The auction threatens to take her sanctuary away.
“Bree, why are you just standing there?”
Bestseller is inscribed across the book held in her hands.
I’m reminded of the possibilities for Can I See You Again?
“What on earth is wrong?” The wrinkles around her eyes seem deeper than a couple of hours ago, her skin pallid.
She is tired.
“Nothing’s wrong.” I drape the nearby blanket over my grandmother’s legs, deciding not to mention the current status of the house, because maybe . . . I won’t need to. Why remind her of the situation, disrupt her peaceful evening, have her fret and lose sleep when my numbers are up and this bestseller ranking is no longer such a pie-in-the-sky aspiration? Why worry her, just yet? “Get some rest.” I kiss my grandmother’s cheek and walk out the door.
No, I don’t tell Jo the truth.
But I don’t break her heart again, either.
fourteen
Randi greets me as I unlock my office door the following morning clutching a purse twice as big as the other day. “How’s my favorite client?”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Honey, haven’t you heard? You’re a sensation, more popular than the morning-after pill at a sorority house. The calls and e-mails to Candace’s department yesterday and this morning damn near jammed up the phone lines. And the buzz keeps growing.”
“Are you serious?” We walk inside.
“Your editor already e-mailed me. She saw the article, too. They’re upping the first run of Can I See You Again? by ten thousand copies. I also sent a copy of the manuscript to Lucy Hanover at KMRQ last week. She likes what she’s read so far. I have a call in to her asking if she’ll have you on her show. You’re on your way to a bestseller debut, no question.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Awesome,” Andrew says, walking toward us.
“Did you say something? I can’t hear you over the angels singing.” I point at my head. Thank goodness I hired Randi and things are on the upswing. With the dang IRS debacle consuming my thoughts, I could use a little upswing.
Andrew hurries to answer the phone and Randi follows me toward my desk. “So here’s the deal: Given the popularity of the first interview, the paper’s raising the stakes. They’ve developed an expanded vision for the remaining installments.”
“What does that mean?”
“Not entirely sure. All I know is that you are a sensation. Candace is on her way in to discuss.”
“Now?”
“Yes, they’re very excited.”
At the very same moment, Scotty holds the door open as Candace parades into the room with a Peet’s coffee cup and a beaming smile. “Hello, everyone. Can you believe what a beautiful day it is? Why are we all working?”
“Mimosas by the beach, anyone?” Randi says, half joking.
“That is tempting, but thanks to you”—Candace points at me—“nothing short of a journalist’s dream, we have loads of work to do.”
“Randi said the article was well received?”
“We haven’t entertained this amount of feedback since our cover of George Clooney’s wife.”
“Wow, really?”
“You should see the mass of e-mails.”
I peek at Andrew; he clicks from one ringing line to the next.
“We’ve received a sizable amount of calls and inquiries regarding your professional life.” Candace pulls out a folder from her bag. “So I’ve decided to split this exposé into two parts, your personal life and your professional life.”
“Okay.”
“Naturally, we’ll want to know more about you and your sexy man.”
Ah, crap. “Um, no, no, there’s nothing more to say. We’re quite boring, actually. Grocery lists and laundry, that sort of thing.”
“Readers are enamored by you. Well, you and Nick.”
“Me and Nick?”
“Yes. Readers latched on the two of you like you’re Brangelina or something. Now there’s an idea. Ever thought of combining your names? Nickee? Brick? Anyway, we want to learn more about the love you two share.” She waves her hand in the air. “But that part’s easy.”
Not as easy as you think.
“Now, the tricky part concerns your professional life. We’re going to exploit your talents. Prove to the readers just how capable you are.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“A test case.”
“Sorry?”
“The paper and our readers are going to follow along, week after week, as you find love for a brand-new single, off-the-street candidate.”
“Ooh, now that sounds interesting,” Randi says.
Candace scoots toward the edge of her chair and points at my front door. “The next person to walk through that door will become your new client. You’ll interview or do whatever it is you do to find a match for that person. We’ll observe and report for the readers. Together, as a nation, we’ll watch them fall in love, week by week, under your guide. See if you really are as good as you say.”
“You want me to find a match for some random person that walks into my office?”
“You got it. The paper will cover all the expenses, of course.”
“What if the next guy is a heroin addict?”
“Do you get many heroin addicts?”
“Well, no.”
“Then there’s no problem. Not only will we read in each edition about you and Nick celebrating your love, thus learning through observation the workings of a solid relationship, but we’ll shadow a lucky individual as he or she falls in love over the course of this segment. It’s a win-win. You up for the challenge?”
“Of course she is,” Randi pipes in.
“It does sound kinda fun,” I admit. Except for the part about Nick and me celebrating our love. Not sure how to handle that.
“Great. Now we want to keep this as controlled as possible. Obviously, we aren’t going on the dates, and we ask that you don’t either, or manipulate the process in anyway.”
“She’d never compromise her professional ethics,” Randi assures Candace. “Right?”
“Right,” I confirm. Unless you count Nixon.
