Can I See You Again?

by Allison Morgan

  “We can get through this.” He squeezes my hand.

  He’s not wearing his watch. Which I find odd, as it’s his most prized possession, polishing the face each morning and again in the evening before tucking it safely in its case with gentleness as if it’s an injured baby bird. He’s worn the watch every single day except when he had the clasp repaired last year.

  I hate that I know so much about him.

  “You can’t do this interview, Sean.”

  “You won’t return my calls. I just want to talk to you.”

  Tears form in my eyes and I shake my head. “Please, Sean.”

  “Okay, I’ll back out. But meet me for dinner?”

  The logical part of my brain says Absolutely not, but the sappy side is caving, reminding me how difficult it is to find love and how much harder it is to let go. “No dinner. Coffee.”

  “When?”

  “After work.”

  “Sean, Bree?” Candace calls. “Ready to finish up?”

  Sean loosens his grasp and we rejoin the ladies. “Actually, Candace, I appreciate the opportunity, but there’s been a change of plans. I’m not going to be the guinea pig.”

  “What? Why on earth not?”

  “Something more important came up.”

  “Oh, shoot. Is there any way I can convince you otherwise?”

  Nixon steps inside my office.

  “No, thanks,” Sean says. “Let that guy have the spotlight.”

  Candace laughs. “I don’t think Bree would appreciate that too much.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that’s Bree’s boyfriend.”

  Oh, crap. This is about to get very ugly.

  “Your boyfriend?” Sean’s tone turns razor sharp and I almost check for blood dripping off my skin.

  See.

  “Yes, and they’re adorable. Thanks for considering the proposition. Back to the drawing board, eh, Bree?” She heads toward Nixon and says, “Now, why am I not surprised to see you visiting your little lovebird?”

  “A fucking boyfriend. Really, Bree? How long has this been going on?”

  I take offense to his criticism. After all, he started this mess. “It’s really none of your business.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “You sit here and make me feel like a dick when all along you’ve been cheating on me.”

  “If you’ll let me explain—”

  “What else is there to explain?” Sean sneers, repeating the very same words I said at Antonio’s. “Candace?” Sean spins around. “Forget what I said. I’ll do the interview. And all the dating that comes with it. Seems as if I’m very single.”

  “Wonderful!” She returns her attention to Nixon.

  I grab Sean by his wrist. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  He brushes my hand away and I’m struck by the reversal of roles. The other night and just moments ago, he clutched my arm, begging for reconsideration. “Letting you find me love.”

  “This is thrilling.” Candace joins us, leaving Nixon in the sitting area. “What fun it’ll be to watch Bree’s brilliance unfold. Need anything else from Sean for the moment?”

  The last four years of my life, please. Oh, and another vase to bust over his head. “No. Not one thing.”

  “Sean, I need you to sign a few release documents real quick, but I’ve left my briefcase in my car. I’m parked right outside. Walk with me?”

  “Sure, of course.”

  “Bree, I’ll be right back,” Candace says. “You don’t go anywhere either, Nick. I have more questions for you two.” With keys in hand, she steps outside.

  “Won’t this be fun, Bree?” Sean marches toward the door, shoulder-checking Nixon.

  “Hey, watch it, man,” Nixon says.

  Sean doesn’t respond, just pushes open the front door, slamming it against the stucco.

  “Sean?” Nixon asks.

  “In the flesh.” I clasp my hands together to keep them from trembling. “The paper just made him my client. I have to match him with a girlfriend. A girlfriend. If I don’t, then I look like an incompetent loser and I can say good-bye to my business and a bestseller and Jo’s house. But if I do find Sean a match, and he falls in love . . . then . . . I don’t know . . . I don’t want to talk about it.” I rub my aching temples from an instant headache. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  He waves the rolled-up article in the air. “I’m wondering why people at my office are gathered around the conference room discussing what I’m like in the sack.”

  “Don’t you mean what Nick the urologist is like in the sack?”

  “What’s the difference?” He tosses the circular onto my desk.

  “Oh, c’mon, it’s not like your picture is in there. Plus, it’s not even your real name. No one will ever suspect it’s you.”

  “Why does Candace have more questions? I signed up for one interview, remember? ‘One and done’ is what you said.”

  “Yeah, well, apparently you’re a big hit.”

  “I don’t want to be a big hit.”

  “People love you.” I poke him on the arm, trying to spin the situation and my mood.

  He couldn’t care less.

  “I couldn’t care less.”

  “You can’t cut and run.”

  “I can, too. I don’t have time for this nonsense. I hired you to find me a girlfriend, not thrust me into the nation’s eye for a public dissection of my sex life. I’m sorry, but this is your deal.”

  I fold my arms across my chest and pout like a spoiled toddler. “Then I’m out. I’m not coming to the wedding.”

  “You said you would.”

  “Yes, but the more I think about it, the more I realize I entered into a lopsided arrangement.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Nick, Bree?” Candace returns from outside and calls us over.

  “Um . . . just a minute.” I smile at her, then say to Nixon, “A wedding is a big deal. It’s hellos and hugs, it’s family and friends. It’s five hundred bucks for a new dress and new shoes that I’ll spend hours searching for and will likely never wear again. It’s a manicure and pedicure. It’s overnight and—”

  “Whatever. I’ll go alone.”

