Our Options Have Changed: On Hold Series Book #1 Page 26

  Twice today, I’ve tried Facetime with Holly. Nick has held the screen right in front of her, and I’ve recited The Runaway Bunny from memory. This was not as successful as I’d hoped, partly because every time I tried to say, “If you run away,” said his mother, “I will run after you, for you are my little bunny,” I broke down and sobbed.

  Again.

  And partly because Holly showed no interest in the screen whatsoever, other than using it as a chew toy. She patted it a few times, but then twisted in her high chair, reaching for Nick. I thought all children, no matter how small, adored technology? Clearly she is not destined for a career with Mark Zuckerberg. Damn.

  I’m hoping that my appearance on screen tonight, just for Nick, will be more compelling.

  To that end, I have carefully hand-laundered my black lace bra and thong from yesterday, and the dark grey thigh highs. I dried everything with the hotel hairdryer, which wasn’t easy because it’s one of those little ones mounted to the wall. These are not my absolute dead-sexiest pieces, but when I put them on yesterday morning, I wasn’t planning on an audience. Still, they’re La Perla. Nothing to be shy about.

  Which is good, because tonight is not about shy.

  I put my silk shirt from yesterday over the bra, leaving it half unbuttoned. Black heels. My hair is pinned up, makeup perfect, with red lipstick. It’s not like I had anything else to do this afternoon. Plenty of perfume—he can’t smell it, of course, but I can. After all, this is a date. I turn the lights on, but low, and set tonight’s martini—dry, with a twist—next to my computer.

  At 11:04, my phone rings, and I answer on the laptop. There he is, looking incredibly handsome. I love when he wears his glasses.

  “Hey there.” He looks a little more worn than usual. I hide a grin. Mr. “It’ll Be Easy” is getting a refresher course in infants.

  “Hey. Are you okay? Looks like you might get home tomorrow, snow’s letting up.”

  “Thank god! What’s happening there? Is Holly asleep? Are you exhausted?”

  “She’s asleep. The girls were here all evening playing with her. They just went into their rooms with their phones. It’s so quiet.”

  “Oh, that’s good. That means you can concentrate. Focus.” I adjust the camera angle, moving it just a bit lower.

  “Oh my,” he breathes. “Look at you.”

  I take a sip of my drink. I move the camera lower. I say nothing.

  I unbutton my shirt. Slowly. One by one.

  Nick laughs quietly, a low sound of appreciation. “Even your pixels are gorgeous,” he says.

  I push open my shirt and slide my fingers under the lace of my bra, massaging. My head tips back.

  And in a moment, I stand. Every movement is slow. There’s no hurry.

  Now he can see my thong, the lace tops of my stockings.

  I turn my back to the camera, hook my fingers under my thong, and slide it down. Slowly.

  And then I turn back.

  And I hear him—at a distance of two hundred miles—draw in his breath. I watch his face intently. Lifting one high heel onto the edge of the chair, I lick a manicured finger, and touch myself where I am yearning for his touch.

  “Chloe...oh, my...”

  I reach to the keyboard to increase the volume, wanting to hear his every sound. His excitement feeds mine.

  And the screen goes black.

  Shitshitshit!

  What did I do? How do I undo whatever I did, right now? Where the hell is tech services when you really need them?

  Frantically, I restart the computer, wait, enter my password, wait, reopen Facetime. The mood is evaporating with each lost second. I type Nick’s number into the box, as I try to compose myself and recreate the hot scene I just disconnected. I stand, face the camera, position myself, take a deep breath.

  And there on the screen is the devastatingly handsome face of…

  Henry.

  I shriek. He shrieks.

  Jemma walks up behind him and shrieks.

  We shriek in surround sound.

  I sit down, fast.

  “Chloe, what the fuck?” I didn’t know Henry’s voice could hit that register.

  “I was calling Nick! I don’t know what happened!”

  “Henry, go in the other room,” Jemma orders. “Chloe, what the hell?”

