My answer is as certain as my desire to keep breathing. It’s terrifying and oddly comforting all at once. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand any of it. My stomach feels like it’s being twisted into a perpetual knot.
Balancing the three boxes filled with treats and the bag of muffins, I step off the elevators and walk across the shiny marble floor to the reception area, praying I leave my anxiety behind me. An older woman directs me down the hallway to the conference room by the large window overlooking the city streets. I say a silent thank you when the doors to the room are already propped open. I would hate to place these boxes on the floor to be able to knock.
That’s extremely unprofessional, and probably one of the reasons these deliveries are done in pairs.
I step inside the room, lowering the boxes so I can see above the paper bag. Several men in suits are seated at a long rectangular table. All of them look up at my arrival and halt their dissection of whatever document is in front of them.
“Hello. I have a delivery from Dylan’s Sweet Tooth. Pastries and muffins.”
The older man closest to me stands and takes the boxes. He smiles warmly. “Excellent. We were just about to get started.”
He spreads the boxes out in the center of the table. Lids are quickly flipped back and the contents of the paper bag is examined.
The older man straightens and looks back at me. “Please see my secretary Helen for your payment, Miss . . .”
“Brooke.”
I look across the room at the sound of my name.
Seated at the other end of the table is the very associate I gave up my lunch for last year.
Blonde. No glasses. Nothing particularly memorable at all about him. In fact, if he hadn’t called out my name just now, I would easily pass this guy on the street and not recognize him. It’s only in this setting, large board room with baked goods spread out on a conference table that my memory is being triggered. And that might have everything to do with the treats and nothing to do with the sex we had.
He stands and buttons his jacket, grinning in my direction. “I’ll walk you out.”
I smile at the older man who took the boxes from me and exit the room. Blonde, no glasses guy has to catch up.
“I said I would walk you out. You can’t wait a second?” He gently squeezes my elbow, bending down to whisper into my ear. “In a hurry? I can make it quick.”
I wrench my arm away. “That’s okay. I need to get back to work.”
My feet continue to carry me down the hallway. He stays right with me, his quiet chuckle grating on my nerves.
Christ, just go away. This isn’t going to happen.
“Come on, Brooke. I’m about to have to sit through this boring as fuck meeting. Make a guy’s day a bit brighter, will ya?”
I turn to glare at him. “I don’t even remember your name.”
“Vince.”
“Well, Vince, like I said, I need to get back to work. But even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be interested.”
His eyebrows meet his hairline. “Why not?”
“Because I have a boyfriend.”
My feet skid to a halt in front of the reception desk. I clamp my mouth shut, sucking in a sharp breath through my nose. Vince begins to blur in front of me, followed by all of my surroundings. The walls seem to pulse, throbbing with the beat of my heart as it fills my ears, growing louder and louder. My breaths become shallow and my palms start to sweat.
What . . .
The . . .
Hell . . . did I just say?
I look around for another woman standing nearby whose voice I had to have been hearing.
That wasn’t me. I didn’t just say that. I didn’t just say I have a boyfriend.
Turning my head, I meet the gaze of the older receptionist behind the desk.
Was it you?
“Ah, gotcha.”
I look back at Vince after he speaks.
He tugs on his jacket, lifting his one shoulder. “I’m not trying to break up a relationship. That’s too much involvement for me. Good luck with your boyfriend. Hope it all works out.”
Boyfriend.
“Shut up, Vince!”
He leans back, looking startled. “Excuse me?”
I look around us, gauging the eyes on me and watching them multiply. I bring both hands to my face and mold them to my cheeks.
My skin feels warm. Too warm. I need air.
I spin around and nearly climb onto the reception desk. “Are you Helen? Please, for the love of God, tell me you’re Helen. I need a Helen.”
She stares up at me from over the top of her glasses. “I’m Helen.”
“That guy back there told me to stop here for my check. For the delivery I made. Dylan’s Sweet Tooth.”
“Oh, yes.” She smiles and picks up a check and a small piece of paper, sliding them both in front of me. “Here you go. Just need you to sign for it.”
I grab a pen and scribble something onto the receipt. I doubt it’s my name. I doubt it’s legible.
There’s a strong possibility I just signed it ‘boyfriend’.