Ten Days of Perfect (7 page)

“Hey,” I looked up at
him with apologetic eyes, “I
. . .
”

I began to apologize for putting on the breaks; my experience with men taught me that a move like that often warrants an apology of some sort - no matter how half-hearted.

“Don’t, November.” Tenderness glistened
in
his eyes as he combed his thumb down the side of my face. “This has been one of the best nights of my life.”
I kis
sed his thumb when it met my li
ps
.

Speechless, I laid my head back on his shoulder.

Several minutes later we were back in the kitchen.

“Hey,” I said as I put the last wine glass away, and slid my hand in to his back pocket to retrieve his cell phon
e, “let me give you my number.”

I tapped my number in
to his phone, entered my name as
November Blue
, and slid t
he phone back in to his pocket.

“Awesome,” he beamed, “I’ll call you to get together sometime this week?”

“Sounds great. I typically work 8 to 4, but you can
text me during work if you want to set something up.” My attempt at not sounding desperate wasn’t going quite as I’d hoped.

Bo walked over to the door and took a long, slow breath. “Thank you for having me over, Ember.” His tone was sweet, carrying through my apartment like an aria.
“This night was…”

“Yea,” I tipped my head up and kissed him, “it really was, Bo. I’ll talk to you later, K?”

I met him at my door and gripped my fingers around
the edges of his jeans pockets.

“Absolutely.” He pulled me in to him and gave me one hard,
demanding kiss. “Later.”

I shut the door behind him and thumped my forehead against it, letting out a small hum of sexual frustration. His sensitivity and understanding when I didn’t want things to go any further flooded me with relief, and respect for him. When I got into bed five minutes later, my cell phone dinged with a text. The number wasn’t one I recognized, so I took it to be Bo’s. I opened the message,
smiling.

Bo:
Hey, it’s Bowan, now you have my number

Me:
Excellent
:)
Bowan, is it?

Bo:
It’s only fair, November Blue :)

Me:
Fair’s fair. Good night.

Bo:
Hey I hope to see you during the week, but in case work gets ahead of me, I definitely want to see you on Friday

Me:
Great! But I thought you told Josh you had plans Friday?

Bo:
You are my plans on
Friday

Horray!

Me:
Presumptuous, don’t you think?

Bo:
Sorry. Would you
like to get together on Friday?

Me:
Better :)
I’d love to. Talk to you this week I hope.

Bo:
Night

Me:
Night :-*

Crap, I kissy-faced in a text.  I rolled on to my belly, threw my pillow over my head and endured the most angst-filled sleep I’d had in years.

“We had the decency to duck out early and you mean to tell me
nothing
happened?
!
” Monica
sat, exasperated, on my couch.

Her early morning texts didn’t wake me - since I hadn’t slept much - but she made up for her dramatic entrance by bringing me a latte.

“
You
are a bad influence. He was a perfect gentleman, Monica. So
. . .
” My face heated as I recounted the details of our kiss and his request for a date on Friday.

“I thought he told Josh he
had
plans on Friday.” She raised an eyebrow as if she knew what I was about to say.

“Evidently I
am
the
plans he had for Friday night.”

“Hell yes!” Monica cheered.

“Hell yes, indeed.” I let seduction paint my smile as we toasted our coffee cups.

When I went back to my bedroom after Monica left, I saw
I had two missed texts from Bo.

Bo:
Good morning.

Bo:
I had a great time last night, thank you.

Even in his absence, my body reacted to him. I couldn’t form anything intelligent, or witty, but I didn’t want to be rude and not reply.

Me:
You’re welcome- I had a great time too.

I needed to go for a run. I put on my shorts, tank, and
shoes and headed out the door.

As I ran past
the
garage, which was closed on Sundays, I instinctively turned to the left to look. I nearly tripped and fell as I saw the exact pick-up truck in the same spot, engine running. Two bodies were inside, and one was as broad as I remembered Bill to be. I ran like hell and didn’t double-back; I took the long route, which allowed me to avoid the garage completely on my way back to my apartment.
Why the garage?
Why in the daylight?
These were questions I shook from my head as I rounded the corner to my apartment and flew up the stairs. I wouldn’t tell Monica about this tomorrow at work because she might lose her head and call the police herself. I was exhausted by
the time nightfall arrived, since
my raging
libido prevented a sound
sleep the night
before, so I drifted off early.

***

I shot out of bed with my alarm on
Monday; I had dreamt of
Adrian
, and woke up feeling
flustered. Monica had talked about Adrian Saturday night.  My feelings for Bo were mixed with my relationship with Adrian, and it led to a weird mash-up of Finnegan’s, Princeton, and Adrian
Turner inside my subconscious.

I hadn’t had a serious boyfriend since Adrian. In the four years since I had graduated college (five since I broke up with Adrian), I’d gone on dates and had sex, but never committed myself to anyone. There were never any strings attached. My parents would be
so
proud
,
which is funny, because they actually would be. They’re all about “free love”, despite the fact that they’ve been together since their freshman year of college. I suspect they have a rather open relationshi
p
but I’ve never asked.

