Blushing Pink Read online

  What could it be? Did she have something on her face? Was her fly open?

  After Brian casually averted his eyes, Reese glanced down to discover that it was worse. Much worse. She had gotten her paper place mat caught on her belt loop when she'd stood up, and had cluelessly trailed the whole thing off with her. God, she'd been standing in the middle of the Applegate Diner with a paper place mat hanging from her pants!

  She snatched it off and considered her options. She could try to make a joke about it, if her tongue weren't suddenly feeling thick and heavy. One thing she couldn't do was look to Ally and Ben for comfort, because they were in their own world, deliberating between French fries and gravy and mashed potatoes and gravy. So she just sat back down.

  Lane returned, having donned a fresh coat of lipstick. "Ooh, I'm back; 'scusey, you guys."

  Reese wanted to roll her eyes, but refrained. Instead she slid out of the booth again, and as soon as she stood, collided with someone behind her. Startled, Reese whipped around and saw their waitress fuming. "Whoa!" the woman yelled, annoyed. "You almost made me lose it all!"

  "All" being the six napkin-and-silverware rolls she was carrying in her arms.

  "Honey, you better start looking where you're going," the waitress chastised loudly, "or one of these days, you're gonna knock over a tray of food!" Reese felt color flood her cheeks and neck. Brian was averting his eyes again, obviously trying to be nice and spare her embarrassment... something the waitress might want to try.

  "I'm sorry," Reese said, stepping completely out of the woman's way.

  "I could've lost it all." Yeah, she'd mentioned that. Fortunately, though, after getting that last nag in, she seemed satisfied. Reese, on the other hand, felt foolish and ridiculous and never more like her naked self.

  Brian stood to let Lane back into the booth. After they were all seated, the waitress took their orders.

  Ally and Ben settled on the French fries, Brian got a chicken sandwich, and Reese ordered a Greek salad.

  The next hour passed quickly, and Brian and Reese never did pick up the minuscule thread of their conversation. There was no opportunity, because the table talk had been almost solely wedding centered, and after Brian had finished his sandwich, and left money for the tab, he took the rings from Ben and apologized because he had to go. He said good-bye, and Reese responded with a vacant stare, then shrank back into the booth.

  That was nothing like the reunion she had planned! What happened to playing it cool? What happened to acting like she couldn't quite remember him? Oh, hell. There was something about Brian Doren that irrevocably undid her reasoning and fried her brain cells.

  But then, she had always been a little over-dramatic.

  Chapter 4

  "I don't want you to worry about anything," Brian said gently but firmly into the telephone.

  "But if I go to the doctor again, I'll have to pay half the visit," his sister, Danny, said. "I can't afford that right now. And what would I even say? It's not like I have anything specific wrong with me."

  "That's bullshit," Brian argued, then softened his tone. "I mean, don't be ridiculous. You can go for a checkup whenever you want." He felt the familiar tightening in his chest. His sister was only twenty-five, seven-and-a-half months pregnant, and abandoned by her boyfriend, whom Brian had already made a mental note to tear apart if they ever came face-to-face. "Danny, if you even think that dizzy spell was something, you have to go. I told you, I'll pay for it."

  "B-but... I can't keep letting you do that...." Her voice trailed off miserably. Brian couldn't stand this. If only she wouldn't bother trying to resist his help, they could both save a lot of time.

  Danny wasn't stubborn by nature; she was a sweet, helpless angel, who didn't deserve this kind of stress. At least, that was what Brian's overprotective, older-brother instincts told him. Anyway, it was pride that was making her so crazy, and the last luxury she could afford at the moment was pride. "Listen to me," he said gently. "Please listen—please stop crying." Upon hearing his plea, she seemed to collect herself. "Don't worry about anything else but your health right now," Brian went on. "I mean it. I just mailed you a check. Go to the doctor, do whatever he says, and get whatever prescriptions you need, okay? Okay?"

  Danny sniffled lightly and mumbled, "Okay." Then she burst again. "Oh, I'm so sorry for all this trouble! It was probably nothing anyway."

