Can I See You Again? (2 page)

“Be nice.” I fiddle with a file, trying not to laugh at Mrs. Voss's expense even though Nixon's not off base. I recall her phone call several weeks ago—she noticed my billing statement on his counter and jotted down my number—explaining with an unwavering tone and heavy Spanish accent that each passing day is one less she'll be alive to spend with her grandchildren. And the
Amado Jesús
can strike her dead before she'll allow
niños
without marriage. She's giving Nixon until his cousin's wedding before
Mamá
steps in and finds a daughter-in-law herself.

Yes, her approach is abrasive, but I admire her conviction, her certainty. All she wants is to share her love with her family. Who can fault a woman for pinpointing exactly what she desires from life? And, though Nixon may disagree, he's a lot like his mom, confident and steadfast. But the two differ in the sense that work
is
his baby. Poor Mrs. Voss, how is she supposed to spoon-feed mashed sweet potatoes to a Fortune 500 company?

“Let's be honest.” I tuck my hair behind my ears and drop my elbows on my thick glass desk. “You're not here because your mom said so. You're here because you're a thirty-five-year-old man with no one to share your life. Your house is cold and sterile. There's probably expired milk in your fridge. And more than likely, gray hairs are sprouting up in inappropriate
places. Your comfort zone is shrinking and, at the end of the day, you're alone.”

“Shit, Bree. Don't sugarcoat it. Give it to me straight.”

“I know it sounds harsh.”

“It sounds like you're stalking me.”

“Only when your shutters are open.”

He laughs.

“All kidding aside, love isn't easy. Don't get discouraged because we've had a few misfires. And don't let my casual attitude fool you. I take my business seriously. And I'm good at what I do.” I thumb toward the wall behind me, which is blanketed with framed pictures of some of the happy couples I've introduced over the last six years. “I've attended countless weddings. Seven of my clients have named their firstborn after me, and the newly married owner of Dutch's Safe Haven Zoo dubbed his last rescue in my honor.”

“Well, you know you've made it when that happens. What was it? Majestic lioness?”

“It really doesn't matter.”

“California condor?”

“You're missing the point.”

“Rarely seen snow leopard?”

“A squirrel, all right?”

“Squirrel?”

“Yes, I know. Nothing that unpredictable can be trusted. Moving on”—I scoot toward the edge of my seat—“I've facilitated relationships between aging lounge singers and triathletes. I've married pilots to prison guards, CEOs to sanitation workers, vegans to paleo dieters. Bree Caxton and Associates is one of San Diego's most prolific matchmaking companies. I've devoted my life to finding love and I have a ninety-eight percent success rate.” I lean closer toward him. “Do you realize, Nixon Voss, you're my two percent?”

“Are you really afraid of squirrels?”

“I wish you'd take this seriously.”

“Is it the soft, bushy tails or the doelike eyes that terrify you?”

“Very funny.” I reach for his date's head shot. “Here is a perky blonde with a Colgate-worthy smile. She's adorable.
You
chose her. So tell me, what killed it?”

“I don't know. She seemed too obvious, a little young.”

“Young? That's what I've said for months. And for months, you've overridden my choices and selected girls—eleven to be exact—that aren't your right match. And for some crazy reason, I've allowed it.” Mrs. Voss's voice plays through my mind.
Mi familia.
“Your mom is right. No more.”

“No more what?”

“This.” I wave his date's picture in the air. “You
think
you want a twenty-something model/actress with big boobs and a tight ass, but you're wrong.”

“How are big boobs and a tight ass ever wrong?”

“Think of it this way. You're a venture capitalist who negotiates with financiers across the world, right?”

“Right.”

“You speak three languages and have a master's degree in business.”

“I do.”

“How can you expect to find a connection with some barely legal play toy? It isn't probable. You don't share the same energy. Girls that age don't care about exchange rates or investment returns. They don't care about variances in sea levels or the shipping economy. They care about bikini waxes, polishing their nails with the color of the season, and mango-flavored vodka. That's who they are. That's who they
should be
.” I point at Nixon. “But that's not you.”

“It's not?”

“It's not. You need a thirty-something, strong, independent,
less obvious
woman who is filled with a driving passion. Someone who challenges you.”

Nixon leans against the chair's backrest and studies me for a few seconds from head to toe. My neck muscles tighten from his scrutiny.

