Can I See You Again? (30 page)

Driving toward Jo's house a few days later, I'm still sick about the whole situation. How did the auction slip through my fingers? How did I miss it? The paperwork mentioned the date. Did it list a time, too? How did I not see the time?
Oh, God. I've screwed up. Again.

“What are you doing?” Several half-filled boxes litter Jo's living room floor as I let myself in. Obviously, I know what she's doing. She's packing, and she agreed to move in with me until we can find her a new place. And, obviously, I know why she's doing it, but to witness her life wrapped up in yesterday's newspapers is almost as painful as the disappointed look across her face.

I can't take it.

I don't wait for an answer.

I march out the door and return to the assessor's office determined to gather more information about RNC Investments. Determined to find out who bought Jo's house.

No luck.

Defeated, I sit in my car in the parking lot with my head pressed against the steering wheel. I don't understand. What could RNC Investments possibly want with a forty-year-old house? Yes, the neighborhood is nice, but there are zoning restrictions in the area. It's not like someone can come in here and flip the house, make a killer profit. I've scoured the internet for RNC Investments to no avail. It's as if they don't
exist. I think of Sean.
Can he help?
But, no. I will not call him. I'll figure this out on my own.

A screech of tires in the nearby intersection catches my attention. It's then, across the street, I notice the Corporation Commission building. And I remember filing with them when Bree Caxton and Associates incorporated. The information there is public record. Maybe RNC Investments is a corporation. Worth a shot.

I hurry into the office, wait what feels like three days before my number is called, then nearly fall off my chair when the clerk reveals the name of the president of RNC Investments.

Randi Noreen Chapman.

My publicist.

“You bought it?” I step outside and call her straightaway.

“Jesus, woman, I was wondering how much longer it'd take you to figure it out. I was about to leave a trail of cookie crumbs from her house to mine.”

“I don't understand.”

“What's there to understand? It's a well-built house in a great neighborhood.”

“Yes, but it's my grandmother's well-built house in a great neighborhood.”

“I know.”

“Randi—”

“Listen, missy, stop right there. I have a grandmother, too. She's tiny and ornery, has cotton-candy-thin hair, but is tough as nails. She raised me. I owe everything I am, and everything I'm not, to this woman. Grandmothers are special.”

“What are you saying?” I ask, with a tentative voice.

“Bring me a check, I'll quit-claim the deed.”

“Are you serious, Randi?”

“I already told you. I never joke about money. I didn't buy
the house for me. I bought
time
for you. What the hell am I going to do with a well-built house in a great neighborhood?”

At the mention of reclaiming the house I feel ten pounds lighter. I bounce around the sidewalk as if springs are fixed to the bottom of my shoes. “Thank you, thank you. Dare I say it, Randi, you have a soft center.” Just like Nixon.

“Don't you tell a soul. It'll ruin my reputation.”

I laugh. “When can we meet?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Oh, God, thank you. Text me the exact amount, I'll bring a cashier's check.” We're about to hang up and I ask, “Randi, before you go, how'd you know about Jo's house anyway?”

“Andrew may be adorable, but he's a terrible secret keeper.”

“That he is.”

Minutes later I rush into Jo's house, sweep my arms across the room and say, “Stop the packing. Right now. All of it.”

“What? Why?”

I pull several picture frames out of a half-filled box, return them to the bookcase, and scoop Martin up. “Because this house still belongs to you.”

Andrew's right. It's three weeks later and the media frenzy has settled down to nil. The
National Tribune
moved on to bigger and better stories. Like Lindsay Lohan's crotch, no one cares about it anymore.

I'm not complaining. I wasn't a fan of the media attention, anyway. Though my book sales benefited from the circus—I've held strong at number thirteen on the list—it's nice to get back to my quiet, mundane reality.

The office has maintained a nice bump, too. Andrew signed fourteen new clients last week alone, including Candace's sister. She has a date with Lawrence Chambers on Friday. Seems as though people respected my initial intentions and don't fault me for my subsequent actions. A nice pat on the back from humanity. One client went as far as to say he admired my quick thinking with regard to Nixon posing as my boyfriend. The man offered his services—along with an eight-by-ten glossy of himself flexing in a Speedo with his pet macaw on his shoulder.

