In Pursuit (8 page)

It’s another beautiful day in Chicago, and I have nothing on my agenda for an hour at least, so I decide to stroll through the neighborhood. I’m crossing Armitage, heading west toward some of the trendy shops, when a buzzing against my side alerts me that my phone is ringing. I dig into my bag to pull it out.

“Sarah!” I trill out loud. A woman pushing a stroller down the street gives me an odd glare and I blush, swiping my finger across the screen to accept the call.

“How did you know I wanted to talk to you?” I ask when I pick up the phone.

“It’s a best friend thing because I wanted to talk to you. I miss your voice, Eddie! When can I come visit?” Sarah asks.

“Um, tomorrow? I miss you, too. What are you doing?” We always ask each other this when we first get on the phone, even if we know what the other is doing. Sarah always says she wants to envision me and I’ve picked up her habit. Especially now that we are so far away, picturing her doing something at home is a familiarity I want.

“Walking out of a meeting from hell with Congressman Stephens’ wife. I never would have guessed someone from Louisiana could be so rude. The woman had no manners.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice. You know that’s why I left.”

“Bitch.” She sighs. “What are you doing?”

“Same as you, walking out of my new client’s house. Sar, she’s awesome. Yeah, a little stuffy, but once I got to know her we really clicked.”

“Who is she?”

“Claire’s best friend, Amanda McDaniel. Have you heard of her?”

“Yes, the Southern transplant and I have met a few times at charity galas.” Sarah runs in these circles with her familial connections. “She is sweet, and her husband is a fox. They married young, right?”

“She looks about our age, and she says they’ve been married for five years, so I’d say so.”

“I’m so happy for you.” Even though she says it, the words fall flat. The tone is more wistful than anything else.

“How you could ever leave a place like this is beyond me. The people are friendly and there are so many opportunities just waiting to be had.”

Sarah laughs halfheartedly, and in my mind’s eye, I can almost see her readjusting her posture and telling herself to straighten up when she responds. “Just wait until winter.”

Our cell phones have gotten a lot of exercise since I arrived in Chicago. Sarah and I send many text messages every day, so she knows that Claire’s shifts in temperament are throwing me off a little. The only thing I haven’t revealed to my best friend is my tenuous relationship with Claire’s big, scary, tantalizing, glorious, gorgeous brother. 

 “What’s going on?  Is something happening with Greg?”

Greg is Sarah's boyfriend. They’ve been dating for six years and, since Sarah is an interior designer like me, they live together in a well-decorated, colorful apartment. By trade, Greg is a lobbyist, by practice he is a devoted boyfriend to Sarah, doing whatever he can to make her happy. Including spending time with me and becoming the older brother I never had. Somewhere along the last six years, Greg became a fixture in my life. Before I moved to Chicago, he and I would cook dinners for Sarah (she abhors working in the kitchen, but loves designing them) and go for runs along the tidal basin (Sarah doesn’t exercise unless forced by knife-point).

I halt my walk at some park benches on Bissell, waiting for her to go on.

“No, no, nothing like that. It’s just different without you here. I feel like I’m seeing the city for the first time.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know, I’m just being dramatic. Let’s change the subject. I’m sending you a gift and you’ll get it very soon.”

“Sarah! You’ve already done so much.”

There’s no greater best friend than Sarah. She put up with my shyness in college, but also helped me break out of my shell a bit. Her family owns a liquor wholesale store in Chicago, so she was no stranger to the rules of booze in college and helped me navigate my way through alcohol, boys and demure tendencies.

“There’s never enough good things I can do for my best friend.”

My throat constricts, eyes becoming distorted with a salty liquid. “I’m so lucky to know you, Sarah.” A tear leaks out of my eye and I brush it away on a sniffle.

“Stop being a pussy!”

We laugh together.

Suddenly, I remember. “Hey, Sarah, there was one thing I wanted to ask you about.”

“What?”

“Who is Cooper Grant? Claire got all weird when I asked her about him.”

She gasps. “Oh, that’s right. I forgot you don’t know.”

“Know what?”

There’s a scuffle on her end of the phone. “I’m so sorry, Eddie, I have to go, I just ran into Natalie Hart.” She's a girl we went to college with. “I’ll call you later.”

She’s gone and I still don’t have answers.

W
orking one on one with clients is fun, but virtual styling really makes me happy. Attribute it to the introvert in me, but chitchat over tea and coffee is exhausting. With online clients, I can work without interruption. Most of my online design clients find me through my website, and we never meet in person.

Tonight, I’m focusing my efforts on a layout for one of my favorite clients. Beth and I have never met face to face, but I am responsible for the design of her living room, dining room and bedroom. She lives on the west coast, and we only communicate through email, phone and video chatting. I enjoy working with Beth, because she wants the relationships to be just as low maintenance as I do.

I’m rifling through some websites I’ve bookmarked with options for her den, when I hear the door to the apartment swing open and close with a clatter. It’s Thursday, so I’ve lived with Claire for less than a week, but I am now familiar with the door opening and closing with gusto. The Grant siblings don’t go anywhere quietly. Loud, surprising sounds don’t bode well with my clumsiness, but this time I am able to refrain from jumping at the sound.

I’m caught up in the middle of analyzing the dimensions of a green sofa, so I don’t notice that the person who just entered the apartment hasn’t chirped a friendly greeting to me. Only one other person that I know of has keys to the apartment, and I can feel him staring at me while I sit hunched over my laptop.

I ease back in my seat, eyes still on the screen and take a deep breath.
Is it possible to feel sex in the air?
He does something to me, makes me want something I’ve never had.
Toe curling sex.
The thought makes a blush color my cheeks.
Great, now you look like a preteen.
Still, he makes no sound to indicate he is staring at me.