  “Do as you wish, but your mom called and I told her you were bringing me. The seating chart is finalized and placement cards have been ordered. Nice stuff, embossed ivory card stock.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because you were bringing me. But if you back out, then so do I, because, think about it, I’ll need to get my hair done and—”

  “If I agree to this interview crap, will you stop talking?”

  “Well, not during the interviews.”

  “Guys, I really need to get rolling.” Candace grabs Nixon by the arm. “Come along now, you two can make googly eyes at each other later.”

  “Yes, come along, baby.”

  We sit across from Candace, as she has arranged the chairs in the same pattern as the other day.

  “Such luck that I caught you both here.” She settles into her chair. “I want to get a jump start on the next article. Readers are dying to know more about you two. Buckle up, we’re about to delve deeper into your relationship.”

  “Deeper?” Nixon asks, glaring at me.

  “Scores of women asked about your private life, how you two keep the attraction going, and where Dr. Nick works. Tell me, do you work for a hospital or your own practice? Scotty can’t find a urologist named Nick that matches your description.”

  “This is insane,” Nixon whispers, and starts to stand.

  I press my hand on his forearm, forcing him still. He nearly lifts me off my chair. Damn, he’s strong. I glare at him.

  He glares back.


  “You know, Candace, his work doesn’t need the publicity. Let’s focus on the other questions, shall we?”

  “Yes, I suppose we can. Let’s see, now.” She skims through her notes. “As I said, hundreds of women sent in their phone numbers; some included photos of themselves. One girl posed half dressed in some sort of bumblebee costume and another not dressed in anything at all, just her phone number penned across her belly. My, my,” she says before looking at me, “if I were you, Bree, with all these interested women, I’d hold on to him tight.”

  “Don’t worry, I will.” And, I am. Literally.

  He pries at my fingers.

  I cover his hand with my other, digging my nails into his skin.

  He doesn’t flinch.

  What is he, some sort of robot?

  “Look at you two. Can’t keep your hands off one another.” She flips open her notebook and clicks on her recorder. “So the paper’s decided to engage the audience and ask you their questions.” She refers to her notes again. “Where do I start?”

  Nixon frees my hand, his skin blotchy from my clasp. “Listen, there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  “What kind of misunderstanding?” She bounces her gaze between Nixon and me.

  “You see, Bree and I—”

  “Can’t decide where to go on vacation this year. I’m thinking Hawaii, but in his twenties, Nick spent a couple summers there as a deckhand, on a tour boat thing. He’s leaning toward Greece. But, you know, we’ll figure it out.” I laugh a little longer and louder than necessary, ignoring the instant flash of heat brewing along my neck.

  Nixon’s frown grows deeper, but he remains seated.

  Thank God.

  “Either place is lovely.” She sorts through more printed e-mails. “Lena from right here in La Jolla wants to know: Do you two live together?”

  “Nope,” I start before Nixon has a chance. “We believe in marriage first.”

  “Traditional values, that’s refreshing. You don’t hear that too often these days.”

  “Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?” I say.

  “Especially if she has mad cow disease,” Nixon adds.

  “Sorry?” Candace says.

  “He’s teasing. Such a kidder.” I smack him hard on the arm. “Be serious now, sweetie.”

  “Makayla from La Mesa wants to know if you have a single brother. If not, do you have a single sister?” Candace’s cheeks redden. “Why, now that’s an interesting proposal, isn’t it?”

  “No brothers or sisters,” I interject, recalling his questionnaire. “But we are visiting his family in a few weeks. Nick’s cousin is getting married at his parents’ house. All the family will be there. Loads of fun.” I pat Nixon’s knee.

  “And where is that?” Candace asks.

  I have no idea.

  Nixon tilts his head with a smirk on his face. “Go ahead, sweetie, tell Candace where my parents live.”

  Candace sits poised, ready for my answer.

  A hive blossoms at the nape of my neck. “Um . . . it’s a lovely place . . . in . . .” Then I remember Mrs. Voss’s area code when she called the other day. 442. “Carlsbad area, north of here.”

  He flinches, likely surprised by my knowledge.

  Now Nixon must really think I’m stalking him and his family.

  “Nice area.” Candace selects another question. “Here’s a good one. Erica from San Diego says, ‘Nick and Bree sound so cute and totally in love. What do the two do for fun?’”

  “Oh, that’s easy,” I say. “We like wine tastings, movies, fiddling around one another’s houses taking care of Cinderella chores. In fact, I have a sprinkler valve—”

  Nixon clasps my hand. “You know, I should contribute to this conversation, too. After all, it is about us.”

  “No, you relax, honey. I don’t mind answering the questions.”

  Please stay quiet, please.

  “Actually, Bree, I’d like to hear from Nick. Tell me, what do the two of you do for fun?”

  “In or out of the bedroom?” He laughs. “Or should I say the parking lot of Whole Foods? Am I right, sweetie?” Nixon runs his fingers through my hair. “What this girl can do with an olive.”

