“You’ve got sensible shoes on.”
She lifted a foot and waggled it. “If you were wearing them you might not think so.” And wasn’t that the cherry on top; his shoe detector rationale didn’t hold either.
Wren lofted PRWeek at him, the magazine skidding off the desk onto his lap. “Page fifty-two.”
He expected a puff piece on Harry to reinforce his continued leadership of Rendel. He got Flick’s smiling face and the headline “Lobbyist Ups Stakes.”
“Good pic,” Wren said.
Flick looking brushed and polished in a navy pinstripe suit, smiling into the camera with a riot of amusement in her eyes. He scanned the story, the lines “tackle new challenges,” “inimitable negotiating style” and “force to be reckoned with” jumping out. Flick was all that, and she was brazenly honest as she knelt over him and opened her heart.
“What are you going to do about it?”
He looked up. “By do, you mean?”
“Oh, Tom.” Wren jammed a hand on her hip. “Seriously, I could slap you.”
He looked down at the magazine. “Yeah, well, get in line.” What could he do about it? He couldn’t ask Flick to stay. It was a big deal to quit and go with her, and Denise hadn’t turned up any new job opportunities, warning him it would take time and to sit tight, reminding him his best opportunity was probably to stay right where he was.
By the time he got done reading, Wren was gone, and he knew if nothing else he owed Flick his honesty, even if it meant presenting her with his confusion.
The story about Harry was on page thirteen. No confusion there.
Not knowing how to talk to Flick became a reason to work late. Like old times he was last out of the office, spending most of the day trying to convince a new client their business strategy was unfocused and doomed not to deliver the results they wanted.
The condo was distressingly dark and quiet when he got in. But it was nearly midnight and it wasn’t like Flick would be in the mood to wait up for him. There was a horrible moment that hit him like the shock of vertigo when he realized she might’ve moved out, until he turned a light on and discovered one of her scarves draped over the sectional, her black killer-heel shoes under a stool and her tablet charging by the TV.
Of course she wouldn’t leave. She didn’t have a mean streak and she wasn’t a coward. Unlike himself. He should’ve gone after her this morning, should’ve called her today, dragged her out for lunch, at a minimum come home early and cooked for her. Instead he’d spent the whole day showing her how little she meant to him and it wasn’t an accident.
It was a decision. Like avoiding Beau’s call.
Or at least a very bad default position by a man who didn’t know what to do with his career and hadn’t planned on falling in love by coupon.
He went out to the balcony to stare at the city when every fiber in his body urged him to go to Flick, but he’d given up the privilege of being in the same bed with her uninvited. Sleep would be a long time coming, and if he stayed out here too long he might meet Flick on one of her thinking-too-hard fridge raids and that would be another awful piece of planning.
She muted her phone when she went to bed, so he knew he could message her without waking her and she’d see it first thing in the morning. But what to say? What happened wasn’t a missed connection, a matter of right and wrong. It couldn’t be covered by an apology—it was more complex.
He brought up Messenger and stared at his keyboard, hoping the act of looking at the letters would prompt his brain. Nothing. In disgust for his lack of eloquence he typed, I’m sorry about how I reacted today. Can we talk?
He’d pocketed his phone when it buzzed. Flick. I’m awake, but it’s too late to talk. You don’t need to apologize.
He let go an audible sigh that was weighed down with all the reasons why Wren had wanted to slap him earlier. He wanted to slap himself. Did I wake you? Compounding my missteps.
No, and it wasn’t a misstep. I knew I was taking a risk. That’s life. Don’t beat yourself up.
Classic Flick. But he’d be happier if he could see her face. Forgiving me for being a brick wall is a brilliant strategy if you want me to feel lower than freezing. I got today so wrong.
I’m not unhappy with that outcome.
She ended the line with a snowflake plus a snow-topped mountain emoji, and it made him grunt with the irony. She hadn’t wanted to talk but she kept answering his messages. According to PRWeek, manipulating favorable outcomes is one of your strengths.
Don’t believe everything you read.
This is my problem—knowing what to believe.
He stared at his screen watching for an indication she was typing a reply. There was
a long break before the three dots appeared, long enough for him to contemplate throwing his phone off the balcony. He almost did when he got her reply.