As soon as I got out of that cursed office, I grabbed my things and came straight home. This way if I spontaneously die of mortification, I won’t be a burden for the M.E. cleaning crew.
Solitude may be good for containing my shame, but it’s fuel on the fire of my rabid imagination. Vincent has a kid. I was initially struck with a pang of completely misplaced jealousy. He’s not mine. I have no claim to Vincent. But I couldn’t stop myself from wondering about the woman he had a kid with? Where is she? What does she look like? Is she prettier than me? Thinner than me?
The jealousy swiftly turned to dread. What if Vincent’s still with her. Involved with her. Married to her. That would make me the other woman. That thought alone propelled me to move at warp speed to get out of the building.
The fresh air on my walk home from the office helped to calm my nerves and convince me of one thing; I need to talk to Vincent again. But since I was certain he’d ignore any meeting request that I sent through Brent, I decided that I needed to correspond directly with Vincent. Unfortunately, I have no way to do that. No email address. No phone number. Not even the extension to his office phone. So, I asked Brent. Well, actually I emailed Brent saying Vincent told me to send a list of my questions directly to him, but I forgot to get Vincent’s email before I left the meeting. It’s all bullshit of course, but it sounded reasonable. I hope.
I sent that email to Brent ten minutes ago. And instead of getting any actual work done, I’ve been sitting on my couch, Captain sprawled next to me, constantly refreshing my email, praying for a reply.
Ten more minutes go by.
Then an hour.
Then another hour.
By 7:00 I accept that Brent isn’t going to give me Vincent’s email.
By 8:00 I’ve opened a bottle of wine.
By 10:00 I’m three glasses in.
By 10:30 I’m in my pajamas, curled up in bed with Captain, phone held a few inches above my face, and I’m a dozen videos deep into a YouTube spiral of best places to visit while traveling alone.
I’m watching a clip of a person hiking through some Norwegian mountains, with a name I won’t even try to pronounce, when my phone screen changes to announce an incoming call. The change, and the ringtone bursting through the speakers, startles me so much that I drop the phone and it smashes into my nose.
“Shit!” I scramble to retrieve my phone while frantically rubbing my nose. The number is displayed as private. I wouldn’t usually answer an unknown number, but it’s probably my brother. Sometimes he gets thrown into a case last minute and has to go dark for a while. When that happens, he always calls me first.
I hit accept and sit up. “John? Hello?”
There’s a pause and I worry I might have missed the call.
Before I can pull the phone away from my face to check the connection, a voice cuts through the silence. “Who the fuck is John?”
Even my wine laden brain knows that voice.
“Vincent?” I ask, hardly believing it’s him.
“Who. The fuck. Is John.” He sounds pissed.
Well, so am I.
“None of your business, Vincent.” I snap. “Who’s the small, beautiful blonde that burst into your office calling you dad?”
“Annie is not up for discussion.”
I scoff. “Unacceptable. I’m your PR consultant. I need to know these things.”
“She has nothing to do with my company.” He bites.
“I disagree. She plays a role whether you like it or not. You need to have an answer when you’re asked about her. And you will be asked about her. If I’ve seen her, then you can bet other people have too. This is what you hired me for. You’re paying me for my opinion.”
“For now.” His tone is cold as he delivers the comment.
I clamp my mouth shut and close my eyes.
I’m so stupid. How could I forget who I was talking to? This is Vincent Mazzanti. Right now he’s not the guy I met in the bar, he’s the man who runs Mazzanti Enterprises. The man who has my career in his hands. My boss might overlook me sleeping with someone on the security team, but she won’t overlook me sleeping with the CEO of our client company, subsequently getting our firm dismissed from the contract. I wouldn’t just get reprimanded. I’d get fired.
I tighten my grip on the phone. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed. You’re right. I won’t ask about her. I’ll make a note in the file that she’s off limits. Please don’t… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”
I hang up the call. My fingers are trembling so bad it takes me two tries.
“Ohmygod. Ohmygod. Ohmygod.” I drop the phone and bury my face in my hands.
Captain must feel the tension radiating off of me, because he’s hauled himself off his blanket to bump his head against mine. Blindly, I reach out and pull him into my lap. “Cap, what have I done?”
Captain doesn’t have the answers, no matter how much I wish he did. I lean forward and rub my still stinging nose against his fur. I won’t cry. Not yet. Not until I know the outcome of my most recent fuck up.
Breathing in through my nose, I work on slowing my racing heart. Counting the beats of each inhale and exhale, I’m on my fifth set when my phone chimes. Not with a call. Not with a text. But with a calendar invite.
Vincent has sent me a meeting invite for Friday at 4:00. The invitation is labeled PR Consultation. The meeting notes only include his email and phone number.
I shakily hit accept before falling back against the pillows.
The movement dislodges Captain, and he stretches before making his way back to his usual sleeping spot. Plopping down he gives me some serious side eye.
“I promise. Nothing but professional from here on out.” I tell my cat.