  "Well, let's let the doctor decide that," he said, then hastened to add, "but I'm sure it's nothing, too."

  "Okay."

  Brian sighed, knowing that her pregnancy was making his sister more emotional than normal, and that the suppressed grief from losing her shit of a boyfriend wasn't helping. "It's all right; don't worry," he assured her. "Listen, I don't want you to even think about money. I'm going to take care of everything. All right?"

  "But what about after the baby's born?" she asked, her voice rising with renewed fervor. "Brian, you can't support us for the rest of your life!"

  "That's why we agreed you're gonna move to Florida with the baby, and live with Mom and Dad for a while."

  "Oh, yeah," she said softly. "I forgot."

  "But I'm still gonna help. That's just the way it is, so you might as well face it."

  "I know. I love you," she said, and bawled a little more before they hung up.

  Setting down his phone, Brian leaned back in his chair and swiveled it around to look out his apartment window. The view of Manhattan was definitely better from his office.

  He sighed, thinking about his family, and tried not to let too much anxiety creep into his chest. Danny was the only Doren left in Boston. Brian had moved to New York City five years ago, after helping his parents move to their retirement village in Florida. Danny had been doing fine on her own, working as an office assistant for a large personnel agency, until she'd found out that she was pregnant. Now Brian was trying to help her and his parents, and for some reason, things seemed like a mess.

  He felt tension invading his head, despite his attempt to unwind. He could tell within minutes that his cranium would be pounding relentlessly, as it did most nights. It wasn't just his family situation. It was his job, too—which, ironically, was the only thing allowing him to cope with his family situation.

  Several months ago, Manhattan C&S had landed an important account to build a giant corporate complex uptown. Even though Project Blue was in its early stages, it had already landed Brian one promotion, and if all went well, it would get him another by the following summer. The downside, of course, was that he was working his ass off day and night, and sometimes felt so overwhelmed by everything, he didn't know if he could handle it.

  But in the end, he always did. Yet that didn't say much for the quality of his life. "Sucked" summed up that pretty well. It was to the point that the only real enjoyment he had anymore was his daily lunches at Roland & Fisk, a bookstore a few blocks from his office. For one hour each day, he could sit and clear his head. He always had the beef mushroom soup and a double espresso while he read the newspaper. It was so peaceful there. Not to mention inexpensive—he didn't even have to buy the paper!

  Jesus, when had his existence become so pathetic?

  He should probably consider it a good thing, then, that his ex-fiancé, Veronica, wanted to reconcile. It would be so easy to slip back into their relationship. So easy not to be alone anymore. It should make him happy, but instead it mostly just confused him.

  Now he got up and walked to the foot of his bed, where he always kept his briefcase. He should really look over some of the latest development sketches before work tomorrow.

  But as soon as he picked the briefcase up, he knew he couldn't face it.

  Maybe in a few minutes.

  Lying back on the bed, he shut his eyes. An image of Reese Brock suddenly popped into his mind. He held on to it, smiling to himself when he remembered the place mat sticking to her belt loop, and how flustered she'd become. Had it really been two years since he'd seen her? He'd forgotten how incredibly
cute she was. Definitely, very, very cute...

  Brian had meant only to rest his eyes for a moment but, still in his shirt and shoes, he fell into an exhausted sleep.

  * * *

  Reese was finishing up breakfast, while her mother was sitting across the table staring at her. "Can I help you?" she said finally.

  Joanna shrugged haplessly. "No, no... I'm just worried about you, sweetheart. You don't seem like yourself."

  "I don't?"

  "Did something happen with Kenneth?"

  "No, nothing happened." In more ways than one—ever.

  "Well, you haven't mentioned him, and every time I do, you seem to avoid the subject." Take the hint. "Have you made plans to see him over break yet? Why don't you invite him here for dinner soon? I'll fix something special, and you two can work on your dissertations together. What's he doing for Christmas?"

  "Actually," Reese said, quickly rising from her chair, "I'm running late. I gotta go."

  "Okay, but what about Christmas? You know you can invite Kenneth here."

