Page 382 of The Doctors Will See You Now

She didn’t even bat an eyelash before delivering the real blow.

“Well, you’ll be jail-free for at least another day. After your performance just now, tomorrow should be sex-free for sure.”

Monday morning.

Ugh, hairy ball sac.

I was sitting inside of my actual office at CMI’s home base in Midtown, and my email box was filled with new potential prospects of companies searching for their next great leaders and executives. Business was fucking great. Fate was smiling on me, and I was a happy, healthy woman living in the best city in the world.

I truly had nothing to complain about.

But I kind of felt like complaining and Mondays were a package deal. I mean, holidays aside, could anyone really remember the last time they had a fantastic Monday? Celebrated it? Told somebody, Oh, fuck yes, I’m happy to be back at work instead of napping by my pool and reading?

I thought not.

After a quick scroll through page two of my emails, I organized my shit into color-coordinated folders, flagged the most important items, and moved on to page three.

First rules of headhunting: Keep yo’ ass organized and your clients happy.

So really that was two rules, but whatever.

My eyes barely made it halfway down the page before my attention was pulled to my cell phone as it lost its shit from its cozy spot next to my laptop. Ring, bling, vibrate, I had that fucker set on every available notification setting possible.

It’s possible I’ve missed phone calls in the past.

Nick: I owe you an apology.

My heart fluttered at both the name and the content, but I squared my shoulders.

Me: It’s fine, Nick. I’ve finally come to terms with the fact that you’re a horrible trivia partner.

Okay, so obviously, I was deflecting, but a girl could only take so many blows to her ego, and I wasn’t all jazzed up to dive right back into the land of rejection.

I silently prayed his need for apology had everything to do with our last, and extremely awkward at the end, phone conversation. And I hoped if it did, my redirection would force him to vocalize his exact trespasses as a means for further avoiding confusion.

Nick: LOL. That’s not what I’m talking about.

Boom. Perfect lead-in.

Me: Oh… then what exactly are you apologizing for?

Nick: For being a slow, dense idiot.

I stared at his text for a good thirty seconds, trying to find some kind of response to his words, but it was fruitless. I’d gotten just what I wanted—a direct admission of his obliviousness. But recognition of his failure to follow context clues was not the same as an admission of feelings on his end.

If I got any farther out on the pirate plank, my mouth would be full of salt water in no time.

Nick: I’m new at this whole dating thing. I mean, Lexi’s mom was literally the last woman I actually dated. And that was over ten years ago. Needless to say, I suck at it. I suck at keeping my foot out of my mouth, and I suck at saying I think you’re cute too. Because I do.

Over ten years? Hot damn. That was a long fucking time ago. It didn’t seem possible with his body and eyes and overall fucking bachelor of the year eligibility, but I could definitely relate.

My last serious relationship had been twelve years ago, and I’d ended it about sixteen hours before we were supposed to say “I do.” Not my finest moment, but despite being the hardest thing I’d ever done and taking years to get over it, it’d been the right thing.

I had been young—twenty-two, to be exact, and too young for marriage. That didn’t apply to everyone, but it definitely applied to me. I had a wanderlust, a fervor for living life and building myself into a strong, independent woman. My fiancé had wanted me to settle down, and I wanted to spread out and up. I begged him to see the light, but he wanted me how he wanted me.

I was just glad I found the strength to step away, regardless of the scrutiny. Granted, I’d hauled ass all the way across the country and stayed gone, so I hadn’t exactly had to run into these people at the fucking grocery store every day.

Since that ended, I’d been boots—or stilettos, depending on the occasion—to the ground and running as I chased after career goals and personal bucket list items.