Can I See You Again? (21 page)

I'm nervous.

Which is silly.

I've given lots of presentations. So what if there are a few
hundred
more attendees than usual? So what if Lucy Hanover sits at the table nearest the front with my future resting in her hands? I'm good at this. I've done this job long enough to have an answer for any question, a solution for any scenario. Plus, Gwen and the gang are cheering me on from a table in the rear.

Not to mention, as I walk toward the podium dressed in a navy long-sleeved shirtdress cinched at the waist, black leggings, and black knee-high boots, I know that even if my presentation sucks, no one can knock me for my snazzy outfit.

Still, my stomach tangles into knots, recalling Randi's not-so-supportive words of advice prior to my stepping on stage.

“Don't fuck up.”

I try to quell my jitters while the crowd takes their seats. I'm pleased to hear loud and lively conversation. People sound to be in great moods. One lady holds up a Vuitton bag while
the rest of her table admires it. The women—plus the guy likely dragged here by the gal beside him—are all chatting and laughing, having a good time.

Except Lucy.

Talking to no one, she's angled her crossed legs away from the crowded table and scrolls through her phone.

It's not the stay-the-hell-away-from-me persona she throws off that worries me. It's her jiggling foot, pointed toward the nearby exit, wiggling faster than a hummingbird flaps its wings, that's got me flustered.

I haven't said a word and Lucy Hanover already wants out of here.

For Jo, for the book, for the house.

Sweat drips between my cleavage, soaking into my bra.

Can someone turn up the air?

My phone, resting on the lectern, chimes with a message from Nixon. His face pops into my mind and even though he made clear the pretense of our relationship, I find myself wishing he were here, standing close in a charcoal suit with hands slid inside his pockets, firm jaw, and confidence-boosting stare. I read his text.
I have your sweatshirt. Don't see you at library. I'll drop at the office.

I chew on my lip before replying.
At library, different room. HUGE turnout for Q&A.
I press send. I wait a couple of seconds, then fire a second text.
Nervous.

Room full of squirrels?

My nerves settle as I smile, glad to know he's no longer upset.
Vicious beast.

A moon to remember.

I laugh out loud, then quickly cover my mouth with my hand.

He shoots me a final text.
Just be yourself. That's who people came to see.

I stare at his words as a text from Andrew redirects my focus.

What's so funny?

I glance at him across the room and shake my head, implying it's nothing. But it
is
something. Thanks to Nixon, I'm empowered. Knowing he's in my corner, I'm pumped and poised. Ready to impress the hell out of Lucy.

No doubt Sean would be equally supportive. He's championed me for years. After all, it was Sean who encouraged me to channel my expertise and write a book in the first place.

It's just that Nixon and I were mere acquaintances a few weeks ago and now, make-believe aside, I'd like to think we're friends, good friends. He's stuck his neck out for me lately and I know once these interviews are said and done, we'll go about our separate lives, my focus shifting to my future with Sean. But, if I'm honest, I might just miss Nixon's snarky attitude. His rattle-my-cage approach. And, as long as no one can read my thoughts, I'll admit that I might just miss him.

Anyway, enough of that.

I grab hold of the lectern. Time to get this show on the road.

Just be yourself. That's who people came to see.

“Hello, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Bree Caxton and I'd like to thank you for coming to the Fall in Love with Bree Caxton Q&A. I'm very excited to be here.”

The crowd claps.

What a gorgeous roomful of strangers.

“Now, typically for these meetings, I pose a different topic and open the room to questions. I like to keep things fun and
informal, like a chat among friends. If you've got something to ask or say, by all means, say it. With that said, let's get rolling. Tonight, I'd like to start things off and find out what you all think is the most important aspect to keeping a relationship alive.”

“American Express Black card,” a woman shouts.

The group laughs.

“Yes, well, that certainly doesn't hurt, does it?” I say. “Anything else?”

“Candlelit dinners,” a woman says from way in the back.

“Kisses by the fireplace,” adds a lady with bright pink lipstick.

“Skinny-dipping,” a fourth woman says, and the group laughs again.

I hold up my index finger and wait for them to quiet down before saying, “So, given what you've said, is it fair to say the thing that keeps a relationship alive is romance?”

The crowd nods in unison.