  “I don’t know! I was Facetiming with Nick, and my computer shut down, and I was calling him back! Why are you online, anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be at the wedding?”

  “I broke the heel on my shoe dancing. We just came back to the room so I could get another pair. When did you get a full Brazilian?”

  “Oh my god. Can we talk about this another time? I need to call Nick back. Is Henry going to be okay?”

  “Are you kidding? In his line of work? Henry actually does know how to unsee things,” Jemma says, clearly annoyed, but if she’s making jokes, I know it’ll be okay.

  “I am so, so sorry!”

  “All good, honey.” She sighs. “But I am clearly going to have to up my game here.”

  Nick

  I haven’t gotten that hard that fast since high school.

  And now Chloe’s gone.

  What did I just see, and how can I see more of it?

  I fiddle with my laptop keyboard, taking two seconds to readjust myself. It’s late, Holly’s asleep, and I’m in sweats.

  Which means I can’t stand up and go out into my own damn living room for a few minutes.

  Laughter fills my chest, though I repress it. Don’t want to wake the baby or draw attention to myself. Last thing I need is one of my kids coming in here when Chloe comes back on screen.

  She is coming back on screen, right?

  Coming… on screen… please...

  Silence. One minute. Two. Three. The image of that lusciously hot position of hers, the wanton abandon, fills me with --

  Damn it.

  Hard again.

  Bzzz.

  My phone’s on the edge of the desk and the vibration is just enough to put it over the edge.

  Like me, in a moment.

  I bend down, wincing, but grab it.

  A text from Chloe.

  Sorry about that.

  Nothing 2B sorry about, I text back quickly. I’m desperate to have her come back on screen.

  So desperate I’m using txtspeak.

  I am so embarrassed, she replies.

  Facetime with me, I urge.

  Can’t. I clicked over from you accidentally and, she texts.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Two minutes of silence.

  I call her on Facetime. She doesn’t pick up.

  Sorry. I accidentally called Henry instead of you and he got a show, she finally explains.

  I stare at the screen, jaw on my desk.

  U wat? I text back.

  OMG is this one of Nick’s kids? she replies.

  No. Sorry. I’m so shocked I reverted to txtspeak, I answer, jaw grinding. Henry? I add.

  Yes. Sorry.

  Make it up to me by going on Facetime again. In that exact same position, I reply, resisting the urge to add, That’s an order.

  Terrified. Mood gone, she answers.

  Mood gone?

  I look down at my groin.

  My mood is definitely not gone.

  Thank you, she adds. And I’ll make it up to you when I come home.

  I’m throbbing. I look like I have a joystick growing out of my sweats. Henry got to look at Chloe’s naked, sprawling, hot show.

  And this is where being a nice guy sucks.

  But I do it anyway.

  It’s fine, I say, finding some mature part of myself I don’t really like.

  It’s not fine, she texts. None of this is fine. But you made it all safe. Thank you.

  I soften in more ways than one.

  Any time, I reply.

  I’d like that, she answers.

  Like what?

  To be with you an
y time.

  Holly begins to squall and squawk in the other room. Damn. Timing is everything.

  And babies are cockblockers.

  I’d like that, too, I text back, with a silly little heart, as I stand and relax, back to being casual, practical Nick, and do what needs to be done.

  Chapter 22

  Chloe

  When the plane begins its descent into Logan, I signal the flight attendant. Of course it’s a full flight. I have the window seat, about six rows from the back of the plane, so it takes her a few minutes to get to me.

  “When we land, I have to get off the plane right away,” I say urgently. “It’s an emergency. My baby.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she responds sympathetically. “I’ll see what I can do. Do you need to get to the hospital?” Understandably, she looks around me, searching for, you know.

  A baby.

  “Oh, no, I have to get to my boyfriend’s house.”

  She just looks at me.

  “My baby’s there. I was stuck in New York in the storm.”

  “And something happened to the baby?” she asks, still concerned.

  “No, no, she’s fine. But I’m sure she misses me, I’ve been gone since Friday morning.”

