Chapter 10 No Wonder I’m Divorced Hailey

Chapter 10

No Wonder I’m Divorced

Hailey

The day after the opera, Matt flies off to the West Coast with his team on a seven-day road trip. And Rufus is staying at the doggy ranch, so I won’t see either of them or set foot in Matt’s apartment for at least a week.

Jenny almost murders me when I tell her how I feel about his departure. “I’m a little relieved,” I admit as we wait for our drinks at the coffee shop.

“That makes no sense,” she sputters. “Why would you be relieved?” Her eyes narrow. “Unless you had sex all night long and need a break. It’s been a while for you, right? Your stamina might need work.”

My face, neck, and lots of other parts flush when she says this. “There was no sex.” But there would have been if I were braver.

My friend chews her lip. “Did you chicken out?”

“Well…” It really depends on your viewpoint. “He was a gentleman. The car brought us first to my place, even though it’s pretty far out of the way. He kissed me good night, and then the car took him home.”

“Oh. My. God.” Jenny swallows roughly. “You didn’t invite him in? The man rode with you all the way out to Yonge and Eglinton, and you said, ‘Thanks for the opera. See you later’?”

Even the grumpy barista is eyeing me over the milk fluffer, a disbelieving expression on his pimply face. “It was our first date,” I protest. “I wasn’t going to invite him in.”

Jenny yanks our two cups off the counter and marches toward the door. I pause to tip the barista and then follow her out.

She’s waiting outside with a stern expression on her pretty face. “Let me get this straight. Your lifelong crush wanted to peel you out of my sparkly dress and do the horizontal Pachanga, but you sent him home?”

Pretty much .

I remove my coffee cup from Jenny’s hand and take a scorching sip just to avoid answering her. After the curtain fell on the opera, Matt led me downstairs for food, more wine, and small talk with Blake, Jess, and Wesmie. Then the elderly team owner approached, and Matt made a point of complimenting his choice of operas.

The moment the man moved away from us, Matt breathed a sigh of relief. “I have fulfilled my duties this evening. Shall we go?”

So we got in the car together, where Matt kissed the daylights out of me all the way home.

The memory of his hot, eager mouth on my neck gives me an inappropriate flutter down below. In fact, the ride home was basically the hottest sexual experience of my life, and that’s without anyone rounding any bases at all.

He didn’t pressure me though. When I shakily thanked him for a lovely evening, his smile was warm and happy. “See you soon, Hottie. Plan on it.”

The problem? Those words are as terrifying to me as they are thrilling. Matt makes me crazy, and not just in a good way. When I’m around him, I feel giddy and weak-kneed but also nervous and uncertain. I don’t have experience with men. I have experience with man , as in one man. Jackson. I’m not sure if the nerves I feel with Matt are normal or a sign that maybe he’s a bit too much for me.

“So now what happens?” Jenny demands. “Are you getting another at bat?”

“Maybe?” I guess. “If he’s the type to be pissed off that I didn’t put out after a long evening of opera, then I haven’t missed a thing.”

She makes a choking sound. “Not true. You missed a trip to pound town with the hottest body on the best hockey team in the world.”

Right. Except for that.

When Jenny and I arrive at the office five minutes later, it’s already chaos, even at nine in the morning. The holidays are approaching, so Fetch is seeing an uptick in shopping business. I welcome the distraction and lose myself in the work.

The next few days are filled with petty emergencies and meetings with our principal developer. Techie Tad swings by to help with the integration of our new app. He’s wearing his Toronto cap and asks me out to coffee again, but before he can even get the sentence out, Jackson yells for me from the other room.

“Sorry,” I say, squeezing Tad’s elbow as I run past. “We’ll grab one sooner or later.” Though I still don’t know if I’m flattered or insulted by his fake Toronto loyalties. On one hand, it’s sweet. On the other hand, I don’t want anyone forsaking their team to win my favor.

I spend an afternoon finalizing our holiday promotions with Jackson and then coding them into our website in my office. It’s not the most stimulating part of my week, and my mind keeps wandering back to the opera and the first time Matt kissed me. The soft huff of his breath against my lips, followed by the brush of his lips over mine…

By my calculations, my last first kiss was over a decade ago. Maybe that’s why Matt’s kiss lit me up so much?

And—this is terrible—I don’t actually remember my first teenage kiss from Jackson. I can’t tell you where we were or whether I liked it.

No wonder I’m divorced.

Matt’s kiss, on the other hand, keeps sneaking up on me at odd moments. As I wait for a file to load, I recall the sensation of his big hand cupping my thigh. And as Dion tries to explain to me why we can’t order the imported tea that a new customer demands, I have a sudden, urgent memory of Matt’s tongue in my ear on the taxi ride home.