  Please tell me he did not just say that.

  “Oh, my.” Candace writes a few notes.

  I whisper to Nixon, “What are you doing?”

  “Just playing along.”

  “Laying it on a bit thick, don’t you think?”

  “You roped me into this song and dance. Now we play it my way.”

  Good Lord, I’ve created a monster.

  “All right, so aside from . . . um . . . Whole Foods”—Candace clears her throat—“what else do you two like to do? Like, say, for example, what are your plans for this weekend?”

  “Well, my little Breester is quite the adventure buff. So, I’m thinking rappelling.”

  Dangle from a tiny rope? I’d rather slather myself in strawberry jelly and crawl into a grizzly bear’s den. “Um, too bad, baby cakes, I called, and they’re booked, so—”

  “Jet-Skiing,” he says.

  In the ocean? Hasn’t he ever watched Shark Week? I catch the light in his eye. He’s enjoying this. Okay, funny guy, no reason you should have all the fun.

  “Unfortunately, that’s out, too. You see, Nick has this skin condition on his butt that gets flaky in salt water, so—”

  “So . . .” He wraps his arm around my shoulder and pulls me close.

  I do not like the look in his eye. I do not.

  “We signed up for a Tough Mudder.”

  “Tough Mudder? What’s that?” Candace asks.

  Yeah, what’s that?

  “It’s a twelve-mile military-style obstacle course, designed to play on common fears like heights, space, and water, that sort of stuff. It tests mental strength and physical stamina.”

  “Sounds quite challenging,” Candace adds.

  Sounds like torture.

  “It is, but, my Bree, she’s resilient. Besides, it’s for a good cause, raises money for the Wounded Warrior Project. It’s this Saturday morning in the mountains east of San Diego.”

  “All for charity, that’s wonderful.” Candace gathers her papers and stands.

  We join her.

  “Well, as I said last time, I’m no expert, but it seems as though you two have it all figured out, an excellent example of your professional skills overlapping into your personal life.”

  “She’s my peach.” He smacks me in the ass.

  I will kill him.

  “Do you have all you need, Candace?” Randi asks.

  I’d forgotten she was still here.

  “I believe so. Andrew, you got the information on the new client, Sean, right?”

  Damn. It wasn’t a bad dream.

  “I do,” he says.

  “Now, the cocktail party is in a couple of days? And you’ll have potential matches for him there?”

  “Uh . . . yes, I will.” I barely squeak out the words. How am I supposed to do this? How am I supposed to find love for the man who still holds my heart? And my vinyl collection.

  “Wonderful. As I’ve mentioned, we’re expediting the pace here and moving right along. Next week’s article will feature the two of you.” She motions toward Nixon and me. “Alongside will be Sean, and if Bree is as good as she says, then his new gal, too.”

  Gee . . . great.

  “So, with that said, I’ll have Sean here the day after the party, at nine a.m., for a quick interview. After that, I’ll meet with him privately. Thanks again, everyone. We’ll talk soon.”

  “I’m off, too,” Randi says. “Only a little over a month before the release and I’ve got a lot to do.”

  “Olives?” I snarl at Nixon. “My grandmother is going to re
ad this article.”

  “You know, it wouldn’t hurt to thank me. I’m not doing this interview for me.”

  “Yes, fine, you’re right. I’m grateful for your help and quick thinking. I mean the Tough Mudder stuff is classic.”

  “Think I’m kidding? Hope you have a decent pair of tennis shoes. I’ll pick you up Saturday, six a.m.”

  sixteen

  A few minutes later, Andrew follows me to my desk.

  I collapse into my chair. “This day started off well, then fizzled into disaster.”

  “Yes, but on the flip side, the phone has been ringing all morning. I signed a dozen new clients all because they saw the article, and I had to print off more applications for a dozen others.” Andrew glances at his watch. “It’s not even eleven a.m.”

  “At least something’s going right today.”

  “Yeah, about that. This may not be the best time to tell you, but Mr. Chambers called. Don’t you think he sounds like an arena announcer? Let’s get ready to rumble . . .”

  “What did he say, Andrew?”

  “The hearing is set for next Wednesday.”

  The confirmation weighs on my chest like a brick. “Okay, right. Guess it’s official, then. Well, that’s good, I suppose. At least then we’ll know exactly what we’re up against.”

  “Have you told Jo what’s going on?”

  “Not yet. She hasn’t asked and”—I shrug—“what’s one more tiny white lie?”

  “You’re not lying to her.”

  “I’m withholding the truth. Same difference.”

  “She’s tough, you know? Remember when she crawled underneath her sink and repaired her garbage disposal?”

  “I know she’s tough, but I’ve never seen her like this. She crumbles at the thought of losing her house.”

  “Then let’s not let that happen. By the way, there’s an e-mail from Chambers, listing a few things he wants beforehand.”

  “Okay.” I dig in my purse for Advil.

  “There’s more.”

  “Of course there is.”

  “The Gardens canceled our reception for Thursday night.”

  I perk up. “No, that’s perfect. I can cancel Sean and—”

  “I already paid the nonrefundable deposit with the caterer.”