When God closes a door . . .

Jo's nearly healed and feels much better.
We're
nearly healed and much, much better. Just this morning, I earned the coveted spot on Jo's half-moon cabinet.

To top it off, Martin hasn't tried to bite me in nearly a month.

All in all, my life is good.

You'd think I'd be happy.

And I am.

Except for the fact that I lie alone.

Missing Nixon.

I took a chance and left him a message a couple of weeks ago. He never called back. So that's that. Like it or not, the time spent I with Nixon
was
all for show.

Determined not to pout any longer, I hop out of bed and take advantage of this beautiful Sunday morning. No wind. Warm sun.

I slide into a light sweatshirt, capri leggings, and running shoes. When's the last time I went for a run?
Don't answer that, Bree. It'll only make you feel worse.

Plus, running clears my head. It allows me to think about things without distraction. And with the onslaught of new clients Bree Caxton and Associates has received, I've got lots of planning to do.

After a quick stretch, I jog down my street, turn left, and within a few minutes reach the water. The boardwalk is quiet this time of day, no more than a few fellow runners and bicyclists. Coffee shop and restaurant owners hose down tables and outdoor seating areas in preparation for the breakfast rush. I follow along the cracked sidewalk listening to the squawking seagulls. My feet bound against the concrete. I welcome the blood coursing throughout my legs.

Thirty minutes pass and I'm pleased—and surprised—with
my endurance, glad to see that the discipline from my half marathon training hasn't worn off. And good news, I may have an unsettled longing in my heart but at least I won't have a saggy ass to go with it. I keep running with no particular course.

Another half hour later, mentally refreshed and physically spent, I opt for a latte, then walk down the stairs toward the beach. I slip out of my shoes, sink my feet into the cool sand buried underneath the warm surface layer, and, with no destination in mind, meander along the beach. I squat in a spot between a lifeguard tower and the pier, watching the waves crash onto the shore. There's no better way to start a day than with sweat-pinked cheeks, a cool breeze along my neck, and sun on my shins.

Thirty feet away, toward the pier, a dozen or so surfers catch my attention as they wedge their boards in the sand. I smile at them, uncertain if their hair is bed head, hungover, or the “surfer” look. They slip into wet suits, some full, some cut to the knees, then carry their boards to the ocean, paddling out past the breaking waves.

Surfing. Maybe I should try it someday.

A surfer catches a wave, then is thrown off into the rough sea. His board shoots ten feet in the air and misses smacking his head by a few inches.

Or not.

With my pinkie finger I once again carve a heart in the sand, noting the irony. I spend my weekdays orchestrating love and my weekends feeling sorry for myself that I've lost it. Good thing none of my clients have mentioned that little nugget of truth. Not something to advertise on a brochure. Although, come to think of it, maybe that should be the title of my follow-up book?
No, You Can't See Me Again Because I'm a Lying Fool.

The laughs and cheers from the gaggle of surfers grabs my attention. One of the guys in a full wet suit catches a long wave, carving in and out above the breaking water. He's still going; he nears the pier.

His friends cheer louder.

What about the pier?
I stand, scanning the beach and boardwalk. No one is alarmed but me. “He's gonna crash into the pier,” I shout.

But the moment the words leave my lips, the guy, with incredible precision and skill, effortlessly slaloms his board in between the columns. The wave shrinks to a ripple on the other side. The surfer kneels on his board and raises his fist in victory.

His friends erupt with whoops and hurrahs.

I find myself clapping and bouncing up and down. “Amazing,” I yell. And it truly is. He maneuvered himself through the wood poles and—

It's only then I notice yellow caution tape wrapped around a light post on the pier. A light post missing a bulb.

Nixon. He took a picture of this pier. Hung it in his living room.

I spin around and glance toward the street. Above two condos, I recognize Nixon's front porch.

Oh, God. I didn't know I'd run this close.
He's so close.

And it's Sunday. Is he watching the surfers? Did he see that guy? Does he see me?

The heart dug into the sand gives me an idea. A beautiful idea.

Just like Nixon said, aside from the surfers, the beach is clear this time of day. The high tide washed away footprints, chair imprints, and castles, leaving the sand smooth.

A perfect landscape.