“All right, good. And I agree. Wine, long glances, and soft music is never a bad way to spend an evening. Who doesn't love a quiet dinner for two?” I free the microphone from its sleeve and move toward the stage edge. “In fact, some say dinner is the slow seduction.” I giggle to myself, knowing Nixon would likely roll his eyes. “But tonight, I'll explain why romance is total crap.”

They gasp.

I take a moment and survey the room. The group is curious. They sit with elbows propped on the tables, resting their chins on fisted hands. Some lean an ear toward me while others hover a stylus over a glowing iPad.

They're hooked.

I have notecards on this topic stuffed in my purse. But I
don't need them. Now that I'm calm, the material flows effortlessly.

“Yes, that's right. Romance is irrelevant. Now, we can thank magazines and movies and Pinterest for convincing society otherwise. They practically cram down our throats that candlelight and wine, picnics and flowers, lingerie and diamonds are the cornerstones of a loving relationship. As if the number of chocolate-covered strawberries one is fed by a lover equates to happiness. But that's all a bunch of garbage.”

Another collective “huh?” steeps through the room.

Lucy's foot stills.

Yes!

“Sure, we women appreciate the lovey-dovey stuff and so do men. But not for reasons you imagine. Lavender-drawn baths or rose petals shaped into hearts on the bed, or lack thereof, doesn't make or break a relationship. Romance means nothing if
one
key element is missing. Romance is a nice touch, pardon the pun, but only if it's complementing the most important component of a relationship. And, no, that component is not sex.”

I let the anticipation build before saying, “The key component to a successful relationship, platonic or sexual, is
validation
.” I pause for another moment, letting the word sink in. Murmurs and looks of doubt spread through the room. “I'm serious. Validation. Every single one of us, young, old, male or female, needs reassurance. We crave approval. We hunger to feel valued.”

Deep down, isn't this what I want from Jo? To know that even though I made a terribly painful mistake, my life still has meaning?

“And what better relationship to satisfy this need than with the person with whom we're most vulnerable? Romance is arguably one form of displaying this core desire because we
feel
valued if the person we love shows us affection and
attention. But a drawn bubble bath isn't the crowning glory of a relationship.

“Take, for example, the busy stay-at-home mom. Toddlers crawl up her leg all day, macaroni and cheese is stuffed in the DVD player, and Play-Doh is matted in her hair. If her husband hops up to change a diaper or pops dinner in the oven without being asked, even if it's a frozen pizza, she'll take notice. There's nothing inherently sexy about a man loading the dishwasher, but I guarantee you, the tired mama feels worthy because of it. She feels validated. And more than likely a gleam will sparkle like a firework in her eye. Make sense?”

The crowd nods.

“Good. So let's talk about the many ways to show validation in a relationship. We—”

A woman in an eyelet sundress raises her hand.

My first question. This is exciting. “Yes?”

“Can we meet Nick?”

“Sorry?”

“Is he here?”

“We all want to meet him,” says a woman.

I glance at the guy.

He shrugs. “Sure.”

“He sounds amazing and I'm dying to see his picture,” the first woman says. “Got one?”

“Um, no . . . I . . . um . . . let's focus on the topic at hand, shall we?”

“It's just, we've all read your articles the last couple weeks. We're following your blog and planning to buy your book.”

The crowd nods again.

“Thank you.”

“Don't you see? We will have invested a lot of time in you.”

“Yes, well, hopefully you've picked up a nugget of knowledge along the way.”

“C'mon, share some of the nitty-gritty. Give us some firsthand experience. None of this blah-blah-blah stuff.”

Blah-blah-blah?

“Give us an example of the perfect date with Nick.”

“Yes, please.”

“You don't want to know about us.” Especially because there is no
us
.

A collective set of intense eyes are fixed upon me as if I'm about to reveal Apple's latest technology breakthrough.

“Tell us.” A woman shouts from the back of the room.
Randi?

“Well . . . um . . . okay, I guess we'd start off the day early, doing something active, like a long run or hike. Then grab lunch near the beach, somewhere with burgers and good beer. The late afternoon might include a few honey-do chores together, maybe a nap in the sun, searching for beach glass by the shore, or a movie, or an early dinner. But it all includes laughing. The whole day. You see, Nixon and I—”

“Who's Nixon?” asks a young woman with long blond hair.

