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"You didn't do anything."
Ford stepped out of my bedroom, already in his jeans and boots, buttoning up the shirt.
Denise shot a triumphant look between myself and Ford. “ I knew it!"
"Stop that,” I shushed her.
"It’s this." Ford held out his phone. I took it while he finished putting his shirt on and slid into his jacket. He wound hard arms around me and pressed a kiss to the top of my head. "I should go. They’ll follow me, keep their eyes off you guys. Works most times."
I read the message on this phone, barely able to make sense of the words. "Why is your ex asking you to call Richard?”
"Richard Martin. The one who served Jess ages ago. I should've done that AVO." Ford kissed me, and I felt the possession with every indecent sweep of his tongue inside my mouth. “I didn't want to leave it this way.”
"What's happening?"
Denise drew in a sharp breath. "Oh, my God."
I twisted between them. "What. Is. It? Before I castrate someone?"
Pickles edged away, the whites of his eyes showing.
Ford and Denise held a silent conversation over my head.
"I'll tell her," Denise finally promised.
"I'm sorry." Ford cupped my face and kissed me hard, leaving my head spinning with the scent of Christmas and him and heartbreak.
“Don’t make this goodbye,” I whispered, out of my realm, my depth, of everything.
"I – I don't know when I'll see you. But this has been incredible. It's not how I wanted to leave it." He stared at me hard for a long moment, and then pushed around Denise, grabbing Pickles by the halter and strode out the door, leaving me alone.
I didn’t even have time to ask how they managed the stairs.
My apartment lost two more souls.
I blinked at the empty space, wrapping my arms around myself. “I’m lost.”
Denise launched onto me in a huge hug. “We need to have a bird and the bees talk, babe. He’s Ford Millham, isn’t he?”
“Yes.” I frowned. “How did you know?”
She sighed. “Because he owns FCMC.” Her sigh hit double strength as she shook her head when I didn’t even flinch. “Wake up, Nisha! The big green and yellow building we thought was getting sold, because of some personal thing. With the dust when it was getting built, the dust we bitched about for freaking months. And the gold gilt toilet rumours,” she added when I watched her blankly.
“No freaking way. He’s one of the wealthiest men in New York.”
“Yes, he is, darling. And I think the media followed him here.”
I shook my head. “His ex. She’s been up his butt about their break up this time last year and claiming monies owed or something. Drama llamas.” I swallowed. “He– we were talking about doing a long distance thing. I think. But that seemed, you know, final.”
“It did.” Denise nodded. “And you have his number, right?”
“Ah, no?” The first tears started to fall. “No, I don’t.”
The sympathetic look Denise gave me was too much. I marched into the kitchen, grabbed the nearest plate of leftovers, and a fork.
Not saying a word, Denise picked up the other plate and extracted a bottle of Beam from somewhere, twisting the cap off and holding it out the moment my butt hit the worn sofa.
My perfect Christmas devolved into yet another memory I knew I’d push aside every year right along with all the others I didn’t want to remember.
