“Are you kidding me?” Winona exclaims. “I am! In fact, I’m so proud that I could weep.”
I scoff. It’s hard to believe that the vixen who’d nearly hooked up with Julian in a conference room not even a full day ago is me. I am boring, work-obsessed Sean Sullivan. I can’t remember a time when I might have considered asking a guy if he had a condom on him, because all the sex I’ve had in the last decade was somewhatpremeditated, in a controlled environment, and after careful review of my partner’s STD test results.
“So? When are you going to see him again?” Winona asks.
I dab syrup off the corner of my mouth.
“I’m not sure.”
There’s a sharp clink; Winona has dropped her fork.
“I’m confused,” she says. “What’s the problem? Has he not reached out?”
“Um, yes. He has.” I clear my throat. “Called me, actually.”
“And…?” Winona prompts. “What did he say?”
I bite my bottom lip.
“I…didn’t pick up.” Before her jaw can drop, I hold up my hands to defend myself. “I was in the gym!”
“And I’m sure you called him back after.” It’s not a question, because she already knows the answer.
I swallow. “He left a message.”
“Which you haven’t answered.”
“I don’t know how to respond!” I confess.
It’s true. When I left the gallery, I’d felt so certain that I’d done the right thing by walking away. An iron wall had fallen in front of my heart, reverberating as it slammed shut—because I knew, with certainty, that Julian Conrad was too good to be true.
But he’s since brought a battering ram to my defenses, and I’m starting to feel them shake. Most of what I’ve assumed about Julian is based on his superficial attributes—his youth, his looks. What if I’m judging him too harshly, failing to see him beyond his façade, as he’d attempted to see beyond mine? What if he wasn’t lying through his teeth when he said that he wanted me to take him seriously?
My cheeks warm in a familiar, upsetting way, and across from me, Winona freezes.
“You like him,” she whispers. Then, louder, her eyes sparkling with mirth, “Oh my god, youactually likehim!”
A group of women sitting at a table a few feet away snicker along with her, and I lean back, crossing my arms in defiance.
“Volume, Winny,” I mutter, waiting for her to gather her wits.
“I’m sorry,” she says, dabbing her eyes with a napkin. “It’s just…it’s been so long since I’ve seen a besotted Sean. I forgot how completelyuselessshe could be.”
“Now you’re just being mean,” I say, but my ears are burning and my stomach is leaping and I know that she’s right: I am indeed crushing on Julian, and admitting it to myself, even if just the tiniest bit, feels like participating in the Polar Plunge. Exhilarating, maybe, but supremely stupid too. I might die of hypothermia.
“In my defense,” I say, “he’s almost impossiblenotto like. Even his voice is sexy.”
“Can I listen?” Winny says, holding out an expectant hand for my phone. I navigate to my voicemail, and she lifts it to her ear. I know when it starts by how her eyes widen, and I know what she’s hearing, because I’ve listened to it a thousand times: Julian’s voice, pitched low into a growl that is clearly not for public consumption. His tongue curling around the syllables of my name like an incantation.
Sean Sullivan, the message begins.You seem to enjoy running from me. Unfortunately for you, I’m quite tenacious, and I’m not above using petty tactics. I’ll be seeing you soon.
Winny lowers my phone. Sighs. Takes a swig of her water.
“What, and pardon me saying,” she says, “the hell was that?”
“I know,” I lament.
“Ifeltsomething, and that wasn’t even meant for me.”