Oh, shit.
“Um . . . I said Nick. Most definitely Nick.”

“Well, whoever Nixon is, he sounds like a good time. Is he single?”

The group laughs, even Lucy.

“Bree's right,” says a thirty-something with a light gray cardigan. “This one guy I dated wasn't much to look at, but we laughed all the time. And so kind to me. One time I came down with the flu and he brought me an armload of movies and did my laundry.” She shakes her head. “He was my best relationship ever. I don't know why I let that guy get away. I'm gonna call him.”

“You should. And once you establish that mutual validation, enjoy the romance that follows.”

Twenty minutes later, after loads of questions and laughs, Randi pats her watch, signaling me it's time to wrap it up. “Well, that's gonna do it for today. Thanks for joining me. Hope to see you all next time.” I step off the stage to a standing ovation.

The crowd funnels out the doors and I overhear them saying things like “Totally fun” and “Lots of good information.” One girl even said to her friend, “I really liked Bree's outfit.”

“You crushed it.” Andrew meets me at the base of the stairs.

Randi joins us a second later. “Hell of a job.”

“Thank you. I hope I didn't sound too unsettled at first. Once I found my groove, I rolled with it.”

Lucy Hanover steps close. “I enjoyed the presentation, Bree.”

“Thank you. I'm glad.”

“You captivated the audience. That's hard to do. I've been enjoying your book. Randi says it's coming out soon?”

“Yes, in a few weeks.”

“I'd like to have you on my show. You free next Friday?”

“She's free,” Randi answers.

“Great. Give me a call. We'll discuss particulars. Looking forward,” Lucy says, waving good-bye.

Once out of earshot, Randi spins toward me and smacks my arm. “That's what I'm talking about.”

I glance at the doors, still crowded with a long stream of
my fans
.

“Bree, Bree.” Gwen waves, salmoning herself toward me through the mass. She clutches both of my hands. “That was a great presentation. Can you believe this turnout?”

“I know. Our little weekly group is little no more.”

“No kidding. Even that cute man popped in.”

“What cute man?”

“You know, the handsome guy you chatted with outside our conference room the other day, remember? The one with the little boy.”

Nixon.
“He's here? Where?”

She looks toward the back of the room. “Ah . . . I don't see him anymore. He must've just left. Anyway, great job. See you next week.”

“C'mon, baby,” Sean says, having just returned from Denver. He nibbles on my neck. “No one is here.”

He's right. The office is empty. Jo's come and gone after sharing a tuna sandwich and chocolate-chunk cookie with me for lunch. UPS already made today's deliveries. Andrew left for a doctor's appointment. Or so he says. But he isn't sick, no raspy cough or unsightly rash. And who brushes their teeth and changes into a pressed oxford before a checkup, anyway? He left for an interview. I'm sure of it.

But the thing I still don't understand is why he hasn't come clean. Why won't he talk to me? And the little bugger slipped out before I had the chance to corner him and demand answers.

Sean murmurs in my ear.

“Sean, honey, wait. I don't want our first time back together to be on the edge of my desk.”

“You didn't mind before.” He slides his hand up my shirt and fingers underneath my bra strap.

“Let's wait for tomorrow night at La Valencia.”

“You're killing me. Do you know that? I might be dead by tomorrow night.”

“I'm sure you'll make it.” I Eskimo-kiss his nose with my own.

“At least put this on. Give me
this
pleasure.” He slides my engagement ring onto my finger. “I hate that you haven't shown it off to the world. I can't wait for this interview thing to be over.”

“I know. Just a little while longer.”

“Well, tomorrow night, you're all mine. I've reserved the best suite and instructed the staff not to disturb us our entire stay.”

“It sounds perfect.”

“And you don't have to bring a thing. I plan to keep you naked the whole time.” He kisses my palm, then angles my hand, allowing the diamonds to catch the sunlight. “What the . . . ?” Sean slips the ring off my finger.

“What's wrong?”

“Is that residue or a scratch?” He squints, examining the stone. “Do you still have some cleaner underneath the sink?”

“I think so.”

“I'll be right back.”