“Hey,” I say softly, turning to him in my chair.

Harris steps over to the table. My breath becomes labored, and I’m sure if he looks close enough he’ll see my heart beating right through my thin tank top. He leans over my shoulder to view my computer screen. I stay frozen, inhaling his scent, trying to stay calm but failing miserably. So I start counting –
one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand –
looking for any way to gain my self control back.

“What are you working on?” His voice is raspy, like he has been talking all day and his vocal chords are strained. In, out, in, out, I feel his breath tickle the spot behind my ear. More than anything, I want to nuzzle the nook underneath his neck. Harris looks so firm, his embrace would be so warm.

“Well?”
Answer him!

“Oh, just working on a den for my client, Beth.” I turn my face toward his, and we’re just inches away from each other. Gray eyes meet blue ones inquisitively. “She lives in California, and I’ve been doing her entire house, room by room.”

Stop talking.
It’s an internal command and my lips listen, resting together as Harris continues to run his eyes across my face. I want to know what he's thinking, but if I say anything, it will only come out breathless. I wait. The moment keeps dragging on, neither of us saying anything further. It’s like an invisible force is pushing me closer and closer to him, until my lips are so close that they would tickle his if I talked.

“Your eyes are purple.”

He speaks!
And, oh, how those words feel. Warm, moist lips flicker over mine in a hint of contact.

Desire stirs deep in my belly, churning a feeling I’ve never encountered so thoroughly before: lust. I squeeze my thighs together, attempting to stifle the growing tingling sensation between my legs.

“My mom gave them to me,” I say dumbly. Does that even make sense? “I look like her, that’s what I mean.”

Dry mouth starts to demand attention, and I feel the urge to swallow.
Hold it in, Eddie. Just enjoy this for a few more seconds.
But then it happens, my throat constricts and it forces me to move back a couple of inches. We resume staring silently, the only noise our soft breathing and the whir of the air conditioning. My tongue slips out on its own volition to lick my dry lips. It isn’t meant to be a seductive gesture, but however Harris takes it, makes him jerk backwards and stand up straight. He takes two long steps around the side of the table.

“And this is how you pay your bills?”

Now he sounds like my father, who would often question the reliability of my career choice.

I look up to see his horrified expression, like he couldn’t believe what he had just said to me. Frankly, I’m in shock, too. It was a pretty ballsy comment from someone who drove me to the west side of the city to take photos for my blog.

I clear my throat, and my lips turn downward. “Actually, yes, and so far I’ve done a decent job. But I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

His mouth drops open. He’s not the only one surprised by my boldness.

“No, you’re absolutely right. I apologize.”

He should be sorry. I work damn hard
.

“Eddie, a package arrived for you.” It’s Claire coming into the apartment. Her airy voice breaks the awkward spell.

On shaky legs, I push to my feet. Carefully avoiding any eye or physical contact with the giant, I skirt around the table toward Claire’s voice and the slam of the front door.

Amazonian Claire is beaming at me and to her left –

“Greg!” I gasp. Yes, Greg as in Sarah’s Greg, as in the closest I’ve had to a brother Greg is standing before me in jeans and a blue gingham button-down. “What are you doing here?”

Long legs carry him to me and Greg whisks me off the ground and into his arms for a friendly hug. I breathe in his familiar, slightly squishy but warm embrace, and now I really feel like I want to cry. My friend came to see me just when I needed it. When he puts me down, I brush a wayward tear away.

“I’m here on business, so I thought I would – hey, why the tears?”

A hiccup almost breaks through, while I struggle to hold back a full fledged cry. “I’m just so happy to see you.”

“Who wouldn’t be?” He laughs. “Show me around your place.”

He wants me to stop crying, so I give it my best for him. Quickly blotting at my face, I turn my smile on and bring him into the living area.

“So you’ve met Claire, and that’s her brother Harris,” I murmur, still fleeing from his apologetic gaze. Greg strides confidently to Harris. Though a few inches shorter and far less muscular than the blonde that has me all twisted up, Greg shoots his hand forward to shake, like he doesn’t see that Harris is the most intimidating person in the history of people.

“I trust you both are taking care of my friend,” Greg says, and I groan in response to his over-protective teasing.

I move over to him and poke him on the arm. “I’m not twelve, Greg. But, yes, they have been incredibly kind to me.”

Harris clears his throat, nearly causing me to jump out of my skin. I give my attention back to my friend, blatantly ignoring Harris.

“Why don’t you tell me what kind of business you happen to have in Chicago the week I move here?”

He ruffles my hair affectionately. “You were always a quick study,” he jokes. “Sarah and I wanted to make sure you got settled in okay, so I arranged to have a client meeting here this week.”

I sigh in mock irritation, but can’t fight the grin off my face. He laughs at my attempt to look angry.

“Do you have dinner plans? There’s a barbecue place I love not far from here.” A New Yorker by birth, Greg has also become a frequent Chicago visitor from his trips with his girlfriend.

“That would be great.”

I retreat into my bedroom and quickly yank a brush through my hair, and apply a coat of lip gloss. White tank top and black cotton skirt seem appropriate for casual dining on a ninety degree day. I pass a quick inspection in the full length mirror, swing my purse over my shoulder, and return to the living room. Greg is sitting in the seat I vacated earlier in an attempt to hide from Harris, studying my computer.

“Great news,” Claire purrs from where she stands, watching my friend. “Harry and I are going to join you for dinner.”

How will I ask for Greg’s advice if you are there?

But out loud I feign enthusiasm. “Oh, great!”

Greg and Sarah usually catch on to situations that make me feel uncomfortable and help me extract myself from them quickly. Not this time, I guess.