Round 6

M y hands fiddled with the belt for a few seconds while I tried to convince myself that this would all be okay. But when that didn’t work, I tightened it around my “great waist” and squeezed the remaining air from my lungs. I had to trust Neema. She was a fashion stylist and dressed people for a living. If she had her way, she’d throw out every item in my closet. Finding my style was one of her career goals.

Neema coated my lips in ruby red and stepped back before spinning me around toward the mirror. My thick, wavy hair cascaded down to the center of my back, framing my curvy figure and round face. My lashes looked longer, my cheeks rosier, but the scatter of freckles on my nose was still there. The small mole on the underside of my jaw was also still there.

I was still me. The same person Patrick didn’t seem too interested in. Bitter disappointment started in my stomach and shot out to my extremities.

Neema squeezed my shoulders. “You look hot.”

“I can do this,” I said with a nod, summoning confidence, and when it failed, my nod turned to a headshake. “Can I do this?”

“Damn right, baby girl. I’ll drop you off on my way to Shaun. I don’t think you should be getting into a taxi looking like this.”

By the time I stepped out of Neema’s car, my legs were wobbling and not because of the high-heeled shoes, although I couldn’t say they helped my stability. Patrick’s office loomed ahead of me. The lights were out on most floors, proving almost everyone understood work-life balance. But not Patrick.

The doorman lifted his hand and waved. “Miss Jones, it’s lovely to see you.”

Blood flooded my cheeks, and I hoped it wasn’t obvious I was wearing nothing but skimpy lingerie beneath my coat.

I held up the brown paper bags of takeout, as if trying to prove I was here for something other than surprise office sex. He tapped his key chain against the scanner, and the door opened.

Scurrying ahead, I was overly aware of the click of my heels on the tiles and how they seemed to be in time with my ever-increasing heart rate.

Patrick’s office was on the seventh floor and had a beautiful view of the city. When he started working here, we’d buy food from two local takeaways—he’d get butter chicken curry and I’d get ramen—and we’d picnic on the rooftop. I inhaled the mixed scents coming from the paper bags and remembered those moments.

My nerves were soon joined by excitement as I reached his office and peeked through the slightly opened door. Inside, Patrick frowned at his laptop screen, his brown hair messier than usual and his top two shirt buttons unfastened. I’d never seen him disheveled.

I knocked once. His head shot up. Confusion, joy, terror—those were the three emotions that flashed across his face.

“Hey, babe.” He stood and walked toward me, offering me a peck on the lips. “What’s, uh, going on?”

I had rehearsed this. I released a shaky breath and swallowed hard, summoning my sexiest voice. “I have a delivery for you.”

He pointed at the paper bags. “Is it butter chicken? Babe, I’ve eaten. I sent you a text saying I’d bring dessert.” He shook his head. “I know I have a lot to make up for, and I will. I just—”

“No more talking,” I interrupted, thinking only of the picnics we used to have—of the history we shared.

I set the food on his desk and undid the belt of my coat, revealing the sexy black lace corset, held together by a bright red ribbon. The icy air in his always-cold office covered my bare skin, leaving goose bumps behind.

Before he could respond, I pulled him toward me for a kiss.

And he flinched.

My hands dropped to my sides, taking my heart along with them to the depths of my stomach, lower even, to the floor where I stood.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his tone less soft than before. “And what are you wearing?”

Oxygen was unavailable to me as my shaking fingers tried to make sense of the belt. I wished for another coat, a pair of pants, a blanket, and on top of that, an aluminum blanket.

“What do you think I’m doing?” I struggled to get the words out through my thick throat. “I’m trying to seduce you at work, after hours, to make it as easy for you as possible.”

He sighed and shook his head. “This isn’t you. This is one of Neema’s crazy ideas, isn’t it?” He rubbed his face and dropped into the chair behind his desk. “I have a deadline before midnight. I can’t do this with you. I’m not going to have this fight. Please, please can we talk tomorrow?”

The only thing more embarrassing than this situation was experiencing this situation while crying about it. I turned away in a poor attempt at hiding my wet cheeks. “We can, but we won’t, because you’ll be too busy.”

“That’s not fair.”

Behind me, the wheels of his chair rolled against the protective plastic he kept on top of his carpet. Standing, he approached and pulled me into his arms. I swiped at my tears, and for a moment I thought things would be okay.

“I have to meet this deadline,” he said. “I love you.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to say anything else.

He released me and puffed out his chest on a deep inhale. Then, picking up the bags of food, he handed them to me. “I’ll call you later. You should still eat this. It shouldn’t go to waste. I’m quite stuffed… I obviously wasn’t expecting this.”

“I’m sorry.” I swallowed down a fresh wave of tears as shame joined the hurricane of emotions swirling through me. “Anyway, I’m gonna go. Chat later.”

He leaned down, and before his lips could meet mine, I turned my face, and his mouth landed on my cheek. He didn’t say anything, and neither did I.

I raced back to the elevator, all the while struggling with the lump in my throat and the ache across my chest. I stared at the mirrored walls and took in my running makeup—the Joker had nothing on me.

Without making eye contact with the doorman, I lifted my hand in greeting and walked out. I fumbled with my phone and dialed Neema. It rang and rang.

No answer.

I tried Shaun. Same thing. They were probably too busy being in love—something I should have been doing.

Running through my options, I considered hailing a taxi but there was no way I was getting into a stranger’s car dressed like this, and no driver needed the distraction of me crying in their backseat.

I walked without thinking, as if my legs knew where they were going. It was a familiar route. Blowing out a breath, I wiped my face and marched on while deeply regretting my choice of shoes.

Shaun’s apartment was only a fifteen-minute walk, and I hoped we’d laugh about this whole thing when I got there.

His building grew larger as I neared, and I replayed everything Patrick had said, remembering every facial expression and even the lilt in his voice. I swiped at my tears again and nodded at someone who let me into the building.

Perhaps I was overreacting. Patrick was working. I suppose I wouldn’t want him arriving half-naked while I was chasing a deadline.

I took the stairs as fast as I could, desperate to change my clothing. As I reached the second floor, my knees wobbled, and I lost my footing. A lightning bolt of pain traveled up my right leg, shooting up my side and screaming at my ankle.

Stupid, awful heels.

Falling forward, my hands hit the stone tiles, shielding my face from impact. Pain thumped through me. I lifted my arm to the railing and pulled myself up, afraid to put pressure on my foot. Shaun’s apartment door was almost near enough to touch.

“Shaun?” I called.

Nothing.

I shifted my weight onto my right side, and agony shook through my nerves, almost blinding me.

The physical pain was only slightly better than the emotional one.