A mischievous corner smile curves his lips. The same smile that I'm certain paved Nixon's way into countless women's panties. Not that it matters to me, but the smile does have its charm.

“So . . .” he says, “I need someone like you?”

“What? No, not like me.” I reach for a pencil, though I've nothing to jot down. “Well, yes, technically, I suppose . . . exactly like me.”
Bree, what have you done? You've given Nixon the wrong impression with your sassy “you're my two percent” garbage. Some expert you are, leading the poor guy on.
I pull the lapels of my blazer closer together, then with the eraser tap the framed picture of Sean and me paddleboarding in Cabo. “Sorry, Nixon, not me. I'm here for you
professionally
.”

“Whoa, I'm totally kidding. Did you think . . . me and you?” He laughs loud enough to grab a glance from Andrew seated across the room.

It isn't that funny.

“You're too old anyway,” he says.

I shoot him a look, without admitting that his comment stings, more so since I filled out a health insurance questionnaire two weeks ago. Thanks to my thirty-first birthday last year, I had to check a lower box. A
lower
box.

At what age will my eggs shrivel up?

“I'm just giving you a hard time,” Nixon says. “You've made yourself clear.” He nods as if about to say something more but stops. For the briefest moment, his jawbone clamps tight and he stares at his feet.

I've struck a nerve.

Two seconds ago I considered kicking Nixon in the shins—
hard
—but now, a wave of loneliness washes over me. Not for me. For
him
. Nixon's a good man. Yes, a tad smug, making a mockery of my livelihood, but all the same, he deserves a loving relationship, someone to hold hands with when shopping for air filters on Saturday afternoons or to snuggle close to watching
Arrested Development
reruns on lazy Sunday mornings. The type of effortless connection I have with Sean.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of the dozen white roses he sent me last week, the day before we met with a financial advisor. As I think about my boyfriend of four years, a sense of calm replaces my unease. I think about how his beach-colored hair reflects the season, dark like wet sand in the winter and light as dry sand in the summer, a result of surfing and impromptu weekend volleyball games. His skin bronzes the color of a mocha latte, and we mark the calendar noting how long his swim trunks tan line lasts. January ninth is the record. My sun-screened Irish-skinned body never makes it past October first.

We hardly argue—aside from him getting upset when I fall asleep during a Tom Cruise movie (try as I might, his acting is like a horse tranquilizer to me), or the few times I didn't laugh at one of Sean's lame lawyer jokes. Honestly, the one about the public defender, the prostitute, and the lamppost isn't that funny. But at the end of the day, there's a treasured comfort level that we share, a priceless familiarity.
History.

In my purse rests the Post-it note Sean stuck on my office door this morning before I arrived at work.

Antonio's. 8:00 p.m.

Leave it to Sean, scrawling a note about our evening. That's so him. Such an adorable little quirk he has, writing everything down on stickies. I swear there isn't a day that goes by where
I don't find something scribbled and stuck somewhere: on his apartment's medicine cabinet, the dash of his Audi, the upper right corner of his latest deposition. I suppress my smile as I remember the one time I found Sean naked in my bed with a smiley face drawn on a Post-it and stuck on the tip of his—

“Bree?” Nixon redirects my attention. “Wasn't it you who chewed me out for not being present?”

“Sorry. Yes, let's continue with your situation. You're paying me to find you love, so it's time to let me call the shots and—”

“You win.” Nixon raises his hands in surrender. “My cousin's wedding is a few weeks away, and my mom will see right through me if I show up with a piece of arm candy. Get my mom off my back so I can focus on work. You pick the woman this time.”

“Finally!” I raise my fists in victory.

“Settle down, crazy lady.” He laughs. “Just find me my lovely.”

I sit upright, pulled like a puppet on a string, caught by the tenderness of his words.
My lovely.
“Why, Nixon Voss. Underneath this smooth-talking, systematic, number-crunching, all-business-all-the-time exterior is a mushy center.”

“There's nothing mushy about me.”

“A soft underbelly.”

“I don't think so.”

“Beneath your thick crust, you're as gooey as a marshmallow.”

He smacks his knees, then stands. “And that, folks, is my cue to go.” But before turning away, Nixon braces his fingers on my desk's edge. For the first time, I notice tiny specs of brown sprinkled in his blue eyes and catch a whiff of his Giorgio Armani cologne. I recognize the woodsy scent because I bought Sean a bottle last Christmas.