With the help of a foot-long piece of driftwood, I line up just
so and etch my plan into action. My biceps and shoulders ache from my efforts.
Jesus . . . I should've written something shorter.
Sweat drips down my back. My heart swells.

“What are you doing?” a dripping surfer says once I've finished.

“Careful where you step.”

He hops over my carved words and reads aloud. “‘Can I See You Again?' Me?” the surfer says. “Yeah, all right.”

“No, not you. Him.” I point toward Nixon's house, brushing the sand off my knees and shins.

The guy shrugs. “Later.”

My message to sweet, charming, aloof-just-enough-to-be-sexy-but-not-conceited Nixon spreads thirty feet long and at least fifteen feet tall. Yes, it's a mite crooked and the second
N
looks like an
H
, but surely he'll get the gist. Though I don't spot him on the porch, his shutters are open. Surely he can read this from his house. Didn't he say he always watches the surfers? Didn't he say he
cared
?

But an hour later, moms, toddlers, football-throwing dads and sons, and a group of giggly teenagers have settled their beach day close to my plea.

“What does that say?” asks an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old girl with an itty-bitty yellow bikini tied around her flat-stomached and olive-skinned body. It should be illegal for someone so adorable to stand next to me. “Is it like a love note or something?”

“Something like that.”

“Cool.”

I glance for the two hundredth time at Nixon's porch, sweep my eyes along the boardwalk, peek at the stairs, and glimpse along the shoreline.

Still no sign of Nixon.

And when a rogue wave—much like the ones Nixon described
when he surfed—pounds onto the shore, seeps up the sand, and washes away part of my message, I gather my things.

Before I leave, two toddler boys smash their Tonka trucks through the heart I originally dug, etching a new track, destroying the shape.

Seems fitting.

“What's that?” I ask Andrew, pointing at his computer.

“Huh?” He closes a file labeled
RÉSUMÉ
and yanks out the flash drive. “It's nothing. I'm gonna go. Take care of you.”

He's gone before I can say, “What the hell?”

But, what the hell?

I've had just about enough. Along with his hushed conversations, Andrew's been late several times the last few weeks, forgot to finalize two clients' portfolios yesterday, and just this morning changed his phone's password.
It's not really snooping if he leaves it on his desk while stepping to the restroom, is it?
Well, anyway, how the heck am I supposed to see what's going on now?

I overheard him mention drinks at The Grill tonight, so like any good employer does, I'm going to spy on him. I'm going to find out who he's leaving Bree Caxton and Associates for.

I'm still brokenhearted that he hasn't confided in me. Hasn't come clean and alerted me of his plans, allowed me time to prepare for his replacement. Time to cry. Well, if he doesn't
have the decency to own up to his intentions, maybe I won't have the decency to write him a glowing recommendation letter.

Who am I kidding? Other than the fact that Andrew dips his French fries in mayonnaise, I can't think of a bad word to say about the guy.

Andrew sits with his back to me at a high table in the corner. He's with someone else, but thanks to the dim lighting and reflection off the glass tabletops, other than it's a man, I can't make out who it is. What I can see, however, is that Andrew changed his clothes after work. He's now dressed in pressed khakis and a black blazer. His companion is equally decked out in interview-like attire: ivory shirt, dark tie, and slacks. The two are reviewing papers Andrew pulled from a manila folder.

Résumé?

Andrew swigs his beer, and then his shoulders give way to a laugh. For a moment, I'm offended. Who is he laughing with? Who's more funny than me?

I creep closer, ready to catch him in the act.
Who is this joker trying to steal my Andrew?
If it's another matchmaker, I'll kill him.

But I'm shocked when Andrew climbs off his bar stool to reach for a fallen piece of paper and the man's face comes fully into view.

Scotty.

“Bree?” Scotty says with alarm.

“Scotty?” I say out loud, just as shocked the second time.

Andrew spins around. “Bree? What are you doing here?”

“Me? What are
you
doing here?” I catch him glancing at the entry door. “Ah, so that's it? Scotty is your go-between. Candace is on her way here, right? You're leaving me for a job at the newspaper.”

“Can we talk about this later?”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“Please, Bree. I—”

“Hello, Bree.” Andrew's father, a salt-and-pepper-haired man with a lumberjack's build, walks toward us. “It's been a long time.”