  "I know. You've only told me fifty times." She set her plate in the dishwasher, and prepared to bolt. "I'm sorry, Mom, I've really gotta go," she said, hurrying out of the kitchen.

  "All right, but remember what I said!"

  "Uh-huh," Reese called over her shoulder, snatching her jacket from the hall closet. She jetted through the door. Just as soon as she'd closed it, she heard it swing back open.

  "Bye-bye!" Joanna called. "And remember, Moms know best—have a great day!"

  * * *

  Reese pulled into the underground parking garage of Roland & Fisk, which had ten whole spots reserved for employees. It was first come, first served, unless you were a manager, in which case you got a wide outlined space, right by the elevator.

  Figuring she had no prayer of getting a space, Reese was absolutely elated when she saw a car pulling out of one. She glanced at the clock below the dashboard: 11:52 a.m. It had to be someone cutting out on the morning shift. Perfect, she could park and still have time to steal the last few sips of her coffee.

  Coffee was a particularly guilty pleasure at the moment because it was strictly prohibited at work. This was somewhat ironic considering that the cafe inside the store was a caffeine addict's wet bar, and an ode to every conceivable souped-up milk-and-coffee concoction that included an excuse for whipped cream. In truth, all refreshments were frowned upon, but since coffee was the one that people needed most to function, the store manager was especially strict about it. It clearly gave her a sick thrill. But then, with that god-awful personality, probably nothing and no one else would.

  Reese reached for her cup and took a long sip. Setting it back in the drink holder, she hopped out of her rosy little sedan and locked the door behind her, then hurried across the garage, her clunky brown heels clicking on the cement floor as she went.

  Once inside the elevator she tugged on some of her clothes to straighten herself out. Under her jacket, she wore boot-leg khakis that were too tight on her hips, and a chocolate-brown turtleneck sweater that barely concealed her rounded tummy. Okay, the diet starts tomorrow. (She'd already had a croissant for breakfast, with some fatty egg-cheese thing her mother made, inevitably containing a quart of heavy cream, so today was out.)

  On the ride up, she steeled herself for the wrath of her boss, Darcy Chipkin, who took totalitarianism to a new level. Darcy was always on the warpath about something, but because she was only twenty-three, everything came off more as a temper tantrum. Of course, the baby tees and face glitter didn't help.

  Darcy had been there since she was sixteen, and apparently had worked her way up. So bully for her. That didn't explain why, along the way, she'd developed no actual managerial skills, just a knowledge of the store and a bitter need to whip her subordinates into submission at every turn.

  The ultimate irony of Reese's job was that before she had applied, Roland & Fisk had been one of her favorite stores. But as soon as she'd begun working there, the place had lost a lot of its appeal. Sure, she got a 25 percent employee discount on books, and 40 percent on cappuccinos, so at least there was that. And the decor still rated high—big, roomy, and clean, with shimmery green carpet, warm lighting, and long wooden shelves punctuated by thick, suede armchairs.

  So it wasn't the actual physical place that had failed her. It was the spiritual place—the ambiance the place took on when it was put into an employee context, which inevitably included clock punching and disgruntlement.

  The elevator doors opened and let Reese off in the back of the store, right next to the dreaded break room, which always felt more like a sterile examining room than a place to unwind and luxuriate in the permitted fifteen minutes. She had a theory that the room was intended as a form of psychological torture—the only hole, of course, was that Darcy Chipkin wasn't that bright.

  Now Reese opened the door and entered the fluorescently possessed chamber of despair. As usual, there were a couple of people sitting at the table, not speaking. She smiled hello and, as usual, people averted their eyes and continued pretending to read.

  Nothing new. Most of the people at Roland & Fisk fell somewhere between unfriendly and mute. She'd never forget her first day there, when she'd learned that important lesson. She'd been excited about her new job, and had this corny vision that she'd arrive and see everyone ensconced in ice-breaker games and camaraderie.