“Are you okay, Hailey?” Dion asks.

My attention snaps back to the man in my doorway. “Fine!” I say quickly. “So, uh, there’ll be a delay?” I try to remember what we were discussing.

“Yeah. He’s not happy, but I told him he could talk to you if he had questions.”

“Right! Well done. Anything else?”

Dion gives me a patient smile. “The unlabeled boxes are piling up in the hallway again. Have a look when you get a second.”

“I’ll do that,” I promise.

He walks away, and I sit back in my chair, trying to pull myself together. The evening I spent with Matt was a kind of emotional earthquake, and the aftershocks keep rattling me.

Maybe I’m ready to concede that Jenny is right—I should start putting myself out there again. But Matt isn’t a great reintroduction to dating. He’s too intimidating. Too amazing. Too…everything.

Just as I form this thought, my computer monitor dings, and his log-in name appears on my screen.

Sniper87: Hi there. Today’s request is for a dinner date next Tuesday at 7 p.m. Oh, and reservations. Wherever my date wishes to go.

For a moment, my heart soars. A dinner date. Wherever I want to go! With the most potent man on the planet. Alone. Just the two of us.

A wave of lust rolls through me. Unfortunately, it’s quickly followed by a wave of panic.

A private dinner date? I’ll probably turn into a babbling fool with the conversational skills of a frightened chimpanzee. The man has no idea how many hours of worry and preparation went into that night at the opera. And thanks to the performance onstage, I didn’t even have to speak for much of it.

If I’m honest, the conversation parts of that evening were the best parts. Somehow I finally relaxed and enjoyed Matt’s company. Right around the time we began inventing opera plotlines, I forgot he was Matt Eriksson, Toronto forward, and began to see him as Matt, the funny guy I enjoy talking to.

But was my competent performance a fluke? Lightning rarely strikes twice in the same spot. And even if I manage not to embarrass myself, let’s be honest. The man has more testosterone than I’m used to dealing with. He’ll expect sex—the kind of passionate, dirty sex that famous athletes are used to.

With me—the woman who isn’t even sure she likes sex.

Don’t get me wrong. The idea of Matt Eriksson naked and moaning is very appealing. But the deed itself has always been a big letdown. So even if I screw up my courage and go through with the whole adventure, the result will be a soul-crushing disappointment, right?

Right. I’ll let him down easy.

HTE: Hi, Snipes.

Sniper87: Just the girl I was looking for! Sitting here in the hotel all by my lonesome. Thinking about a date I had recently. On the way home…

HTE: I have to stop you right there, sir. The Fetch chat is stored in your client file and can be read by anyone who assists you.

Sniper87: Hmm. But a certain HoTtiE always assists me. That can’t be random luck.

Oh, heck. He has me there.

HTE: It’s not random, but it is luck. Certain accounts are always routed first to an owner, who looks after that customer personally.

Sniper87: Ah, so that’s how it works. For your big customers?

HTE: Big ones and troublesome ones.

Sniper87: Well I know which kind I am. :-) Why don’t you find out.

HTE: !!!

Sniper87: :-)

HTE: Not joking here. If I take an unplanned day off or you send in a request in the middle of the night, you’ll be hitting on the guy we call the Dark Lord, maybe.

Sniper87: So you’re saying we can’t have really fun conversations over the Fetch chat.

HTE: Precisely, sir.

Sniper87: I do like it when you call me sir. Gives me ideas.

HTE: Snipes!

Sniper87: Sorry, sorry.

Sniper87: I’ll be good. If you insist.

HTE: I really do.

Sniper87: Five days is a long time not to chat. But I’ll live. Later, HTE.

HTE: Later.

Whew. And now I’ve bought myself a little more time to think about whether we’ll go out on a second date. I won’t hear from him for a few days, and I’ll be able to clear my head.

Ding!

I check the monitor again, and Sniper87 appears. Instead of writing a personal message, he’s filled out the standard request form.

Request type: Pickup and delivery

From: Frankie’s Florists on Yorkville Ave

When: After 2 p.m. today.

Destination: Fetch offices, 99 ⒈／⒉ Scollard Street, for Ms. Hailey Taylor Emery

Notes: Please route this request to any staff member other than the elusive HTE. Gracias.

He’s sent me flowers?

Wow.

That starts up a fresh aftershock. In my mind’s eye, I see his sexy smile loom closer, and then he captures my mouth as I gasp…

Gah!