  The attendant has lost interest. In fact, that almost looked like a tiny eye-roll.

  “We’ll do everything we can to unload the plane quickly,” she says. “I’m sure everyone is anxious to get home.”

  “But you don’t understand!” I start, but she has moved off.

  My seat mate looks at me. “You can go ahead of us, honey,” she says. “Ours are teenagers. We’re nothing but an ATM and tech support to them.”

  * * *

  I text Nick when we land: Landed

  I text him when the plane reaches the gate: At gate

  I text him from the cab line: In cab line

  He texts back: We’re fine, relax

  The cab pulls up outside Nick’s house. I am so frantic to get out, I can’t calculate the tip, and I’m not going to take the time to swipe my credit card and wait for it to go through. I hand the driver three twenties and pull my overflowing tote bag out to the curb.

  By the time I make it up the front steps to the door, I am weeping with relief. My yearning for Holly is a physical ache. My yearning for Nick is not much different. A little different, but not much.

  Okay, pretty different.

  He opens the door, and I throw myself into his arms.

  “I’m so glad to be home, I thought I would never get here, I’m so sorry, thank you so much, where is she?”

  Nick laughs and holds me tight. “Take a breath, she’s fine. You’re so cold! Give me your coat.” He yanks my bag into his foyer.

  “Nick, where is she? She must miss me so much, and she doesn’t understand why I’ve been away from her. Where’s my baby? Did she eat anything?”

  “She’s right here,” he says, taking my hand and pulling me down the hall. He stops at the doorway to the little sitting room off the kitchen, and motions to me to be quiet. I peek around the door frame.

  There’s Holly. There’s my girl. My heart actually leaps. Holly is sitting in Jean-Marc’s lap, although he’s watching the football game on television and not paying much attention to her. Nick’s girls are kneeling on the floor with puppets on their hands. Princess puppets, and a dragon. My baby girl has a teething wafer in one hand and Amelie’s long blonde hair wrapped around the other hand. She is enthralled.

  I look at Nick, and back at the kids. Holly is wearing a little shirt I’ve never seen before. It’s purple and has a big, sparkly pink sequin heart on the front. She is also wearing what appears to be a miniature pink tutu. There is a big satin bow somehow attached to the wispy hair on top of her head.

  “The girls went shopping,” Nick explains, stating the completely obvious. “They thought we needed a few things.”

  On the floor sits a stuffed toy lamb. Life size. Beyond it is a pile of alphabet blocks, and beyond those is some kind of round plastic table with a seat in the middle and toys attached to the tray. Nick’s normally austere sitting room, with its black leather sofa and grey plaid carpet, is a sea of pink plush and purple plastic. On the cocktail table are the week’s papers, buried under a stack of board books.

  Holly looks up and sees me, and I’m across the room in an instant. I scoop her up and bury my nose in the sweet smell of her neck. The world falls back into place for the first time in days. Okay, a day.

  Holly squirms in my arms, struggling a little bit to push back from my hug. She twists her little body around and leans down to Jean-Marc, holding her arms out to him.

  Her face wrinkles up and she starts to cry. She kicks me. Kicks me!

  I am horrified.

  She has forgotten me. I left her, and now I am a stranger. I am a Bad Mother. She hates me.

  Jean-Marc reaches up and takes her back. “Hey,” he says to me, and “Sshhh,” to Holly. She settles back down in his lap, quiet.

  I am appalled.

  The girls jump up. “She is SO sweet!” they are saying. “We had so much fun! Can she come back next weekend?”

  Nick puts his arm around me. “Come on, we’ll pack up her things so you can get her home.”

  I follow him into the kitchen, looking back over my shoulder. I open the fridge to get her formula, and Nick hands me a tote bag.

  Nick’s refrigerator is usually pretty well stocked. Charlie makes sure of that. But pulling the door open now, I can’t even see what’s on the shelves. They are packed to overflowing. Baby yogurt, four six-packs. Fruit sauce in squeeze containers, a dozen flavors. A teething toy. Little yellow Cheerios containers.

