“No, silly.” She swats my arm playfully. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you have a boyfriend. Spill it, girl.”
Jesus, already? I guess word travels fast in a small office.
“There’s really not much to tell,” I say, which isn’t a lie. Maybe if I can be partially honest about things, I’ll be able to curb some of my guilt. “His name is Wolfie,” I say, drawing out my words to buy myself time to think. “He’s my brother’s roommate. We’ve run in the same circle of friends for a while now.”
Carol nods along, her eyes wide with interest as I rattle off a quick bio of my newest, fakest boyfriend, leaving out the part about how he works in the business of pleasure. I don’t even want to know what the office rumor mill would churn up if I admitted to dating a guy who made his fortune in sex toys.
“How long have you been together?” she asks.
“Not long. But I’ve always been sort of secretly into him.”
Again, that’s technically true. We’ve been together for exactly zero months and zero days, which I think qualifies as not long.
As for me being interested in him . . . well, I’m a sucker for the broody, mysterious, silent types, and Wolfie is about as broody as they come. Trying not to fall victim to those dark, hypnotic eyes is like trying to ice skate in the middle of summer. Take one step and you’re going under. Which is why I’ve been treading carefully for years.
Once Carol is satisfied with the amount of info she’s squeezed out of me, she heads back to her desk, leaving me to hunker down on client emails and spreadsheets until five o’clock rolls around. Another day in the books, and just four days to go until the retreat. I guess I should probably tell my plus-one the big news about the acting debut he’ll be making this weekend.
As I step out of my office building and onto the streets of Chicago, the early November wind bites my cheeks.
God, I hate the cold. Sometimes I wonder why I chose to live in a city that gets a grand total of three seconds of summer a year.
Zipping my coat up to my chin, I head down the sidewalk toward the nearest Brown Line stop. It’s just a five-minute walk, which, come to think of it, is the perfect amount of time to have a very awkward phone conversation.
Might as well get this over with.
I dig my cell phone out of my purse, swiping to the bottom of my contact list until I land on Wolfie’s name. He’s not going to be happy about this, but then again, he’s rarely happy, anyway. So, really, what have I got to lose?
All right, here goes nothing.
I suck in a deep breath and double-tap his name on my screen. Two rings later, he answers.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Wolfie. It’s Penelope.”
“I know,” he says curtly. “I have your number.”
“Oh. Right.” So far, so good. “I was just calling to solidify our plans for this weekend. I mean, if you’re still down to come with me to my work retreat. You can back out if you want.”
Please don’t back out. Please don’t back out.
“I’m not backing out.” His voice is gruff but certain. “I’ll be there.”
There’s that lump in my throat again. I guess this is really happening.
“Great,” I say in the cheeriest voice I can muster. Hopefully, my nerves aren’t discernable through the phone. “So, it’s up in Wisconsin, just over the border. It shouldn’t take much more than an hour and a half to get there. And it’s just two nights, so we’ll be back by Sunday evening. I can pick you up on Friday afternoon, and we should be there in time for—”
“I’ll drive,” he says, interrupting me. “Friday afternoon? I’ll pick you up.”
All-righty then.
“Ohhh-kay,” I manage to get out. “And, um, one more teeny-tiny thing.”
“Yes?”
Just say it, Penelope. “I may have accidentally told everyone at the office that my boyfriend is coming with me.”
The line is quiet for what feels like half a lifetime. So quiet, in fact, that I have to double-check to be sure he didn’t just hang up on me. But no, the call is very much still going. He’s just as silent as a stone.
“Um, Wolfie?”
“Yes?”
“Did . . . did you hear what I said?”
He’s quiet again, then finally says, “Uh, your boyfriend?”
“Yup. Good, you heard. Okay, gotta go. ’Bye. See you Friday!”
The words tumble out at the speed of light, and before he can get another word in, I hang up, then immediately power down my phone so he can’t call me back. If he tries, I’ll blame it on bad reception on the Brown Line. By the time I step onto the train, I can hardly hear the stops being announced over the blood thrumming in my ears.