With a single click of the mouse, I route the request to Jenny. Then I get up to go check out the pile of boxes that Dion warned me about. I’m not so addled that I’ve forgotten there’s real work to be done. As I pass the bullpen, I hear Jenny let out a little squeal, but I don’t catch her eye because I don’t feel like seeing her I-told-you-so face.

Sure enough, there are a bunch of boxes accumulating outside Jackson’s office. I sink down on my knees to sort through them. We receive lots of parcels for our clients here in the Fetch offices, because only by taking delivery can we verify that our orders actually arrive.

Many of these items come properly tagged with the customer’s name or—in the case of those clients who remain anonymous—a Fetch ID on them. ( FBO MrEightInches , etc.) But quite often, the shipping label only says Fetch, Inc . So Jackson and I open the unlabeled boxes ourselves in order to preserve our clients’ privacy.

The first box I open is an imported Japanese volleyball. The invoice says that it cost us seventy bucks. I stand and lean into the bullpen. “Anyone missing a fancy volleyball?”

Dion turns his head and cries, “WILLLLLSON!” just like Tom Hanks in Cast Away while everyone laughs.

Then another Fetcher claims it for a client. Mystery solved.

The next package is full of toner cartridges for our office printers. Yawn.

But the third package leaves me in a quandary. After I open it, it takes me a moment to identify the contents. My first guess is sporting equipment, because there are stretchy bands attached to loops. But this contraption is accompanied by a weirdly large feather. And a pair of…furry handcuffs? They’re actually pink leopard fur. No self-respecting leopard would be caught dead in this color. But whatever.

I find the invoice and note that the stretchy thing is an item called “personal restraints.” And underneath the bubble wrap is a flogger. Medium weight, apparently.

Oh.

Oh.

The delivery is fascinating but also problematic. In the interest of customer privacy, I can’t hold these items up and yodel for their owner. Instead, I carry the box into my office and place it on the desk while I pull up our Fetch database. I reenter my password and start trying search terms. “Personal restraints” comes up empty. “Handcuffs” pulls up seventeen different requests, but all of them are fulfilled and none of them recent. “Feather” is equally useless.

“Hailey?” Jackson says from the doorway. “Where’s the file on…?” His eyes fall on the box and its contents. “Um…”

A nervous giggle escapes me. “These aren’t mine , Jax. They arrived in a shipment today, and I’m searching the database for a hit.”

His eyes close for a beat and then open again. Then, wordlessly, he steps farther into the room. He pushes all the sex toys back into the box and closes the flaps one at a time. Then he tucks the box against his hip and carries it out of my office.

I watch him go while my brain struggles to understand. Those items can’t be for…

No. Really?

Really?

I can’t wrap my head around it. Skinny mild-mannered Jackson and his new girlfriend have a brand new flogger? Mr. Missionary Position on Alternate Tuesdays wants to dominate his girlfriend?

Or…the opposite? An image of Jackson kneeling naked in submission flashes through my mind, and I shudder and then giggle hysterically.

What is the world coming to? Jackson, who alphabetizes his hair-care products, is having a torrid affair, and I’m cowering after a few good kisses.

A couple of hours later, Jenny appears with a cut-crystal vase containing three dozen long-stemmed pink roses. “There’s a note!” she sings, waltzing into my office and plunking the flowers in the center of the desk. They practically fill the room. I’ve been trying not to think about Matt, and this will make it a hell of a lot more difficult.

He probably knows that. The bastard.

“Open the fucking note. I’m dying here,” Jenny pleads.

“I’m surprised you didn’t read it already.”

She looks guilty.

“Jenny! Pass it over.”

The envelope lands in my hands, and I untuck the flap, pulling out a tiny piece of paper.

Hottie—I had so much fun with you the other night. And I’m pretty sure you had fun too. Don’t worry so much, okay? I just want to spend time with you. Text me from your personal phone at this number.—M.

“Does he have you figured out or what?” Jenny asks, smirking.

“I hate you.”

“Sure you do. But don’t hate me too much, or I won’t help you figure out what to wear next time.”

Oh shit. “I only hate you a little.”

Jenny grins. “I love you a whole lot. And if you turn this man down again, I will not be nice about it.”

“Right.” I take a deep breath. “I’ll be brave. I really will.”

“You’d better.”

***

And…I’m not.

I do not text him on his personal number.

Instead, I take a snapshot of the flowers and write a safe-for-work note on his Fetch request indicating that the flowers reached their destination and that they were lovely.

That night at home, I don’t text him because he’s busy. From the safety of my sofa, I watch him beat LA. He is magnificent , with a goal and an assist. And when I shut off the TV, I’m in awe.