He exchanged it.

“So, how long until the release?”

“My book? Six weeks. October eleventh, to be exact.”

“Claiming your spot?” He nods toward the bestseller Web page.

“Oh, no.” I feel my cheeks blush. “I . . . no . . . I don't expect to make
the list
. Heck, I'm thrilled just to get my book published. The
Times
is something my grandmother and I follow. We keep tabs on the big guys.”

“Well, good.” He points at the screen. “Because that list isn't the only threshold of success. Be proud of your accomplishment. I am.”

He is?
“Um . . . thanks, Nixon, that's very sweet.” I reach for my pencil again.

“So, you'll find me the right woman?”

“You know what they say, twelfth time's the charm.”

“Sounds good. See you later.”

“God, that man is highly attractive,” Andrew says, joining me at my desk. “One of those silent but deadly types.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know, the kinda guy that's aloof and guarded just enough to be sexy, but not conceited.” He watches Nixon leave. “You don't see it?”

I follow his gaze, stifling a laugh.
Yeah, I see it.

The paper clip is stuck to Nixon's butt.

That's what he gets for calling me old.

I work through lunch interviewing prospective new clients. The one that looked to “bump uglies with a banging chick” was shown the door. I pay my electric and credit card bills online, order a sugar-pearl KitchenAid mixer off Bed Bath & Beyond's wedding registry for one of my soon-to-be-married couples, then type a quick e-mail reminding a client with a date tonight not to drink too much Pinot Grigio and mount the bronze horse outside P. F. Chang's. Like last time.

“Andrew?” I glance in his direction. “Bring the profiles, will you?”

A moment later, he sinks into the chair, then opens his laptop on my desk's edge.

When I hired Andrew six years ago to help answer phones, I never expected him to stay on this long. Figured I was a stepping-stone to bigger and better things and once my business established itself, he'd pursue his teaching interests or venture into something kid-related, a mentor or guidance role of some sort.

“Teaching little nuggets, that's where my heart belongs,” he's said more than once.

But one month rolled into two, one year into another, and now I can't imagine this office without him. Plus, clients love Andrew—one hairstylist we married to a plumber drops off hair gel and fancy shampoos all the time, while an insurance adjuster we paired with a veterinarian takes him out for ice cream every year on his birthday. Andrew's an integral part of my company, and I'm damn glad to have him.

“What are we looking for?” he asks.

“Who do we have for Nixon?”

“Besides me?” Andrew teases, clearly aware of the Bree Caxton and Associates strict no-dating-the-clients policy.

“What happened to the FedEx guy?”

“Didn't I tell you? When he picked me up the other night, I looked down at his feet and said, ‘Now that's a nice-looking pair of Crocs.'”

“You did?” I say with an arched eyebrow.

“Of course not. Has anyone
ever
said, ‘Now that's a nice-looking pair of Crocs'?”

“Oh, sweetie,” I say between laughs, “I'm sorry.”

“It's okay. I read my horoscope today and it said true love is on the horizon.” Ever since the lucky numbers on Andrew's daily forecast won him a thousand dollars from the California lottery a couple of years ago, he lives and breathes by their predictions.

“That's promising.”

“More promising if it listed his GPS coordinates.”

“Well, how about for now we search for Nixon's potential true love, twenty-eight to thirty-five years old, career type, educated.”

Andrew opens the client database and clicks through a few head shots before a particular woman comes to mind. “Find Sara, the art curator.”

“Nice choice,” he says. “Thirty, college educated, likes to travel. And look, she lives close, in Pacific Beach.”

“What's her coffee preference?”

Andrew scrolls to the answer. “One sugar.”

“Excellent.” Had he said something fussy like a half-caf soy latte with medium foam and a whisper—not a sprinkle, nor a smidgen—of cinnamon, I might have reconsidered Sara as a viable candidate.

Coffee preferences are a lot like ringtones.

“She looks like Sandra Bullock,” Andrew says. “Remind me why she's still single.”

“Married her college sweetheart who developed second thoughts on their second anniversary. She drove her anger and free time into her career at the gallery and has been single ever since. Look at her, she's perfect for Nixon.” I return to my chair. “Let her know he'll be calling. Better yet, see if she's available to stop by my office today. I'd like to meet with her in person, make sure we've cleared the air from last month's fiasco.”