“I don’t doubt that for a second. All the same, after the initial setup, I’ll meet with the client after each date or meeting or whatever it is you arrange and interview him or her. This way, you’ll learn of the success or failure of the new relationship when the article is released, just like everyone else. Make sense?”
“Sure does.”
Candace folds her hands on her lap. “I don’t mind saying, this idea is genius. I’m quite excited. All we need now is our guinea pig.”
“I wonder who the lucky girl or guy will be,” Randi says.
“Thing is, we’re appointment only,” I say. “We don’t get many walk-ins.”
To prove me wrong, the door swings open.
We all turn to see a man step inside.
A man with a swimmer’s build, slightly windblown hair, rigid jaw, and a pressed jacket. A man with a raspberry-colored birthmark behind his left ear and a chicken pox scar to the right of his belly button.
A man with my broken heart held in his palm.
My hands curl into fists.
Sean.
fifteen
This can’t be real. This must be a bad dream. To hell with Dr. Oz and broken capillaries. Pinch me. For Christ’s sake, someone pinch me!
“Hi, I’m Candace Porter with the National Tribune. And, you are?” she asks.
“Sean Thomas.”
“Are you a client here?”
“No. I’m here to speak with Bree.”
“Sorry, but you’ll have to make an appointment,” I say, moving around Sean and pushing open my office door,
stepping on his toe as a painful—albeit childish—reminder of what he threw away. I gesture outside. “And no, we don’t validate. Good-bye.”
“Bree? What are you doing? This man is lovely.” Candace grabs Sean by the arm and pulls him farther into my office. “You’ve come to the right place. Shut the door, Bree.” She waves me inside. “This darling lady, Bree Caxton, is one of San Diego’s best matchmakers.”
“Yeah, I’m told she’s pretty great.”
“Oh, she is.” Candace peeks at me and says with a little laugh, “Listen to me, I’m supposed to be an objective reporter, but I can’t help but sing your praises.” She gestures for Sean to have a seat, then sits beside him. “You can talk to Bree all you want, but first I have a proposition for you.”
“Really?”
“I’m writing a piece for the National Tribune about Bree Caxton and her exceptional talents as a matchmaker.”
“Really? That’s great.”
No. No way. He can’t do that. Obviously Sean hasn’t seen yesterday’s article, likely didn’t know to look as we talked only about his claustrophobia at dinner, nothing about me or the Close-Up interview. But now it’s too late. He’s not allowed to sound interested and proud. He’s not allowed to cheer me on.
“Yes, and we’ve decided to put Bree in the hot seat and test her methods. For the next month, we’d like to chart the progress of a new client finding love. We’d like you to be that client. The paper will cover all of your expenses. How can you pass this up?”
Uh . . . he can, quite easily.
“All you have to do is say yes to love.”
“Yes to love, huh?” Sean says. “Would Bree be involved?”
Don’t you dare, Sean Michael Thomas. Don’t. You. Dare.
“Heavens, yes,” Candace says, “along with a couple of interviews with me in the coming weeks, and, of course, dating beautiful women. That won’t be so hard, will it?”
“Doesn’t sound like it.”
What are you doing? You broke up with me like twenty minutes ago, you big jerk.
“Wait a second,” Candace says.
“Yes, great idea,” I say, raising my palms like a crossing guard stopping traffic. If I had a whistle, I’d blow it hard into Sean’s ears. “Let’s take a second and discuss the many, many reasons why this won’t work.”
“You have that shindig coming up soon, right?”
“My social?”
“Yes, that could be Sean’s debut.” Candace clutches his forearm. “Bree will interview or prep you, or however she readies a client, and then, showtime.”
“All of this will help Bree’s company?” Sean asks.
“I should say so. Shall we get started?”
“No!” My sharp tone catches Candace off-guard.
“No?”
“Um . . . no . . . you see, there’s not near enough time to coordinate realistic and compatible matches. And love shouldn’t be rushed. So this won’t work.” Ever. “Thanks for coming by.” I move past him and open the door once again.
“Bree, don’t be ridiculous.” Candace scoots me away from the door. “Sean, do you have a few minutes now?”
“I do.”
“Candace, I—”
“Remember, Bree.” There’s a stinging quality to her words. “When you signed the contract, you agreed to be accessible anytime during the course of this installment. Come now, no time like the present. Find this handsome young man love. This is fun. Won’t this be fun?”
This will not be fun.
“I’m excited to watch you work your magic.” Candace jars my thoughts. “It brings back memories of my husband and my first dates. Now, you go about your normal routine, I’m just here to observe.”
Andrew’s answering the phone, Randi’s stepped aside replying to an e-mail, and dammit, I can’t escape through the air conditioner duct. With no other choice, I slide into my desk chair, forcing myself not to recall details of the night Sean and I made love here. Nor do I acknowledge his gaze at the missing nick of baseboard when the chair’s wheel bonked into the wall.