I don’t text afterward, because he’s a hockey star who is busy with his teammates.

And I don’t text the next morning, because he’s on a plane to Denver.

I tell myself that Matt doesn’t really care if I text. He’ll probably meet a dozen attractive, available women at every stop on his trip. Maybe one of them is better positioned to handle all the terrifying hotness of Matt Eriksson.

Maybe one of them is in his bed right now.

That idea makes me feel cold inside. But Matt is probably the kind of guy who can have a one-night stand and forget about it the next day.

And I’m not.

Matt takes me so far out of my comfort zone that our first date caused me a week of shallow breathing and a loss of focus. I’ve never been so shaken by anyone.

That can’t be a good sign.

I coast along with this logic until the day arrives when I know he’s returning to Toronto. It’s not that I’m a stalker. I’m a rabid hockey fan, and I know the team has a home game the following night. Yet I’m practically buzzing from the knowledge that Matt Eriksson is headed into the Toronto metropolitan area.

God, I’m hopeless.

Sitting at my desk, I spend the whole morning wondering whether he’s back yet and what I should do about it.

“Hailey?” Jackson startles me out of my reverie by poking his head into my office. “Do you happen to have the information we compiled last year on piano-tuning services?”

“Sure.” I look up and meet his gaze for the first time since our awkward moment over the box of bondage equipment. He looks the same as he ever did, with a crisp button-down shirt covering his slim frame and tidy brown hair.

“Is it in here?” he prompts, waiting. And I realize I’m staring.

I tug on a file drawer and rifle through it, pulling out the information he’s looking for. “Here you go.”

He departs, and I watch him leave. This gentle man who divorced me has branched out to try new, exciting things. (Exciting to him, anyway.) And I’m just sitting here like a lump instead of sexing up my ideal man.

For the tenth time this week, I tell myself to buck up. Only this time, I dig out the florist’s card with Matt’s personal phone number on it. I wake up my phone and…

Ding! The Fetch queue on my computer screen announces a new priority request from Sniper87. Speak of the devil.

I click. I read.

Sniper87: From Whole Foods please bring two New York strip steaks and a double serving of whatever potato side dish they have. Hopefully it’s that cheesy one. And salad greens for two. I also require a bottle of a meaty red wine. Cabernet, something the wine guy likes for around thirty smackers. Also a bottle of champagne, chilled. And two slices of whichever cheesecake looks good. But not the whole cake because I’ll eat the leftovers. Delivery between six and seven, please.

I read the whole thing three times, cursing myself. But facts are facts.

Matt is having someone over for dinner. He’s serving steak and champagne. Furthermore, he’s basically asked me to plan his romantic evening at home for him. It couldn’t be more obvious if he took marker to cardboard, like Jenny’s hockey sign, and wrote THIS COULD HAVE BEEN YOU.

Unhappiness slices through me, and it’s a long time before I remember to breathe. But right before I pass out, I take a gulping breath and remind myself that this was all avoidable.

Lesson learned. Message received.

I spend the rest of the day trying not to feel sorry for myself. At five, I go into the bathroom and reapply my makeup. If I should happen to run into him in the lobby of his building, I don’t want to look like a loser.

At five twenty, I descend into the madness of Whole Foods at rush hour. I choose wonderful things for Sniper87—beautiful cuts of meat and a bottle of red that the wine guy swears will make even cynical angels weep.

It’s all for the best. It really is.

At ten minutes to six, I arrive at his building. My timing is calibrated to bring me to his door before he’ll be home. I’d rather miss him than see him.

“Perishables? Those have to be brought upstairs,” the concierge informs me when I try to hand over the bag. “I can’t handle that for you.”

I should have sent Jenny.

When the elevator brings me to the third floor, I’ve already thought up a solution. I’ll leave the bag outside his door and then mark his order delivered. He’s a smart man. He’ll find the food.

But when I reach the door, there’s a piece of paper taped to its surface. Hailey Taylor Emery , it reads.

I grab the paper off the door and flip it over.

Hottie—Since you won’t text me, and I can’t ask you out on the Fetch website, will you please come inside and have dinner with me?—M.

The relief I feel is so swift and strong that I almost collapse on the rug like Rufus after a long walk.

I stand there on the carpet for a moment longer, trying to get a grip. But it’s pretty much hopeless. Matt Eriksson is on the other side of that door, and he’s waiting for me, even if I’m an idiot who can’t write him a text.

I’m terrified, but I’m going in anyway. Raising my hand, I knock on the door.