlam pulsing with shouts. She lived her life to a soundtrack consisting of cries of either anguish or ecstasy. And for a long time, she’d thrived on the thrills and chills, but now she was stepping back from the melee.

  Those glass walls allowed her to witness the mayhem but not actually take part. She handled trading for only a select handful of clients anymore. She staffed all the others out to the junior traders she’d trained and groomed herself. The business world called it “delegating,” but Monica knew what her need for distance really was.

  Cowardice.

  She’d lost her edge years ago, but she wasn’t about to admit as much. Not when she’d fought and crawled and clawed her way up the ladder. These days, she preferred to hand the reins and any resultant blame off to one of her subordinates. When anything did go wrong, she could step in, smooth the waters, and step back again without any personal loss of face.

  Covering her face with her hands, she leaned forward until her elbows hit the desk. This was exactly the kind of self-analysis she’d spent most of her adult life avoiding. Melody was the one who loved soul-searching. Monica wasn’t even entirely sure she had a soul, and, frankly, she was too scared to look. What if all she found was a big, gaping hole?

  The worst part was she couldn’t blame Colm for being pissed. He’d done everything right, and she’d been all wrong. From the very start, she wanted to indulge herself with Colm, but not really risk anything in the process. From the get-go, she had no intention of showing who she really was. Hell, it had been so many years since she even attempted to have a life, she wasn’t certain she could tell him who she was outside of her career.

  Worse, she hadn’t even been able to tell him the most basic facts about herself. She was known among family and what few friends she kept in touch with for her glib comebacks and pithy asides. But with Colm, she fumbled the simplest truths. Even when those truths were nothing to be ashamed of. Certainly not worth hiding. How pathetic could one person be?

  So she wasn’t Emma’s mom. There was no law stating only parents could take a child to a public park. And yes, she might have set the record straight on any number of occasions, but she hadn’t sworn an oath upon accepting his dinner invitation.

  “Boss? You okay?”

  The quiet question undercut all the ambient noise coming from the bullpen and sliced clean through her line of justification. A low moan gurgled in her throat. She forced herself to raise her head, intending to whip out a standard “I’m fine” and send Nicole to her own desk, but her vision came up blurry. And though her brain screamed the words like a petulant child, no sound came out.

  “Monica?”

  The concern in Nicole’s tone spurred her into action. Pressing her palm to her stomach, Monica did something she hadn’t done since she was a junior trader.

  She called off sick.

  “No. I think I have to go.” Gripping the edge of her desk, she made a feeble attempt to stand. When her knees failed, Nicole appeared at her side in a flash.

  “Here.” The younger woman thrust an ice-cold bottle of water into Monica’s limp hand. “Uh, you’re okay,” she murmured unconvincingly. This was new territory for the both of them. “Sip this slow. I’ll call down and tell Joe you need a cab.” The moment the words were spoken, her uber-efficient assistant sprang into action. Snatching the handset of the desk phone from its cradle, she tucked the receiver between her shoulder and ear.

  Ten minutes later, Monica had cleared the snarl of downtown traffic and was speeding toward home. This was a first. In so many ways. She couldn’t remember a day when she ducked out of work prior to the close of trading. Definitely the first time she had ever ditched work because of a guy. She’d never let any man close enough to influence more than what she ate for dinner, much less ruin her entire day.

  Her breath snarled in her chest. Monica pressed the side of her fist to the spot. The added pressure didn’t help. The sharp edge of finality in Colm’s tone cut to the bone. He was done with her. His position was clear. But she wasn’t ready to be done with him. She was an idiot. An absolute idiot. She should have listened to Melody. Hell, she should have listened to her own conscience. But no, as usual, she hadn’t listened to anyone or anything. Like a pirate, she’d barged right into the man’s life, taken what she wanted, ignoring what was right. Or honorable. Honest.

  The cab jerked to a halt in front of her place. She scrounged a twenty from her wallet and shoved the money through the partition, mumbling, “Keep the change.”

  The driver did a double take when he saw the bill. “You sure, lady?”

  Monica roused herself from her stupor to look at the meter. The fare had come to seven dollars and forty-five cents. Automatically, her brain clicked and whirred. The balance from the bill would be about a one-hundred-and-eighty percent tip. Monica shrugged, reached for the door handle, and dragged her purse and briefcase across the cracked vinyl seat as she climbed out. “One of us needs to have a good day, and I don’t think it’s going to be me.”

  “Hey, thanks! Hope things get better for ya,” he called as she let the door swing shut.

  Monica acknowledged his well-wishes with a wave and trudged to her door. Once inside, she let her bags fall to the floor and tossed her keys into the glass bowl on the table. Shuffling into the kitchen, she realized she was home in the middle of the morning and didn’t have the first clue what to do.

  Was she supposed to watch daytime TV? She frowned at the tiny television mounted above the kitchen counter. Usually, she only powered the set on if she wanted to catch an early morning market report, or maybe check to see if a day’s trading made the evening news for one reason or another. But this wasn’t the time for talking about money; these were the hours when money was made. Or lost.

