The very least she could do was say she was sorry. She grabbed her phone from her nightstand and began tapping out a message to the man she missed more than she had ever expected.
CHAPTER THREE
As he stepped off the red-eye from Los Angeles to New York the next morning, his email burst with a flurry of messages.
First, a note from Flynn about the Pinkertons, and how the deal was coming together for their next film. Then one from his friend Michele, reminding him that they had tickets to the theater in a week. Damn, he’d nearly forgotten they were going to see an adaptation of The Usual Suspects for the stage. Next, a quick update from an actor client, Liam, who was starring in that play and also opening a hip restaurant in Murray Hill. Clay had been advising him on the deal. Liam was a busy guy and Clay liked it that way. Then a note from Chris McCormick, the TV show host he’d met with in San Francisco after spending one more night with Julia.
One unforgettable night that had as much to do with her answering the door wearing only stockings and a shirt as it did with her finally starting to open up to him.
But that had all been a lie, he reminded himself, willing his heart to fossilize when it came to her. Telling himself not to linger on the memories of how she seemed to be sharing her fears, and inviting him into her life, because that was all upended when she lied about who he was to that thug on the street.
His fingers tightened on his phone, gripping it harder, as if he were channeling his frustration into the screen. He needed to get into Manhattan as soon as possible, make a pit stop at his boxing gym, and then get his ass to work. That was his plan of attack: the way to rid Julia from his mind. Head down, nose in work, client meetings—the recipe to numb him to the effect of that woman.
He scrolled through Chris’s note, a quick summary of what he was most looking for in his next contract with the TV network that carried his show, and then he read Chris’s previous contract that the host had handled on his own. As you can probably surmise, negotiating on my own behalf is not my expertise. Happy to have you doing it for me going forward, Chris had written.
He replied quickly to Chris, eager to prove his value to his new client. That the guy was marrying Julia’s sister in a month didn’t even factor into his decision. Because he wasn’t thinking about Julia, not as he walked past security, responding to a note, not as he found his driver while answering another email, and certainly not as he slid into the backseat of a town car that would zip him into the city.
Then he saw a new email land in his inbox. From her. The subject line gave nothing away: Hi. But Pavlovian response kicked in, and he opened it before he could think. Because seeing her name still felt like a damn good thing, still held the promise of a sexy note, a naughty line, or a sweet nothing. But more than any of those options, it held the promise of her.
from: [email protected]
date: April 25, 4:08 AM
subject: Hi
Clay,
Hi. I’m lying awake in bed thinking of last night. How only 24 hours ago you were here with me. How much better it was to sleep with your arms around me, all safe and warm and snug. How much I would love to have you here again. But I know that won’t happen. And I understand. I truly understand. If I were you, I would hate me too. If I were you, I’d be suspicious as hell. And I probably wouldn’t trust me either. So I get 100 percent where you’re coming from and I wish there were another way. I want you in my life so badly that I can feel this ache where you’re supposed to be. But I know I can’t have you, and I’m sorry I can’t be open right now. You deserve more than this. More than me. All I will say is this sucks, and if I could turn back time and do certain things over there’s a lot I would change.
But I wouldn’t change a second with you.
Wow. I just re-read my note. I think that’s the mushiest I’ve ever been with anyone. Damn, you did a number on me, and I’ve got it bad for you. I’m hitting send while I still have the guts in me to do so, even though I will probably regret it. Except this is all true.
Xoxo
Julia
He dropped his head in his hand, and cursed. A wave of frustration and longing rolled through him, and he knew he should turn the damn phone off and ignore her. But this woman, she was under his skin. He hated lies but he’d be lying to himself if he pretended he’d forgotten her in a day.
from: [email protected]
date: April 25, 7:12 AM
subject: Hi
I don’t hate you. The farthest thing from it.
He hit send before the regret washed over him, as it eventually would, he was sure.
By the end of the day he wasn’t feeling much. He was riding at the perfect levels of blankness. A day in the trenches had done wonders for him, and a night at the gym would drain him of any residual feelings that threatened to resurface.
The next day he did the same, burying himself in business, making sure every T was crossed and I dotted, that points were won, and clients weren’t just making more money, they were being protected in their business deals. His job was a hell of a lot more than wringing more dollars from networks, studios and producers. It was checking out the fine print, making sure clients were looked out for when it came to two, three, four years down the road in a deal.
His days followed that pattern for the next week, and the regular routine of work, gym, business drinks or dinner, sleep, then rinse, lather, repeat the next day turned Julia into a hazy blur in the rearview mirror. Soon, she’d migrated to the back of his mind, and the fact that she’d been relocated there pleased him immensely. A few more days of supreme focus and she would be a distant blip on the horizon.
At seven-thirty on the dot on a Wednesday night, he left his office and headed for Times Square, threading his way through the crowds of tourists in their I Love NY sweat-shirts and Property of NYFD nylon jackets, with pretzels and hot dogs in hand, as they snapped photos of the neon signs and the famous intersection. He walked past the St. James Theater, tapping once on the poster for Crash the Moon, feeling a surge of pride for that show’s quick success. His friend Davis had directed it, and it had become a smash hit in the first month alone, playing to packed houses every single night.
He crossed the street, dodging a cab stalled in traffic, as he made his way to the bright lights of the Shubert Theater where Liam was playing the Kevin Spacey character in The Usual Suspects. Michele waited outside the theater lobby, smiling when she spotted him, and Clay took some comfort in the reliability of a friend like her. She’d been here through the years, always available for a drink, always willing to chat, or to see a movie or show. She was a good one, steady, dependable, and patently honest. A warm feeling rushed over him with the reminder that there were people you could trust implicitly. She would never dance around the truth.
“Hey you,” she said, waving her fingers, and then giving him a quick kiss on each cheek.
“Are we French now?”
“Of course,” she said playfully. “We’ll grab baguettes and sip espresso after the curtain call.”
“That’d be nice,” he said, as they walked into the theater and he handed two tickets to the usher who led them down the aisle to some of the best seats in the house.
Michele raised an eyebrow. “Impressive.”
“Like this is a surprise? We always get the best seats. Your brother is a Tony-winning director,” Clay said, gesturing for Michele to take her seat.