The Monday morning routine came with its usual lackluster appeal. I loved my job, but I was beginning to think I loved hanging out at Finnegan’s with Bo even more. One week of distracted thinking couldn’t hurt.  I headed
into
the office, grateful that it was Monica’s turn to pick up our lattes. Part of her job included speaking at fancy parties, with fancy people, to help garner donations for our non-profit. As a grant writer, I was in charge of securing large sums of money from private organizations, rich people, and the
government. We were thrilled that, when we were seeking out new donors or partners, our work intersected.

Such was the case today.
W
e were meeting with a representative from a New Hampshire-based drug prevention/ educ
ation group called DROP.
The group’s name is “Drug Resistance Opportunity Program,” and seeks to empower children and adults facing drug abuse and addiction issues. While this was also a non-profit, and we wouldn’t actually be receiving donations from them, the purpose of the meeting today was to see if we could develop them as an alliance. The long-term goal was a community center that could serve the interests of both organizations
.

Further, we wanted The Hope Foundation to set up offices up and down the New England seaboard; DROP had the same objective. An alliance would mean a larger resource base, both intellectual and financial - something no non-
profit can afford to turn down.

Monica didn’t actually tell me about this meeting until Friday because I had been slammed all week with a new secured funding initiative, meaning I felt uncharacteristically unprepared to speak in public. She said all she knew
was that
DROP was two years old, they didn’t have a website (meaning our established internet presence would be a huge benefit for them), but they
had at least two multi-million
dollar backers (enter the main reason
they’d be a huge asset to us).
Our meeting today was intended for each side to present their strengths. It was meant to be casual, not competitive, and the goal was to see if our organizations would mak
e a good fit for collaboration.

“Hey Mon.” I poked my head into her office, knowing she’d be there early to prepare for her presentation. Luckily, when I was working on the secured funding initiative last week, I had refreshed all the information I would need for today. My public speaking nerves were fully charged, however.

“Morning, Ember. Here’s your latte, Lady!” The perfect community educator, she’s incessantly bubbly and wonderful.

“You’re the best. By the way,
as
shole, thanks for talking about Adrian on Saturday. I dreamt about him last night.”

Monica’s skeptical eyebrow forced more explanation from me. “Nothing happened, he
was just- there.” I flipped her
the
middle finger as I sipped my latte. “Anyway, what’s the name of the woman from DROP we’re meeting today?”

“Actually, it’s a man. We were supposed to meet with a David Bryson, but I had a message waiting for me this A-M that one of his partners, Spencer Cavanaugh
,
will be joining us. He’s one of the founders, so I’m officially freaking out. He’s going to come in for a meet-and-greet before the official meeting. And, yes, I know his last name must have you all hot and bothered, but keep your head on, will ya?”  I’d smiled
at the last nam
e - she knew me too well.

I sat in the chair across from Monica’s desk just as she picked up her ringing phone.

“K, send him in.” She hung up the phone and looked at me. “Spencer’s on his way down.”

“I’ll say hi, introduce myself, and then let you two discuss whatever you need to before th
e meeting
.
” I started to stand.

There was a polite knock on Monica’s door frame. Before I turned to greet Spencer, I saw Monica’s eyes widen in a mix of confusion and shock. I turned around hastily, and was immediately face-to-face with Bo Cavanaugh.

“Bo?” I managed.

Inexplicably, I was standing in front of Bo Cavanaugh.
Hair gel
manicured the tousled look that had graced Finnegan’s stage - and my fingers - all weekend. Gray suit pants, a pale yellow button down shirt, and a blue silk tie that matched his eyes stood in place of the jeans and sleeveless ensemble that walked out of my apartment
two nights before
. His eyes were a deeper blue than I observed at night; they were the most beautiful color of ocean blue I’d ever seen. My smile faded as his eyes fell from me to the floor, then to the wall, and back to the floor.

“N-ember? Uhh.”
He looked increasingly uncomfortable and his fair skin seemed to pale even further.

“Ooooooo-kaaaayy
. . .”
Monica uncomfortably attempted to organize the papers on her desk.

I just stood there while a thousand thoughts scattered to the floor of my brain. In the split second before Monica spoke again, I reasoned maybe his brother’s name
was
Spencer and
Bo was
standing in
- even though he didn’t mention a brother the other night - or this must be some sort of mistake. Judging by his complexion, and his inability to say my name without stuttering, I gathered it was neither
of these reasons.

Monica swept papers off her desk with little regard to their order. “So, I’ll let you two talk. Anything
I
have to say can wait ‘till the meeting.” She said this with such professionalism that anyone walking by wouldn’t have noticed the
five-ton elephant in the room.

“Excuse me.” Monica slid past Bo (or Spencer), forcing him in to the room a little ways and placing us in a close proximity.  Not more than 48 hours ago, being this close to him had tantalized me. Right now, it made my muscles twitch with anxiety. Monica shut the door.

I walked around my chair and stood behind Monica’s desk,
deliberately distancing myself from “Bo” so I could think clearly.  It occurred to me that th
is was the first time I’d seen him in the daylight, rather than under the stage glow at Finnegan’s. He was slightly less fair-skinned than I’d previously assessed, but just as dreamy.
Dreamy, November? Figure out what he’s doing here.
I cleared my throat and stared directly
at him, handcuffing
his eyes to mine.