Pillow Talk. Kathleen O'Reilly
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times in her life. “Everyone does.”
Then the shutters fell, the softness was gone. “A class act knows when to throw in the towel, too.”
He meant Hard-Wire. He meant preparing for the inevitable. But for her that meant defeat. First they’d have to pry the office badge from her cold, dead hands. She sneezed. “I’ll take the next round.”
The arrogant man shrugged. “If there is a next round.”
“Of course there will be. Good day, Mr. Taylor.” She turned to leave, slamming the door behind her.
JESSICA’S 11:00 A.M. staff meeting dragged on forever. She couldn’t wait to escape the confines of the building, and lunch with Mickey would go a long way to reestablishing her peace of mind.
She hoped.
When she made it to the small burger place just outside the Loop, Mickey was already seated. After they ordered, the talk was innocent and free of Mickey’s mind tricks. They discussed her new project at the research lab, the Cubs, and made plans for the weekend. Just when Jessica started to relax, blitzkrieg began.
“You’re uptight, J. More so than usual. It’s Taylor, isn’t it?”
Jessica chose the easy answer. “He’s the enemy, Mick. JCN.” Her voice fell soft. “They’d eliminate my position. Strike that—they’d eliminate the whole finance department.”
“You don’t know that. Besides, the stock options would help you weather the storms.”
Jessica knew she’d make a little money on a buyout, but that was small comfort. She wanted VP. And her experience wasn’t strong enough to be VP at anyplace but Hard-Wire. Being without a job, talking to headhunters, networking. The whole process put a huge rock in her stomach.
And made her sneeze. She searched her purse for a tissue.
Mickey held up a French fry, analyzing it before popping it into her mouth. “I don’t think you should go out with him.”
“Why not?”
“Office romance. Bad for your image.”
Jessica knew that. Seeing Adam personally, in any capacity, on a date or in his bed, could end up a CLM—career-limiting move. “I know,” she said, still dwelling on the “in his bed” image.
Mickey snagged another fry. “Bet he’s a jerk.”
A jerk? Those misty green eyes of his weren’t full of jerkiness. Every now and then he lowered his shields and she saw something else. Sadness? “Not really. He seems more remote than anything.”
“Maybe he’s from New York. That would explain it.”
“No. He’s from somewhere in the South. Can’t figure out where.”
Mickey drew a double helix in the ketchup. “The South? New York would have been better. Your allergies would go ballistic.”
Jessica sneezed. “Thank you, oh brilliant one.”
“Hey, I call ’em like I see ’em.”
“What would you do? Would you gamble your professional image on a question mark?”
“J, there are two sorts of men in the world. Ethyl alcohol and nitric acid. The ethyl alcohol is a steady reliable fuel, doesn’t burn clean, but it always burns. When you need to get there, positively, in three days—ethyl alcohol. And then there’s nitric acid. It won’t always fire, but when it does? To the moon, baby. You’ve got to make the decision: alcohol or nitric.”
Jessica pulled the tissue through her hands. “I’m getting too old for nitric acid.”
Mickey shrugged. “Your decision.”
“There’s not one good reason I should go for it.” She had thought about it for some time. Fourteen days to be exact. Hot sex, although tempting, was not rational or logical given the situation. So why was she still thinking about it?
Mickey’s laugh was the evil laugh of a mind reader. “I can see it’s pointless to argue. You want him? Do him.”
“No, no, no. I don’t need the additional stress.”
“Yes, I can see you’re the picture of relaxed self-contemplation.”
Jessica buried her head in her hands. “Forty-seven days and then he’ll be gone. I just have to resist him for forty-seven days.”
“How long has it been?”
“Fourteen.” Her nose tickled, giving her its own opinion. One, two, three. Ha-choo.
“Then you might as well throw in the towel now, because I’m figuring within another week, you’ll either be having a seriously good time with Mr. Taylor, or else you’ll be buried alive under a mountain of shredded tissue.”
Jessica stared at the little bits of paper that were littered across the table like broken dandelions. The histamines had won.
SOMETIMES Adam drove to the high-rise office park on Monroe that housed Hard-Wire, sometimes he took the El. On the long assignments, he kept his car with him. The car kept him from getting lonely.
Lonely. His mom would have a field day with that. He could just hear her.
You wouldn’t be lonely if you’d just settle down. All that travel, one of these days your plane is going to crash and then where will you be?
“Up in heaven with you, Ma,” he answered aloud. An automatic reply.
Pretty words never worked on me. I raised you, boy. I taught you everything you know.
He laughed at that and took a right-hand turn into traffic.
Cancer had buried his mother two years ago and it was only now that the sadness was starting to give way. He liked driving in the car and feeling as though she was there. Some days when the loneliness hit him hard, he talked to her aloud. Just like in Psycho. Which didn’t worry him as much as it should. But he kept the secret to himself because he knew nobody else would understand.
Of course, now his conscience sounded just like his ma. At least he’d always assumed it was his conscience.
The cell phone beeped and he looked at the caller ID to see if he wanted to be available. Vanessa Green.
He let it go for two rings, weighing the pros and cons. Strategic potential versus lack of synergy. Finally potential won out and he pushed the button. “Adam Taylor here.”
“Adam, it’s Vanessa. How are you?”
“Doing great. Glad to hear from you. How’s the weather in L.A.?”
“Fabulous. Listen, I hope you don’t mind me calling, but I wanted to get that title that you were recommending.”
Title? Geez, what had he said? “Oh, yeah. Listen, I’m in the car. Can I call you from home? Need to check my shelves. I’ll get the publisher as well.”
I didn’t raise you to lie, either.
“Not now, Ma.”
“What was that?”
Adam slapped his palm against the steering wheel. “Sorry, Vanessa. Just a little late-afternoon fatigue. I’ll call you this evening, okay?”
“Sure. Thanks, Adam.” Click.
Nope. Vanessa wasn’t it. He’d taken her out once about three months ago, and although she had the right requirements, the core product seemed off in some way.
He knew what he wanted. A sweet young thing who wanted 2.5 kids and a garden out back. Somebody who understood the concept of home and staying firmly planted in one place.
He had wandered around the country for so long, assignment to assignment, the idea of coming home to one woman, one family sounded like his own personal paradise.