  Hah! More like, she'd walked in and the managers hadn't stopped to introduce themselves. When Reese had said hello, nobody had even looked up! Finally, after several long moments, someone had motioned for Reese to go to the back, where others were unloading stock. She'd gone, and nobody had acknowledged her there either, or given her further instructions. They were all too busy mechanically opening boxes like drones.

  She'd asked what she could do to help, and a long silence had followed before a manager silently responded. He'd pointed to Reese, then to a box. A bizarre directive to say the least, but she got the point, and began unloading the box—hence joining the silent ranks of work mules who didn't believe in formal or informal introductions.

  That was the same day she'd met Elliot, who was also new. Her only impression of him had been that of a chubby little guy who didn't say much. But then out of the blue, when they were Windexing the front glass, he'd looked at her and whispered, "Bookstore or Gestapo headquarters? You decide." After that, she knew she'd like Elliot.

  Now Reese punched in on the wall computer. Good, she still had two minutes left on the clock. She might have enough time to swing by the new fiction table and check out the December releases. It wasn't like it paid to start her shift early—not when she was working in an environment where a "long" duration in the bathroom was docked as a sick day.

  On her way out of the break room, she stole a peek at the work schedule posted on the door, listing who would be working with her that day. Her eyes roved across the sheet until they landed on the names Rhoda Dobson and Clay Duckman. Oh, jeez.

  Rhoda and Clay both worked full-time at the store, and had to be the most pretentious people she'd ever met. The most basic problem with them was their shared delusion that if they sold books, shelved them, or in any way handled them in a professional capacity, they were part of the literati. Strange but true. They both earned eight dollars an hour, yet were imbued with so much elitism, they would mock customers who bought "mindless trash," rather than what Rhoda and Clay supposedly read, "very obscure poetry."

  Please.

  In many ways, Rhoda and Clay reminded Reese of the graduate students and professors at Crewlyn. More strangers she couldn't relate to—another place where she'd never truly belonged. Which begged the question, of course: Where did she belong? And with whom?

  Now she shuffled around the bend and cut a quick right toward fiction. One thing about working at Roland & Fisk: It kept Reese's desire to write fresh in her mind, surrounding her with so many gorgeous books....

  Just then, an unmistakable shrill voice shattered the mom
ent. "This isn't your post, Brock!"

  "Oh! I-I know; I was just on my way there."

  "Ooh, congratulations," Darcy mocked, and crossed her arms over her chest, partially covering the embossed glitter cursive that read Baby Girl with Attitude. It seemed totally inconceivable that Reese hadn't noticed how immature Darcy was when she'd interviewed for the job. She'd just thought she was "quirky." (Another hah!) "Quirky" implied some uniqueness of style. No, that was definitely not Darcy... who was twisting her pale blond hair around her finger while squinting her shimmery eyelids at her subordinate. "Now, maybe you'd better get to your post before you're docked for an extra lunch hour," she threatened—meaning it.

  "Right, okay." Teenybopper wench.

  "Now," she whined, snapping her fingers in rapid succession.

  Reese scrambled away, thinking, My life is definitely lacking something. She darted over to her post—known in lay-speak as the register. "Hi, guys, what's up?" she said to Rhoda and Clay, who were apparently engrossed in a conversation about feng shui.

  They both said hello, and continued their pseudointellectual exchange of half-witted pontifications. Meanwhile, Reese busied herself by straightening the little gift items that were sold behind the counter. Looking at her coworkers, she'd guess they were both around her age. Rhoda was tall and slim; she usually wore a turban around her hair, large hoop earrings, and a vintage Straight but Not Narrow pin on her collar.

  Clay, on the other hand, was preppy. Well, sort of. On more than one occasion, Reese had noticed a butterfly collar creeping out from under his J.Crew sweater. He had bleached-blond hair that was combed forward—a style Reese still struggled to understand, several years after its inception. He also wore black-rimmed glasses that angled up at the corners, reminding her of her late Nana, Maggie, except Nana's had been cooler.

  "So you switched your hours?" Rhoda asked casually.

  "Oh, yeah," Reese replied. "I'm on break from school now, so my days are free."