“Okay.” I busy myself filing a few paid invoices when Sara walks in.

“Hey, Bree.”

Oh, Christ. What is she doing here?

“Sara? Hello. I'm surprised to see you,” I say loud enough that I hope Sean will hear.

“I came to chat for a moment. May I sit down?”

Please, don't.
“Sure, of course.” I move close to the window so she'll face me, her back toward the break room.

She rests her sleek black purse in her lap and exhales.

“Everything okay?”

“Well, yes and no. I thought you should know, Nixon and I aren't seeing each other anymore.”

“No?” I glance in Sean's direction again. “What happened? I thought you really liked Nixon.”

“I did. I do.” A wide grin illuminates her face. “But I called him and told him it wasn't working out. You see, something else happened. Something I didn't expect. Something extraordinary.”

“Really? What is it? I'm all ears.”

“Well, you're not going to believe this, but I fell in love with someone else.”

“You did? That's wonderful. Who?”

“Sean.”

I stare in at her in shock, as if she said her art gallery is now a strip club. “You
what
?”

“I know, I know.” She waves her hand in the air. “I sound like one of those ditzy reality show girls.”

Calm down, Bree. Breathe in. Breathe out.

“Quick, isn't it?” she says.

“Very quick,” I say with total disbelief. “You don't really mean,
love
? Or
Sean
, right?”

“I can hardly believe it myself. But I'm tingly all over, can't eat a thing.”

“Maybe it's the flu.”

“I daydream about him for hours on end. I've no concentration at work, haven't gotten a darn project done all week.”

“Maybe you're anemic.”

She shakes her head and says with a playful voice, “I'm so distracted I mismarked an abstract oil painting, labeling it as a charcoal drawing. Don't I sound crazy?”

More like insane.
I don't know what to say except . . .
what the hell?

“And I have you to thank. If you hadn't introduced me to Nixon and given me the confidence that someone as charming and handsome as him could be interested in me, then I likely wouldn't have given Sean a second glance. I always thought
men like Nixon and Sean were out of my league. I can't thank you enough.”

Yeah, I'm a big hero. With an even bigger problem on my hands.

“Sara, let's not rule Nixon out completely. I mean, he's such a great guy. Don't you agree?”

“Yes, he—”

“And, he's got that cute little knot in his throat that wiggles when he laughs. Have you seen it?”

“Yes, but—”

“Everyone says he's the silent-but-deadly type. You know, guarded just enough to be sexy but not conceited. Come to think of it, you mentioned that yourself.”

“Sure, all of that's true. And, Nixon and I had a great first date, but since then, we met only a couple times. And only to get coffee.”

Coffee, eh?

“Nixon's wonderful,” she says, “but I haven't felt this way about a man in a very long time. Sean's smart and funny and sexy as hell.”

And my fiancé.

She leans close. “We haven't done anything
intimate
yet, but I'm ready. I bought all new underwear.”

I rub my face with my hands.
How did this happen?
“Okay, Sara, let's talk about this. Remember what I said about taking things slow.”

“I don't want to take things slow. I'm a thirty-year-old divorcee. Time is
not
on my side.

“I don't want to see you disappointed.”

“You're sweet to worry, but there's no need. Something tells me he feels the same.”

He does?
I gaze in Sean's direction.

“That's all I came to say.” She slides her purse strap onto her shoulder. “Wish me luck with Sean.”

Sean steps our way, pinching the ring between his thumb and index finger and holding it high in the air. “Got it. Cleaned off a smudge of something. Look at it shine now.”

“Sean?” Sara stands. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, hi, Sara.”

She opens her arms to greet him, jutting out her chin, hoping for a kiss.

Sean stiffens and moves toward Sara's cheek, giving her a quick peck.

Gag.

“I'm surprised to see you here.” Her eyes dart between Sean and me. “I didn't realize you two were so chummy.”

“Us?” I back away from Sean. “No, we aren't chummy. Not at all. Not in the least.”

“Are you okay, Bree? Your neck is really red.”

Where is my cream? Where?

“So, Sean, why are you here?”

“I . . . uh . . . well, I've just come by—”

“Sean?” Her eyes widen and her mouth drops open like a nine-year-old watching a magician saw his assistant in half. “Is that an engagement ring?”