Page 10 of Fighting

Whatever, is that all?

I’m too tipsy to restrain myself the way I probably should, so once I’m in the back seat of the car, I switch over to FaceTime.

To my absolute shock, she picks up, though by the way she’s glaring, she’s not thrilled about it. “Video too now? Why?”

“I’m happy to see you too, Ivy.” My grin stretches from ear to ear, I think. I’m feeling the buzz a little more as we speed down FDR parkway.

“Cute.” With a roll of her eyes, she props her phone up on what looks like her desk, if the papers and the laptop are any indication.

I point over her shoulder at the framed diplomas proudly displaying the name of the infamous school, making her scowl.

As if she thinks I’ll believe she’s unbothered by my teasing, she removes the claw clip from her hair and shakes out the long, golden tresses.

Damn, I love getting a reaction out of her. There’s no stopping my preening now. The smug satisfaction on my face and tilt of my head are visible in the tiny video chat bubble, making me realize that I haven’t felt this way since the last time I saw her. My stomach flutters and my skin tingles at the memories that flit through my mind. If I allowed myself to really think about how long this kind of happiness has been missing from my life, I could admit it’s her voice that’s brought it on and not the liquor.

With a shake of my head, I will those thoughts away.

“Why are you calling? Looks like you had so much fun with Satan. But were you not able to close tonight?”

Her irritation makes my pulse speed up, and an uncomfortable heat washes over me. Just thinking about Caleb and his brush-off makes me anxious about work tomorrow.

If I can keep her talking until I get inside, maybe I can force it out of my mind for good tonight. Maybe I can get a good night’s sleep. Or maybe I’ll do what I’ve done every night since Stef’s wedding. I’ll lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, telling myself not to think about my night with Nessa until I can’t stop thinking about it and fuck my fist.

Mind fuzzy, I struggle to find a topic that doesn’t involve her fuckhead of an ex. Finally, I clear my throat and blurt, “I need your help.”

Anything to keep her on the phone.

“Was the STI test positive? Just go back to the doctor and get medication.”

I let out a sardonic laugh. “You’re hilarious. No, I’m trying to get Stef and Lee to house-swap with me. I’m over the city. If I can get your buddy Caleb?—”

“Satan,” she hisses. “We do not invoke the devil’s name. Ever. And he’s not my buddy.”

“Fine. Anyway, if I can get him to close this Park Ave deal, then I can take a sabbatical and give Stef my place.”

“So you said,” she sasses.

God, I love that sassy mouth. Damn. The things I want to do to it again.

“Keep being mean to me. It just turns me on.” I wink.

She rolls her eyes. “Do you need something, or can I go?” The sass is off the charts.

“Nah, I’m good.” I give her a big, dopey grin. “You go. Try to have some fun again, Ivy.”

“I’m hanging up now,” she singsongs an instant before the screen turns black.

For several minutes after the call ends, my heart continues to beat wildly. Every cell in my body is wide awake and adrenaline courses through me like I’ve just finished a marathon. This woman is clearly igniting that spark I’ve been missing. I’ll do everything I can to be near her and find my drive again.

For weeks,it’s been one canceled meeting after another. Don’t get me started on all the unanswered emails. Still, I haven’t broken into the Reynolds party circle. I’ve tried my usual tactics—event tickets, the hottest reservations, private entrance to pop-ups—but nothing is working. It’s impossible to impress a person whose name has always opened every door.

I’ve discussed this in biweekly meetings. I’ve tried to pass this up the line. However, according to Chip Merrick, in my position here, there’s no reason I should need support. Apparently, I’m senior enough that even after I have checked every box on our list of standard approaches and come up with several of my own, I’m still expected to make it happen.

When I asked for someone with more seniority to reach out, providing a draft message with the request it wasn’t to Chip’s liking, so I had to revise it. Again and again, he sent it back with suggestions, and before he could approve it, he was gone for two weeks on vacation. Now, it’s time for another check-in, but, fuck, am I over this.

I’m done working for a man who confuses teachable moments with hanging me out to dry. I’m over sitting in these crowded, loud, overpriced places, praying that a tool like Caleb Reynolds will bother to show up.

I’m burned out. The magic of New York City has evaporated. I no longer know what I’m chasing or why. I’m so lost anddefeated that I’m about to burn my life to the ground just to feel something again.

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