  Oh my god, a chocolate cupcake. With a blue frosting Elsa on top.

  And several bites out of it.

  Nick takes the cupcake out of my hand. “I couldn’t resist,” he says, not quite meeting my eye. “I love cupcakes.”

  Right.

  “Did Holly eat this?” I ask. “Oh, Nick!”

  I have lost control. I have failed to take care of my child.

  “No,” he admits. “That was me.”

  It’s too much. I can’t hold back the tears.

  Nick pulls me into his arms. He kisses my tears and slowly, tenderly begins kissing my lips. The taste of him, the smell of his skin, make me respond in spite of my misery.

  His hands move from my arms to my shoulders and slowly slide down my back. He presses closer, and I feel his growing hardness.

  “I’ve missed you so much,” he says in my ear. “And that call last night...”

  “Well,” says a deep male voice from behind me, “What’s cooking in here?”

  Charlie.

  Nick turns, but keeps one arm tight around me.

  “Hey, little brother,” he says.

  “Chloe,” Charlie says, and kisses me on both cheeks, European-style. “I hear you had a relaxing getaway in New York.”

  For a moment, I am speechless.

  “It was the worst weekend of my life,” I sputter.

  “Worse than when we borrowed Caroline Pressman’s car and drove to Maine, but we only had sixty-five bucks between us, and her car broke down in Hampton Beach but we couldn’t call our parents because we told them we were going to a choir retreat?” Charlie asks. “Worse than that?”

  “Yes, it was worse than that!” I hear my voice rising. “I have a baby to take care of!”

  “So did I,” he chuckles.

  He has always been able to get me going.

  “And we had to stay in that thirty dollar no-tell motel, and you wouldn’t let your bare feet touch the carpet?”

  “That’s enough, Charlie,” Nick warns.

  “And there was a vending machine for rubbers, so I had to keep asking for change at the front desk?”

  “That is enough!” Nick says loudly.

  From the other room, I hear Holly start to fuss.

  “Time for us to go home,” I say nervously, and reach for the half-packed to
te bag.

  “Stay for dinner,” Charlie offers. “I’m roasting a chicken.”

  “Sounds great but I have to get Holly home to bed. Another time maybe.”

  Charlie looks abashed. “Was it something I said?”

  He looks from me to Nick, and back to me.

  “Look. I apologize,” he says softly. “It’s a weird situation. You were really important in my life, Chloe. I mean, you’re both really important in my life. But we were just kids. And now we’re grown up...”

  “Some of us are,” Nick mutters.

  “...now we’re all grown up, and you two seem like a pretty good fit. I love you both,” he finishes. “But it’s still weird.”

  This is so Charlie.

  He opens his arms and hugs me tight, and I hug him back.

  “Now how about that roast chicken?” he asks me.

  “It’s always been my favorite dinner.”

  “Wait till you taste mine. Better than Hamersley. Actually, it’s his recipe. Garlic and lemon.”

  And thus we have dinner for six (mostly) adults, accompanied by one sleeping baby girl.

  Family style.

  Nick

  “Why,” I ask Chloe, my finger tracing the outer edge of her nipple, the skin curling up like a sweet blossom, “did you decide to stay the night?”

  Holly is asleep in her Pack ’n Play in my den. Charlie is on the pull-out sofa. The kids are in their respective bedrooms. Chloe and I are in that lazy afterglow time in my bed, when minutes have no meaning and the outside world is there, but sex puts everyone else at a distance. Being naked together, body heat transferring without effort, lips and tongues and fingers all working their magic, makes the crazy hustle-bustle and stress of everyday life seem quaint. Cute.

  Over there.

  A thousand miles away.

  “Who could turn down Charlie’s roast chicken?”

  I give her a pinch.

  She squeaks.

  She gives me a squeeze.

  I fold in half.

  “Hey!” I growl. “Precious cargo.”

  “It is of high value.” Her hand shifts from violence to a stroke that makes me wonder what my refractory period is.