“Cut yourself some slack. The guy's background check came back clean.”

“True, but spending a Saturday night decked out in heels and a classic black shift dress, dodging taunts by drunks, druggies, and derelicts while being fingerprinted and questioned by the cops because your date picked you up in a hot-wired car is less than an ideal evening.”

“Sounds more exciting than holding hands with a Croc-wearing delivery man.” Andrew closes the laptop. “Want me to call Nixon, too?”

“Yes, tell him about Sara. And remind him, no coffee.”

“Got it.” He scribbles a note, then looks at me. “What's so funny?”

“Nothing. Just remembered something I said to Nixon.”
Dinner is the slow seduction.
“Oh, and mention that bar and grill with the fire pits on Prospect.”

“Because they have high tables, right? And people are more attentive when seated at a high table.”

“My little boy is growing up.”

“Told you I'm more than a pretty face. Now remember, we've got three dates scheduled for tonight. I'll follow up with them tomorrow morning. And this month's meet-and-greet is at the Marston House, right?”

“Yep.”

“Am I including Nixon on this list?”

Sara's charming smile comes to mind. “Nah, he'll be off the market soon.”

An hour later, I'm buried in another client's file when Andrew places a manila envelope on my desk. “This just came for you.”

“Thanks.” I tear open the package and dump out a thick stack of papers filled with “tiny, fancy words,” as Jo's sweet, albeit frantic voice had said.

“What are those?”

“Forms for Sean and me to sign. We met with a financial advisor last week and decided to pool our savings accounts to obtain stronger financial holdings, solid margins, and more advantageous yields.”

“Sorry, I fell asleep while you were talking. What did you say?”

“Ha. Ha.” I skim through the paperwork, noting the spots for our signatures. Okay, a blue chip mutual fund might not be the sexiest thing in the world, but it's what I love about Sean, his sturdy footing. Just like with the flowers. In all our years together, he's sent no other color but white. Some people crave surprises in a relationship, the mystery of the unknown. Not me. I cherish Sean's consistency. His dependability. His control.

I return the documents into the envelope and type Sean a
quick text, hoping to catch him before court. He's arguing a lucrative case against a real estate developer facing tax evasion charges. He's worked on the case for months and every night this past week. Poor guy, he's so stressed and busy I've hardly seen him since we met with the advisor.

Got the docs. Joint account . . . we're such grown-ups. :)

I'm about to call Jo and check on her when my office door flings open and Randi, my publicist, blows into the room with the force of a jet turbine. She marches toward me in ankle-strapped stilettos and a cheetah print dress stretched taut across her ample chest and hips. A black leather purse, which appears the same diameter as the front tire of her Lexus IS C, is slung over her shoulder and a cell phone is pressed against her ear. She settles into my guest chair, rolls her eyes, and says to the caller, “When I schedule a goddamn lunch appointment, you show up on time. You are
not
the Queen of Sheba. And I wouldn't wait twenty minutes for her fat ass any more than I'll wait for yours. Uh-huh. Okay, fine. Love you, too, Mom.”

Mom?
I bet Randi's ringtone is an air horn.

I peek at my day calendar but find nothing written about an appointment with Randi. “Sorry, I don't recall a meeting today.”

“Oh, honey, we don't have one. But have I got news. Have. I. Got. News. First, I crunched some numbers on your projected sales.”

“Did you?” My fingertips drain to white as I brace my hands on the edge of my desk for support.
Stay calm, Bree. This is the moment you've waited for. You've written a good book. A helpful book. Randi wouldn't come in person if the expectations were bad. Right?
I try to hide the rising pitch in my voice but end up squeaking like a pubescent boy. “And, so the numbers . . . ?”

“Yes, the early response is promising.”

“Really?” I relax my pose and my heart starts beating again. “That's great news.”

“If you're happy with mediocrity.”

“Well, no, I—”

“Promising numbers aren't enough. We want mind-blowing numbers. And that means we have a shitload of work to do.”

“In that case, I'll pull on my boots.”

She doesn't laugh.

C'mon . . . that's funny.

“Now, remember, when you hired me, you hired the best. In the nineteen years I've been in this business, only a handful of my clients haven't reached the list.”

“What list? Wait . . . you mean . . . the
bestseller list
?”

“No, my grocery list. Of course, the bestseller list. Isn't this why you hired me?”

