I huffed a laugh. “No one else pushes back the way you do. Today, of all days, I need that, sweetheart.” I clamped my lips shut,because I’d said too much. The leash had slipped, and I’d given away more than I wanted. Bracing myself for a cutting remark, I gritted my teeth and glared at the cold night outside.
She was quiet for a beat. When she spoke again, her voice was different. Softer. “Is everything okay?”
I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed them with my thumb and forefinger. I would have preferred snark and derision. I would have preferred she hang up on me.
But that wasn’t really true, was it?
Everything was fine, and everything was terrible. But how could I explain that?Whywould I explain that? Better to put up walls and keep everyone out. Make sure I was in control of every outcome, so I could guard against disaster.
Except I couldn’t control everything, could I? I couldn’t control Erica’s cancer. I couldn’t control Lila’s safety every moment of the day. I couldn’t control Deena.
Maybe that was why I found myself telling her the truth. “My sister’s sick. Breast cancer.”
“Oh,” Deena said quietly. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not—” I bit off the sentence, not sure what I was trying to say. My heart thumped strangely, and my office felt empty and echoing. I was alone in the world, responsible for my sister, my niece, my employees, my future…the weight of it felt particularly heavy today. And Deena was Deena. Unflappable and stubborn and addictive. It felt good to tell her something that I wouldn’t tell anyone else.
“She’s doing well,” I finally finished. “Her bloodwork is good. It’s just…”
“There are no guarantees,” Deena finished quietly.
“Exactly.”
“Bet that drives you nuts,” she added, a sardonic note dancing at the edge of her tone.
I walked to the small bar cart and dropped a couple of ice cubes in a glass. “And what’s that supposed to mean, Ms. Brand?”
“Back to last names,” she mused. “Here I thought you were starting to like me.”
I was starting to feel a lot of things for her—things I didn’t want to admit to her and definitely not to myself. But hearing her voice eased some of the tension that had plagued me all day. “You haven’t answered the question.”
“I was merely suggesting that a man such as yourself?—”
“Expand on that, Brand. What’s a man such as myself?”
“A man who expects things done a certain way. A man who likes when people do as they’re told.”
I hummed, smiling down into my glass as I poured a couple of fingers of brandy. “I do enjoy when people do as they’re told, Deena. I’d like you to do as you were told, for once.”
She blatantly ignored the suggestiveness lacing my voice and cut to the heart of my problem. “Right. So it must have driven you crazy to deal with the uncertainty and the lack of control that comes with serious illness.” The teasing tone left her voice, but it wasn’t replaced with pity. Only understanding.
Her empathy wrapped around me like a warm blanket. The reality of my sister’s situation came rushing back, but it didn’t feel as all-encompassing and hopeless as it had just an hour ago. Deena’s voice on the other end of the line had dragged me out of the depths of my darkness. I wished she were here so I could inhale the scent of her perfume and feel the curve of her waist. I wanted to tell her more, like how hard I’d worked to get where I was, and how crazy it made me that she refused to work for me. I wanted to tell her about my childhood and my fears, just to hear her humming in my ear again.
I’d lost my damn mind.
Desperate to get away from that writhing mass of emotion, I changed the subject. “What are you wearing?”
“Frost—”
“I’m just curious about what someone wears on a date with a podcaster.”
Her laugh was low and rueful. “Stop it. I wish I’d never told you that.”
So did I, because the last remnants of the burning, white-hot jealousy that had speared me when she told me she was on a date were still sitting like hot coals in my stomach. But prodding them felt better than thinking about my family. “Describe your shoes to me.” Had she worn heels on her date? So another man could admire her legs, touch her waist, dream about her ass? So another man could picture her splayed out on his bed? So another man could make her come?
“You are such a weirdo. If you’re happy with the travel arrangements I sent through?—”
“Deena,” I cajoled. “Set work aside and talk to me.” I slumped down into an armchair and looked at the city. She was out there, somewhere, moving around her apartment while she stayed on the phone with me. I took a sip of my drink, relishing the burn as it went down.
