On the other hand, yes it was a hobby, but it also felt like so much more. It felt deeper and more stable than anything else in my life. But most of all, it felt like the lifeline back to sanity I needed so desperately.
When I finally fell asleep it was with tears in my eyes, but if you would have asked me why I was crying, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you.
Maybe it was for my parents that couldn’t even be decent to each other.
Maybe it was for myself and my perpetual state of singlehood, the inability to find a decent guy, and the very real prospect that I was going to be alone for the rest of my life.
Or maybe it was for the art that meant so much to me, the creative outlet I relied so heavily upon to heal the broken pieces of my spirit.
Maybe it was because I knew I didn’t have the ability to fix any of the things that haunted me. I couldn’t mend my parents’ marriage or make them respect each other. I couldn’t make Mr. Right suddenly show up in my life and sweep me off my feet. I couldn’t make Mr. Tucker give me lead on a good account. I couldn’t make my coworkers respect me and take my ideas seriously.
From where I sat everything felt impossible. Everything except painting.
Chapter Eleven
Monday morning the office drummed with the beat of a funeral dirge. Any other day of the week, people moved around with a spark in their step, hurried with the drive to get the job done, overwhelmed with all they needed to do before lunch.
But not on Mondays.
Instead of the insistent, purposeful buzzing of the rest of the week, people stumbled from their desk to printers, guzzling coffee as they went. Their expressions were droopy and insincere, and their eyes slowly blinked with the memories of a beloved weekend that had died very suddenly the night before.
Usually, I enjoyed the amusement of Monday morning. Emily and I would play Guess Who’s Hungover over our second, third and fourth cups of coffee and laugh at our Monday-oppressed coworkers.
But this morning, after a fitful night’s sleep and a stressful weekend, I was the worst of the worst. I didn’t have a case of the Mondays, I had the bubonic plague of the Mondays.
This was how the zombie apocalypse would start. I was person zero.
“You look like the Grim Reaper’s undead bride.” Emily sympathized as I plopped into my chair across the aisle from her.
I waved her off. “Stop with the compliments already. You’re making me blush.”
She pushed her chair over to my desk, her four-inch stilettos clicking across the bamboo floor. “Seriously, Molly, are you sick? Hungover? Did something happen to Chris Pratt?”
Giving her a look that reminded her not to joke about Chris Pratt, I took a shaky sip of my coffee and said simply, “I’m tired.”
Emily’s eyes bugged. “This is more than tired. Girlfriend, you look like eight miles of hard road.”
I mustered a laugh, even though I really wanted to slither off to the bathroom and cry. “I just need coffee.” Tipping my to-go triple espresso latte at her, I added, “This is my first cup.”
“Well, drink it quickly,” she warned. “Rumor has it there is a very important potential client here to see you.”
Perking up at her announcement, I rolled my neck and tried to will energy into my limp appendages. “Black Soul?”
She shook her head. “No, someone new.”
My coffee hit my stomach with a weird gurgle and I abruptly felt nauseous. “You didn’t get a name?”
Her eyebrows danced over her very expressive eyes. “Only that he asked for you specifically.”
“He who?”
Emily shook her head, her lavender hair bouncing around her shoulders. “Molly, I have no idea.” She leaned forward pressing the back of her hand to my clammy forehead. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look white as a ghost all of sudden.”
My desk phone rang and I made a squealy noise and flailed in my chair. Ignoring Emily’s deeper expression of concern, I reached for my phone and answered as confidently as I could. “Th-this is Molly Maverick.”
“Hi, Molly,” Mr. Tucker’s secretary greeted pleasantly. “Mr. Tucker would like you to join him in his office. There is a client here to see you.”
“Oh.” I silently fretted and worried my bottom lip as I tried to think of an excuse to leave for the day. Or maybe I would just quit. A sinking feeling of intuition had snaked through my gut, warning me that going to Tucker’s office would be a giant mistake. “I’ll be right there.”
I hung up the phone and gripped my travel mug with two hands, bringing it to my lips for a steadying gulp of lukewarm coffee. “Is it too late to call in sick?”
Emily glanced down the aisle and then back at me. “What is going on, Molly? You’re making me nervous.”
“I’m fine.” I lied. “I’ll be fine.” Another lie.
The heat kicked on over my head, sending a puff of stifling air all around me. Beads of sweat popped up around my hairline and I desperately wanted to start shedding layers. I immediately regretted the rose pink blazer I wore over my white blouse. I couldn’t take it off because I’d stupidly worn a paisley print bra that my thin shirt would be helpless to hide.
Why did I make such bad decisions before coffee?
With one last long sip, I stood up from my desk, grabbed my notebook, thick planner and a Tic-Tac. I stuck a pen in the base of my high bun and waved goodbye to Emily. She stayed at my desk to watch me walk away, a look of worried consternation on her pretty face. Shooting her a confident smile, I had to admit that I was acting a bit crazy—even by my standards.
Mr. Tucker’s secretary, Teresa, waved me through to his office where my worst nightmare came true. I tried not to make a face even though I mentally admitted to myself that I should have seen this coming.
I should have known he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
I should have realized that as a general rule, STS would be thrilled to land a high-profile client like him.
Ezra Baptiste.
He sat across from Mr. Tucker looking way too suave for his own good. His long legs were crossed casually showcasing his tailored charcoal dress pants. His hands rested in his lap, an expensive watch blinking from his wrist. His strong torso leaned back in the chair, clothed in a layered black sweater that molded perfectly to his too-toned body, a white dress shirt poking out at his wrists and collar. His hair had been styled, laying in expert waves that begged fingers to run through it or brush it back or grab it and pull it and...
I licked dry lips and met his concentrated gaze. He stood up as I entered the room, acknowledging me with all his somber intensity. Mr. Tucker reluctantly stood too, and I was thankful for an excuse to look anywhere but at Ezra.
“Hi, Molly.” Mr. Tucker’s eyebrows rose subtly with surprise. He hadn’t been expecting me. I had a feeling he only knew my name because Ezra had asked for me specifically. I imagined Mr. Tucker waiting impatiently to find out which one was Molly. Now he knew.
Next week he was going to make us start wearing name tags. I could feel it.
“Hello, Mr. Tucker,” I returned professionally, unruffled, completely and utterly in my element.