“Yes, hello. How are you?”

“Just fine. You?”

“I'm good, thanks. I'm . . .” Out of the corner of my eye I notice Andrew adjusting Scotty's tie.

“From what I hear,” Andrew's father says, “Andrew's . . . um . . .
friend
 . . . has a real talent for tile work. I'm looking for a new flooring man.”

His friend?

“Excuse me, but I need a quick second with Andrew.”

“Sure, I'm gonna grab a beer anyway.”

“Scotty?” I pull Andrew toward me by his elbow. “He's your
friend
? He's the person you've been sneaking around with, whispering into your phone, smiling like a two-year-old at Disneyland.”

“I didn't want to tell you.”

“Why not?”

“The interview, conflict of interest, I don't know.”

“Does Candace know?”

“Yeah,” Scotty says.

“What?” I smack Andrew's shoulder. “Candace knows but not me? Randi?”

He nods.

“Jo?”

“Yep.”

Okay, now I'm mad. But, then I see the terror across his face. He's like a week-old puppy. How can I stay mad at that? “Does this mean you're not job hunting? Or are you and Scotty both?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The newspaper. The circled help-wanted ads. The résumé.”

“All for Scotty, he's the only one looking for a different job. Since he's got a background in tile and flooring, I called my dad. We talked, sorted out a lot of baggage, and he agreed to meet with us.”

“Wow, Andrew, your father? Meeting Scotty? And maybe hiring him?”

“I know. This is huge. We've come a long way the past few weeks.”

“I'd say.”

“Don't tell Candace, okay? That's why I kept it from you, as well. Scotty wants to secure a job before putting in his notice.”

“Tiny white lie?” I tease.

“Something like that.”

I sneak a peek at Andrew's father chatting with Scotty, even smiling.

“You happy with him?” I say to Andrew.

“I am.” He glances over his shoulder at the two men before whispering back, “Thinking of introducing him to Jo.”

“She'd like that.” I pull him close and hug him.

“I better get back to them.”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

Just like I thought, my little boy is growing up.

Three days later, I'm working late at the office. Andrew's long gone; he and Scotty are going paddleboarding with Andrew's parents. I'm busy burying my embarrassment and regret into client files, when Nixon slides into the chair opposite my desk in a gray suit, white shirt, and black tie. The same chair he sat in weeks ago when the paper clip stuck to his butt. The
same quiet, sexy masculinity spews from his pores. The same smile that certainly does have its charm.

How I'd love to jump back to that day and have a do-over. Come clean about Sean right off the bat. Spare Nixon my troubles. Lie less. Love more.

“Hello, Bree.”

“Hello.” I can barely get the word out. Some professional I am, clamming up like a teenager at the sight of a cute boy. “How are you?”

“I'm good. You?”

“Okay,” I say, noting the chill in the air between us. An outsider might suspect Nixon was an insurance adjuster rather than the man who clutches my heart in the palm of his hand.

He says nothing about the latest
Close-Up
article or my beach message. Maybe he didn't see them? Maybe he
doesn't
care.

As I take in his soldierlike posture and clenched jaw, I realize the latter is likely the case. But good news, for the first time I'm clear on his body language. I'm not misreading him. I
am
good at this stuff. See there, his rigid stance oozes hostility, matching his narrowed lips and curt tone of voice. He's still pissed at me. So, hooray for me, I've finally got him figured out.

“I've come to terminate my contract,” he says. “I won't be needing your services any longer.”

“Oh, right.” I knew this day would come. Only a matter of time. I've hurt him, embarrassed him, why would he stay? Did I honestly think some silly message in the sand would change that? Still, I'm disappointed, wishing it weren't true. If nothing else, I'd hoped to still see him from time to time. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

“You know I never like this arranged-dating thing.”

“Yes, I know.”

“It just makes sense,” he says, “given everything we've been through.”

“No, no, you don't need to explain. I get it.”

“No hard feelings?”

“My gosh, Nixon, no. How could I possibly?”

“Great, because actually, there's something else.”

“Yes?” My mood perks a tiny bit.

“I hope you don't mind me asking you about this.”