  A surge of panic gripped her heart like a fist. She turned toward the front door but stopped. No. She’d done the right thing. She wasn’t thinking straight, and the worst thing she could do to her team or her clients was pretend like she was. This was why she trained her people so rigorously, she reminded herself, so she could take vacations or the occasional day off. Smirking at her own capacity for self-delusion, she reached for the remote control. She rarely took vacations and never took days off.

  She pointed the remote at the flat screen and hit the power button. Maybe there was a soap opera on. Did they still make soap operas? Maybe some daytime drama other than her own was what she needed. A little over-the-top acting to put her own little melodrama in the shade might be the ticket.

  Monica flipped channels until she landed on one of the networks. A group of women were assembled in a variety of mismatched armchairs set to resemble some kind of eclectic living room. Between sound bites, photos of a Hollywood starlet caught in a variety of unflattering poses appeared. Monica caught the words “downward spiral,” “unreliable,” and “break-up.” She turned her back on the chatty coven.

  There was a little ice cream in the freezer. Very little, but she and Melody had shown a modicum of restraint when they had their wallow. Monica yanked open the door and a blast of super-cooled air hit her right in the face. She eyeballed the container of Chunky Monkey, wrinkling her nose in distaste. Ice cream in the morning didn’t seem right.


  She let the freezer door slam shut and turned her attention to the fridge. There, on the top shelf, were the six-pack of beer she’d bought for Colm and a bottle of crisp, dry chardonnay. She blinked to banish the tears threatening to fall and lunged for the slender green bottle. Ice cream might not be the answer this early in the day, but wine sounded perfect.

  “Five o’clock somewhere,” she muttered as she pulled the corkscrew from a drawer.

  The cork released with a satisfying thwunk. Monica smiled grimly as the liquid gold glugged into the bowl of a stemless glass. She downed half the glass. The ladies on the talk show moved on to the next topic—the red-hot actor who’d titillated all the residents of Ladyland by getting caught on film playing with his squealing kids in the Pacific surf. Cradling her glass with both hands, Monica sagged against the opposite counter as she took in the man’s rippling muscles and crinkling smile.

  He looked like Colm. She heard one of the women say something about the actor being Irish, and the next thing she knew, Monica had drained the contents of the glass. Gasping for breath, she gripped the edge of the counter to steady herself. The wine hit her stomach and her head at the exact same time.

  What the hell was wrong with her? Was she having a stroke? Maybe a heart attack? More likely. Her chest felt compressed. As if she were folding in on herself. Or curling up like one of those furry little guys who balled up to protect themselves.

  “Hedgehog,” she blurted the moment her brain located the data.

  Wincing, Monica set the glass aside and wrapped her arms around her roiling stomach. Her skin felt stretched too tight. Like she might burst out of her own face. Closing her eyes, she gave in to the pull of gravity and allowed herself to bend at the waist, curling her arms and shoulders in as she did. Maybe if she made herself as small as possible, she’d be able to keep from exploding. Or imploding.

  Hard to say at this point which way she would go.

  She opened her mouth to try some yoga breathing, but, to her shock and mortification, the only thing she managed was a big, heaving sob. Oh, no-no-no. Her mind raced to keep up with this new turn of events. She wasn’t a sobber. She didn’t cry. Particularly not over a man. She didn’t need a man. Particularly not one with a kid. What did she think was going to happen, even if she had come clean? The three of them would live happily ever after? Like she’d wake up one day and suddenly be all…maternal and shit?

  Not likely.

  Pressing her palms to her knees, she forced herself to drag big gulps of air. She tuned out the diaper and baby food commercials playing in the background and stared hard at the hammered-nickel handle on the cabinet directly in front of her. Though she had told him she liked to cook, Monica couldn’t say what might be in the cabinet. She did her best work in the office and the bedroom. If she’d been smart, she’d have stuck to her strengths.

  She should never have let him into her kitchen.

  Pushing away from the counter, she rushed down the hall to where she’d dropped her bags. Her phone was tucked into its usual pocket. Nicole must have put it there. Monica didn’t remember gathering any of her stuff. As a matter of fact, she didn’t recall leaving her office. Or most of the ride home.

  Had it buzzed and she didn’t hear? Maybe Nicole had turned the ringer off so she wouldn’t be bothered?

  Nicole was always thinking. Planning. She did thoughtful things. The little niceties always entered Monica’s consciousness a second too late. Story of her life. Always a beat too late. Until today, she never minded too much.

  Of course, she’d never had a delaying tactic bite her in the ass as hard as this asinine “pretend to be a mommy to get the hot daddy” ploy.

  Patience was more than a virtue; it was a sound business practice. Waiting for others to make their move so she could respond strategically paid off for her time and again. The key was knowing the right moment. Fear had forced her to cling to a losing proposition. Her refusal to take the risk had cost her big.

  But maybe sticking to the safe side didn’t have to cost her everything. Or, maybe she wasn’t too late to make the bold move.

