Page 58 of Playing Mr. Perfect

I hang up, and as I reach for the documents on the printer behind my desk, the phone rings again. I turn to grab it and knock a stack of papers onto the floor. I take a deep breath and put the phone to my ear. “SynTech.”

There’s grumbling on the other end of the line. “It’s me again,” the man says. “Sorry. I’m trying to reach Westerly Appliance Repair.”

“Their number is one digit off from ours. I believe you dialed a three instead of a five.” It happens just often enough to be annoying.

“Sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Not by you, maybe. “No worries. Have a good night.” I hang up the phone and pull up the email I’ve set up to receive résumés from the employment site where I listed the receptionist position. I’m pleased to see three responses and quickly peruse them. My hopes deflate. The first is overqualified and asking for twice the going rate. The second has no experience, and the cover letter from the third applicant is too poorly written to even consider.

I delete them all.

“Open a business, they said. It’ll be great, they said.”

If I have to answer one more call…

As if the gods are testing me, my cell phone chimes with a text. I swear, if it’s one of my sisters again, I’m going to throw my phone into a sewer. They’ve been bugging me about Clay ever since they got back from overseas, asking if I’ve heard from him despite the fact that I have repeatedly told them we only hung out because they were all paired off. I don’t know if they can tell I’m lying, but thank God they haven’t found out that I stayed an extra night with him in Paris. I’d never hear the end of that.

I snag my phone from my desk, and my heart skips and aches at once at the sight of Clay’s name in the text bubble. The same way it has the last several times he texted. It’s been a week since I saw him, and one day since his last text. But he’s always on my mind. Not only does our time together play on repeat in my head like my favorite freaking movie, but Clay has been sending me gifts. Two days after I got home, I received a package of chocolates from the shop in Paris where we gorged ourselves with a note that read So you don’t forget how sweet it was. Two days later I received his football jersey with a note that read I thought you’d want to wear it to bed, since I’m sure you’re dreaming about me.

He’s not even in the same state, and I feel his presence like he’s right here with me all the time. And yes, I wear his stupid jersey to bed every night, and damn it, it’s his voice I hear lulling me to sleep and his face visiting me in my dreams. I’m pretty sure I’m on the fast track to losing my mind.

I take a deep breath, mentally preparing myself for the onslaught of emotions to come, and read his text.

Clay: I can feel you missing me.

I don’t want to like his sense of humor, but I can’t help it. I smile as I thumb out my response.

Me: I’m sorry, who is this?

Clay: The guy who can’t stop thinking about you.

Tingles chase up my chest.

Me: Ben or Jerry?

A picture of us kissing in front of the Wall of Love pops up. My insides melt, and the dull ache of missing him claws its way up to the surface. It’s torture, but I know how this will end. He has time off now, but then he’ll be traveling again with his team, and I’ll never be the kind of woman who will leave my work behind and follow a guy across the country. Not even a guy as wonderful as Clay. And I know there would be pressure to do that, and it would tear us apart.

Me: Sorry. Doesn’t ring a bell.

Another picture pops up. We’re in front of a gallery. Clay’s arm is hooked around my neck and he’s kissing my cheek, his eyes smiling at the camera as he snapped the selfie. The ache of missing him turns into a painful throb. I love flirting with him, but it’s not fair to either of us. My life is already overloaded. I could never fit a long-distance relationship into my schedule and make it work, and he deserves someone who can.

Me: Ah yes. I remember you now. The distracting guy I met through my brother-in-law.

A devil emoji pops up.

My pulse races, and I’m tempted to keep flirting, but I know this will lead to the same place his previous texts led. To him asking when he can see me again and me saying I’m too busy. I can’t keep riding this emotional roller coaster of wanting what I know will just hurt me in the end. Steeling myself against the lump forming in my throat, I force myself to do what needs to be done, thumbing out, I’m working like a madwoman and I have to run, but we’ll always have Paris. I read it again, and I know it’s not strong enough to get my point across. I have to stick to my guns. I delete the message and start over, hating every word I type.

Me: I’m really busy, and I know you probably are too. Neither of us needs to be distracted by something that won’t end well, so we should probably stop texting. But we’ll always have Paris.

I add a heart emoji.

Trying to swallow past the lump that is now clogging my throat, I push to my feet and shove my phone into my bag, knocking it off the credenza in my rush to leave my office before he texts again.

Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry.

My hands curl into fists. I’m not a crier. Until last week, I hadn’t cried over a boy since that unfortunate circumstance with that jerky jock in college. But I shed more than a few tears when I was sitting in the lap of luxury on Clay’s cousin’s private plane on the way home from Paris, and I swore I wouldn’t shed any more.

The sting of tears has me ducking into the bathroom.