“I hired you for recognition, sure, but I never . . . I never thought I'd have a shot.”

“Every book has a shot.” She taps her glossy red acrylic nail on my desk. “You're familiar with the escalator clause in your contract, aren't you? A twenty-five-thousand-dollar bonus if you reach the bestseller ranking.”

“Yes, but honestly, I glossed over that section, never thinking I . . . I . . . really?”
Stop trembling, Bree.

“Honey, I made a bestseller out of a French Provincial cabinetry poem book. So, if you follow my advice, I mean follow everything that I suggest to the letter, then, Bree Caxton,
Can I See You Again?
may very well land on the top twenty.”

“Oh my God.”
This is wild.
I picture Jo clutching my book against her chest with one arm and hugging me tight with the other. Andrew and me dancing like idiots, waving my book in the air. A line of eager readers waiting for my autograph.
Slow down, Bree. You're getting ahead of yourself. Way ahead
of yourself.
Then all the variables and could-go-wrongs zip back and forth through my mind like a
Fast and Furious
movie car chase. Worry spreads through my veins like a virus. “You're not pulling me along, right? Please don't say I'll make the list if it isn't true.”

“I
never
joke about money. The book's quite good, you know.”

“You read it? I didn't think you'd—”

“My assistant said it didn't suck. Remember now, I stand to gain from your success. So, no, I'm not stroking you.”

“Tell me what to do.”

“That's my girl.” She winks. “This brings me to part two. Guess who landed you a five-week installment profile in the
National Tribune
?”

“Seriously?” Oh, for Pete's sake, I can't hide it. Now I'm
really
trembling. “No, way? That's a national newspaper.”

“The newspaper's equivalent to
People
magazine with damn near the same reach. You'll be featured in the
Close-Up
section of Sunday's edition as well as, and maybe most importantly in today's digital media age, the online version, which has an enormous following and receives something ridiculous like thirty-five million hits a month.” She crosses her legs and straightens her hem. “You can thank me now.”

“Thank you, thank you.”
This is incredible.
I resist the urge to climb on top of my desk and pound my chest. “How'd you do this? That newspaper saves those weekend profiles for celebrities, famous chefs, people like that. I'm a newbie, a nobody. How'd you secure this?”

“Gave the editor a blow job.”

Oh, dear Lord.

She laughs. “I'm kidding.”

I fear she's not, but I shake the thought—
and image
—from my head and focus on the opportunity at hand. “Wow, Randi. This is fantastic.”

“Listen up. Lucy Hanover of KMRQ, you know, the radio host?”

“Of course. She's the Oprah of morning talk shows.”

“KMRQ is an affiliate of the
Tribune
and Lucy reads the paper religiously. The
Close-Up
section is her favorite. She can make or break a new author by mere mention of their name on her show. She falls in love with you during this segment and you're golden.”

I stand and pace behind my chair, rubbing my forearm with my opposite hand. “Randi, this is unbelievable, but I must admit, five weeks? What's the story? What do I talk about?”
Aside from the fact that I can recite the Budweiser beer slogan, I'm not that exciting. Oh, wait . . . I do know a couple of card tricks.

“You and your life. They want to know the ins and outs of Bree Caxton and Associates. What makes this business tick. What makes you tick. How you find love so well for the desolate.”

“I wouldn't call them
desolate
.”

“I don't give a rat's ass what you call them.” She pulls out a contract from her bag and flips to the signature page.

I quickly skim through the document and sign.

“You need to be on point for the next five weeks,” she says. “Be at my beck and call.”

“I can do that.”

“This article, along with a blog that my office will initiate and manage, Lucy's influence, and a few appearances that I'll arrange will get you noticed by those who matter.”

This is amazing. I've worked so hard.
So hard. Wait until I tell Jo.

“Okay, gotta go.” Randi gathers the contract. “I've made myself clear, right? For the next five weeks, I'm your center of influence.”

“Absolutely.”

“All right, then. Go out tonight and celebrate because for the next five weeks, you'll be a busy girl.”

“Will do. I already have plans, actually. I'm meeting my boyfriend for dinner.”

“Make sure your workspace is in order.”

“Sorry?”

She forms a triangle with her thumb and index fingers, dancing it over her lap. “Your workspace. Your playground. Your—”

“Um, yes, got it, thanks.” I flinch at such intimate references. What am I saying? I flinch at all of Randi's references.