  She pushed the button to wake the device, a lump lodged firmly in her throat. No calls. No texts. She swallowed the last bitter dregs of willful optimism and swiped the screen. She stared at the photo for a long moment, then tapped the option to dial his number. For the first time since the afternoon they met, she was reaching out to him.

  The call clicked over to voicemail, and she pulled the phone from her ear to scowl at the screen. The temptation to end the call was strong, but she refused to indulge the weakness. She’d hidden too much already.

  The second she heard the beep, she pressed the phone to her cheek. “Hi. Colm.”

  She spit the words out like watermelon seeds—sharp, staccato. She gulped and tried again.

  “Hi, Colm. It’s me. Monica. I, uh…” Pausing to curl her hand into a fist, she pushed through in a rush of breath. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should have told you. I wanted to tell you—” She stopped herself. The last thing she wanted was to venture too far down the road of half-truths again. “Actually, I didn’t. I didn’t want to tell you because you liked me as Emma’s mom, or thinking I was her mom, and I liked you. So I didn’t tell you.”

  Pulling in a lungful of bracing oxygen, she barreled ahead. “I wanted you, so I lied to get you.” A frown tugged at her mouth as she considered the veracity of her statement. Once she started, the compulsion to come completely clean won out. “But, technically, I didn’t lie to you. I let you believe what you assumed was the truth.”

  Good God, this had to be the worst apology ever given. If any guy had tried to woo her with such weak arguments, she would have shot enough holes through him to make Swiss cheese. What was worse, she was giving this testimony on the record.

  “Not what I meant to say,” she rushed to assure him, though she was certain there was no redeeming the call at this point. “I just…I am sorry, Colm.” She bit the inside of her cheek, gearing up to give him the bald-faced truth. “I never thought things would go this far. I didn’t expect to like you this much. I only wish…” She shook her head in despair, even though she knew the motion wouldn’t translate over the phone. “I’m sorry. More sorry than you can imagine.”

  Biting her lip, she searched her mind for a way to say what she wanted to say next without coming across as a pathetic girl who’d been dumped because she’d done something dumb. But there was no denying she deserved to pay the price. Even if that price was the last scrap of her pride.

  “Please call me, okay? Give me a chance to explain.” She winced at her own word choice. “And apologize. Because I am sorry.” She gave a short huff of a laugh. “Sorrier than I’ve ever been, I think. If sorry counts for anything.”

  Tapping her fingers against the hard plastic shell of the phone case, she let the rest of her pride go on a long sigh.

  “Call me. Please.”

  Monica ended the call, her eyes fixed on the screen until it went dark. There. She’d done her best. Invoked the magic word. Saying please had to count for something, right?

  Chapter 10

  Colm’s phone buzzed for what had to be the fiftieth time. He didn’t need to take it out of his pocket to see who was messaging him. The first forty-nine clued him in solid. Unfortunately, he couldn’t turn the phone off. This was his work number. And the one the daycare called. And, if he did, he’d miss the chance to gloat while Monica groveled.

  The problem was, gloating didn’t feel so great. As a matter of fact, he’d felt nothing but crappy since he spoke to her. She’d left only one voicemail. Listening to her babble and ramble, it wasn’t hard to figure out why she switched to texts. The woman truly sucked at apologizing.

  Oh, her “I’m sorries” sounded genuine. And he could tell by the creak in her voice the sentiment behind them was sincere. What tripped him up was her reasoning.
She’d knowingly, purposefully lied to him. How was he supposed to get past that?

  “What are you doing?”

  Colm jerked and swung his feet from his desk to the floor, feeling like a kid caught woolgathering during class. He spun around to find Mike braced in the open doorway, a puzzled frown on his face.

  “I work here,” Colm replied, unable to come up with more potent smart-assery on the spot. “How about you? Don’t you have a spreadsheet to…spread?”

  Mike fixed him with a bland stare as he pushed away from the doorframe. “I meant, I thought you had an on-site with a client today.”

  Colm nodded. “Yep. Done. Piece of cake.”

  At least, easy was his general impression. Frankly, he couldn’t remember much about his on-site visit. The woman owned an adult-themed bakery called Getta Piece. Interesting, and a little uncomfortable. She’d had trouble with some vandalism, which, frankly, didn’t surprise him. She made cakes and cookies shaped like genitals. The way Colm figured, the place was bound to attract the wrong kind of attention. But the business was apparently a successful one. When he’d mentioned the name of the bakery to their receptionist, Rosie, she’d nodded and blushed.

  Mike raised an eyebrow. “Sampled the product?”

  “Hell no.” Colm gave a shudder he didn’t have to enhance too much to show his distaste for the prospect. “You know what her best seller is? A two-foot long dick made out of red velvet cake. Called the Big Kahuna.”

  His friend gave an empathetic wince. “Yeah, no. I’ll pass, too.” He spared a glance at Rosie, then stepped into Colm’s office. “Good business, though. I went over her credit app, and she’s making a decent buck off selling the naughty stuff.”

  “Bet her mother is proud.”

  “James says most of her business is catering to bachelor and bachelorette parties and stuff.”

  “I can see there’d be limited appeal.”