What's that? Erase the last few weeks and start over? No, I don't mind at all. Happy to do it.
“What is it?”

He trails his palms along his thighs. He's nervous.

Why? Might there be a chance?

“I met a girl.”

Oh.

My gasp draws his stare.
I met a girl.
Pressure builds around my throat and I swallow hard. Of course he met a girl. Look at him. He's beautiful.
Do not tear up, Bree. Do not.

Though I'm certain despair clouds my eyes, I maintain my composure and force a smile. After all, he owes me nothing. It saddens me to know that not only has another woman captured his heart, but I've blown my chance at a relationship, even a friendship, with this guy. This lovely man. It says a lot about the type of person he is, showing up today, handling our business breakup face-to-face, rather than with an impersonal text. He's a great guy. And, though it sucks—
Lord, does it suck
—I need to accept the fact that just because I fell for him doesn't mean he fell for me. Everything was for show.

“Okay . . . um, certainly . . . a girl . . . yes, that's what I'm here for . . . that's good.”

“I hope you don't mind me asking you for advice . . .”

“No.” I purse my lips. “Of course not.”

“We've been through a lot, but water under the bridge, right?”

I'm drowning in the water, but go ahead.
“Right.”

“And since I've curtailed your success rate—didn't you say
I'm your two percent?—this new relationship of mine bumps up your odds.”

Yes, okay, I got it. You like a girl.
“It's no problem. What can I do to . . . help?”

He leans forward.

Whoever she is will get to stroke her fingers through his thick hair and— Enough, Bree. It's over.

“You see, I'm confused.” He laughs, tossing his hands in the air. “You women are so hard to figure out.”

“Yes, well . . .”

“She wrote me this note but it makes no sense. I'd hate to misinterpret a clue. I swear you women speak a different language. I'm hoping you can decode the meaning.”

Read your love note? Gee . . . what fun.
“Sure, what does it say?”

“That's the thing. I have no idea. But here, I took a picture of it.” He scrolls to a photo on his phone and hands it to me.

It nearly slips from my grasp as I stare at a picture of my giant sand plea. I read the message washed away by the waves. C
A
—
I
—
Y
O
—
A
GA
.

“Oh, God, Nixon, I—”

“Hush,” he teases. “Can't you see I'm trying to flirt here?”

His smile pulses heat through every neuron in my body. I press my lips together, holding back my wide grin. “Sorry. Go on.”

“What do you think it means?”

“It means that she's incredibly sorry to have been reckless with your heart. It means that you make her a better person. It means she misses you.”

“Wow.” He shakes his head. “You got all of that from just a few letters?”

“Well, I am good at what I do.”

He stands and tucks his phone into his front pocket. “That
answers that. And, Bree, I'm glad to see you're no longer hiding your scar.”

I peek at my new tattoo. “Yeah. A friend of mine said I shouldn't.”

“That friend sounds super smart. Thanks for your help.” He turns to go.

“Wait.” I hurry around my desk and meet him, face-to-face. “You're going?”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Um . . . because . . .”
Why are you going?
“I hoped you'd stay. I hoped to talk a little more. Maybe we could grab a cup of coffee or something?”

“Coffee?” He folds his hands across his chest. “Someone once told me dinner is the slow seduction.”

My heart flutters alive again.
He does like to see me squirm.
“That person is a genius.”

“I don't know. It took her a while to figure things out.”

“Yeah, I bet she foolhardily considered herself an expert on reading people and completely misread you.”

“You think?”

“I do.”

“What happened to history?”

“What do they say? The past isn't meant to be repeated.”

“That's the best you've got?”

“Yeah.”

“Pity.” He drifts closer.

We stand inches apart, separated only by our breath.

“Tell me, Nixon Voss.” I lift my lips toward his. “Can I see you again?”

He reaches for my forearm and tenderly kisses along my scar before placing my palm against his chest. Then he lifts my chin with his finger, hovering his mouth above mine. “No coffee.” And with that, Nixon kisses me.

His lips explore mine, soft and slow.

His body presses tight against my own, solid and certain.

And while I'm wrapped in his strength and his tenderness, I take notice of his body. My mind wanders from his mouth to his neck, down his chest to his legs, mapping the feel of his skin against mine, his curves, his angles, his bends.