Has he no shame? No conscience? How can he do this to me? Well . . . fine . . . whatever. You want a date? I’ll find you a date. Someone who’ll get you drunk and shave off an eyebrow. Or two. Better yet, how about an unshaven Russian women’s wrestling champion who’ll wrap you in a headlock with her tree-trunk arms. Bet you’ll feel stifled then, eh?
Andrew catches my eye and, through his own, I read—Auction. If you don’t come up with the money, Jo loses her house.
“Bree, are you ready?”
Christ, I’m backed into a corner. Ugh. Okay, calm yourself, Bree. Take a breath. Switch gears. Concentrate.
“Uh, yes.” I reach for my new-client questionnaire and sit tall. You can do this. For Jo, for the book, for the house. “So, Sean, is it?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that a woman’s name?” I say this, knowing it’ll touch a nerve. He shared the name with a freckled girl in third grade. The other kids colored hearts and rainbows on his lunch box. And lots of times over the years, mail has come addressed to Miss Sean Thomas. Once he received a three-dollars-off coupon for Kotex.
“It’s a man’s name.”
“Oh.” I pretend to scrawl something important, but doodle jerk. “Okay, then, first things first. What type of man are you looking for? Soft and passive? Or rugged and well-built? Maybe a brick layer with meaty hands?”
“A woman, thank you.”
“My mistake. I pegged you swinging for the other team.”
“In his dreams,” Andrew mutters so only I can hear, before busying himself with a file he’s walked over with and pretending to organize.
“No, I’m not into guys. I’m into girls who are kind and merciful. A woman who listens and appreciates all perspectives.”
“You like doormats, then?”
“Hardly. I like someone with grit. Someone who will discuss things and doesn’t walk away when times get tough. A woman who gives a man a chance to explain.”
“What else is there to say? And what if she doesn’t care about his reasons, anyway? What if he made himself crystal clear?”
“Hmm,” Candace murmurs, scrawling away at her notepad.
“Then I’d say she’s being closed-minded and failing to see his side of the story. I’d say she hasn’t taken into account that he’s hurt, too. And he misses her. And he doesn’t want to be kicked out of her life.”
I scribble jackass. “Then maybe he shouldn’t have kicked her out.”
Sean’s tongue pokes into his cheek and he folds his arms across his chest. His classic sign of irritation.
Ha! I got him riled.
“Clearly, I’m out of my realm,” Candace says, “because I do not see how this helps find Sean love.”
“Look, Bree—” Sean starts.
“You know, I’ve got all I need here for today.”
“You do?” Candace scrolls her pencil down her notepad. “I didn’t get much out of that. If you don’t mind, Sean, I have one question. And I guess this proves the difference between Bree’s abilities and mine, but she didn’t ask you anything about appearances. I’m curious, what type of woman do you find attractive?” Her pencil is now poised.
“That’s easy.” He stares at me. “A woman with gumdrop green eyes, silky hair that smells like jasmine, a sense of humor mixed with sweet and spice, and a smile that makes me forget what day it is.”
That’s not fair.
Candace writes quickly on her notepad and says with a laugh, “Almost sounds as if you’re describing Bree.”
“Actually, Candace, mind if I chat with her for a moment, in private?”
“Go right ahead. It’ll give me a second to make sense of my scribble.”
Sean follows me into the break room. I position myself clos
e enough to speak softly but not close enough to feel his breath drift over my skin.
It’s funny, Sean and I have never stalled for good conversation, something I’ve always been proud of. I looked forward to long plane rides or traffic jams because I knew we’d banter back and forth, laugh, challenging each other on capital punishment (he’s against), allowing dogs in grocery stores (I’m against), or which person should get voted off Survivor (the annoying ones).
But as I stare at the man I thought certain to be the one, for the first time, I don’t know what to say.
“You haven’t returned my calls. Or my texts.”
“You’re surprised?”
He swallows hard. “Look, Bree. I don’t know where to begin. It kills me to know you’re so upset. I’ve been beating myself up ever since.”
“Aww . . . you poor thing.”
“I just want to talk with you.”
“Why?”
“I . . . maybe I . . . made the wrong decision.” He scratches the side of his nose.
The bastard is lying.
“You should go.”
I start to move past him, but he grabs my wrist and says, “Look, I’m confused, okay? I . . . I didn’t mean to hurt you.” His fingers slide toward my hand, and this time I don’t flick it away.
This time for a few seconds, I let his thumb caress my skin and allow myself to remember how good his touch feels. “Let me help you with this newspaper thing. I don’t want it to be like this.”
“You think I want this?” I grind my teeth together and stare at the floor, willing myself not to cry. “Four years together, Sean. Four years. And you broke up with me, just like that, and at our favorite spot.”
He hangs his head low and nods before saying, “You’re right. I fucked up. I made an impossibly bad call. I thought the timing had some sort of symmetry . . . I don’t know. But can we please put this behind us and move forward? Just give me some time. Can we at least be friends?”
“Friends? Like go to Antonio’s again? Sit in our usual booth? Order our usual wine? Clink glasses and laugh, pretend that night never existed?”
Can I See You Again? Page 11
