Missed Connections (2 page)

My desktop is still packed in a blue plastic tub in a ridiculously overpriced storage facility with the rest of my furniture. Pete’s all about aesthetics, and even though mine’s a shiny new PC, he wasn’t about to let me clutter up his desk with it. I couldn’t argue—he’s let me stay here for free when I could have been kicked out on the street or, slightly better, been forced to move back in with my parents.

But that would have involved admitting that I’d been fired, which feels like admitting I’m a failure who can’t hack it in the corporate world because I’m not ruthless enough—like my dad said—and I can’t deal with that right now.

Because an ever-growing part of me suspects it’s true.

I type in Pete’s password to unlock the laptop and wait while it signs me in. The want ads have been pretty sparse lately, especially now that it’s July and students are out of school, sucking up jobs from people like me who need them to pay the bills. The bottom of the Employment Opportunity barrel has become my new stomping ground, but I head for Craigslist, excited to see some new postings have popped up.

My excitement dims considerably as I read the first ad.

Sexy Executive Administrator Wanted

Candidate should be intelligent, organized, efficient, playfully sexy, positive, fun, flirty, and, of course, highly effective in all business tasks required.

Playfully sexy? What the hell?

Interested parties should reply with résumé and a recent photo.

Because looks are crucial in your ability to type eighty words per minute.

Our client is a successful businessman who—

Probably wants to spank the executive assistant over his desk. Yeah, this ad has
escort
written all over it. No thanks.

The next ad is a more standard one for a switchboard operator/receptionist for a busy company in the energy sector. With each passing week of unemployment, the jobs I’m willing to do have branched out considerably from my field. This posting doesn’t list salary, but the company usually pays fairly well, so I quickly send a résumé to the email address they’ve provided, hoping I’m not the 273rd person to apply. Not my dream job, but at least it doesn’t ask for a recent pic and a safe word.

I’m woefully underqualified for the next seven ads, and the following six don’t pay enough to sustain me, even though I’ve lowered the bottom of my pay range a few times in the last three weeks. The next two ads aren’t seeking employees—they’re advertising a medical office assistant school, which I don’t want and can’t afford, even if I was interested.

The last new posting is one I replied to and interviewed for three weeks ago. The guy interviewing me stared at my tits the whole time and called me the wrong name while he had my résumé in his hand. They called me for a second interview, but I never replied. I needed a scalding shower after being in his presence for half an hour; I couldn’t bear the thought of working as his PA forty hours a week.

For now, my desperation has limits.

Though I should go to another site to look at more job postings, I click back to the main page, needing a pick-me-up. Personals. My heart begins to pound a little, and I throw a look over my shoulder, even though I’m alone. I click on Missed Connections, click forward again, acknowledging I’m over eighteen and blah, blah, blah. Then I’m in, and a rush of anticipation streams through me. Maybe today is the day I’ll read a post about myself.

This became a habit of mine shortly after I lost my job. After a particularly long day of poring through postings, I got curious about the Personals section—a place I’d never checked out, assuming they were all generic romance ads. Women seeking men for long walks in the park. Older guys looking for sweet young things to inject a little energy into their lives. If you love piña coladas and hate cats… But it was nothing like that.

These were things people had written about other people they’d seen in real life! A note to the stranger they’d shared a look or a moment with and wanted to find. God, it was so romantic, I was gripped from the first post I read. I’d had moments with guys. Maybe one of them was my soul mate, and he’d noticed me in the crowd of faceless commuters. Some of the entries were full of poetry and admiration and a hope so raw it took my breath away.

Some were crude, looking for hookups and nothing more, but if my true love is out there, he wouldn’t post something like that. Maybe I’m naive to still believe in romance. Maybe love won’t find me this way.

But maybe it will.

That hope makes me read through the ads nearly every day, looking for applicable experiences. In my darkest moments, when I’m licking my wounds after another failed day looking for someone who wants me as an employee, I can read these listings and hope to find someone who wants me as their Missed Connection.

When the apartment is empty, of course. Pete would never let me live this down if he knew what I was up to.

Yet another reason I need my own apartment again. Gorging on guilty pleasures isn’t as satisfying when you have to keep one ear alert for the sound of your roommate’s key in the lock. I scroll down the page to the next ad.

Train Girl

I take trains to interviews sometimes.

I see you every day on the 8th Street platform wearing those killer heels.

Not me, then, since my schedule is all over the place lately and I don’t wear heels every day.

I’d love for you to walk all over me with those—

Aaand I’m glad that one’s not about me. Next.

The One Who Got Away

That could be me. I’ve loved and lost.

I regret not going with you every day of my life. You had to leave, but I didn’t realize that I didn’t have to stay. I tore us apart, not you. I’ve missed you every day for twelve years. I hope you found happiness. xo Cara

Not about me, but that’s so sad, to pine for someone for twelve years. I wonder why she never went after him, or her. Of course, twelve years ago, the Internet wasn’t what it is today. It would have been harder to find someone if they moved away and you didn’t have their contact information.

The doorknob rattles, and I jump in my chair and fumble for the mouse, barely getting back to the main page of Craigslist before the door is unlocked and opened.

My heart pounds harder when I realize it isn’t Pete.

Chapter 2

It’s his identical twin brother. Perfect teeth, perfectly tousled light-brown hair, eyebrows that have a devilish arch to them. I always want to nibble the smile from his lips. “Hey, Sarah.” Jack’s blue eyes light up with the warm smile he shines at me. The tiny mole under the bottom outside corner of his left eye shouldn’t be sexy, but it is. “How are you?”

This face is familiar, but Jack affects me so very differently than Pete. Not just because Pete’s gay and Jack isn’t. How am I?
Tingly now that you’re here.
“I’m good. You?”

“Pretty good.” He closes the door behind him, treating me to a nice peek at his tight ass and the strong lines of his back beneath the thin fabric of his T-shirt. God, he has nice shoulders. He pulls the bottom of his T-shirt away from his body and waves it, allowing cool air beneath—and giving me flashes of abs. “Hot out there.”

Hot in here now too. “Yeah.”

“Pete around?”

Want but can’t touch.
I wrestle my hormones into submission. “Nope.”

“He still at the salon?”

“I’m not sure. He was sleeping when I got up and then gone when I got back from my interview a few minutes ago.”

He strides into the galley kitchen and rests a trim hip against the counter. “Had to have been a hair emergency to get him out of bed before noon on a Sunday.”

“True.”

“How did your interview go?”

I smooth my ponytail in what I hope is a casual manner, feeling self-conscious about my tiny shorts and tank top. “I think it went well, but they said they had a few more applicants to go through. And they’re a little strange.”

“Strange how?”

How much can I say without sounding judgmental? “They’re hippies.”

“As in cool stoners? That might be kind of sweet having them as your bosses.”

“I don’t know about that, but I suspect there’s going to be a lot of talk of chi and auras.”

“Ah, New Agers.”

“Yes.” Resting an elbow on the desk, I prop my chin in one hand. “And they haven’t let the person whose job I’d be taking know she’s fired yet.”

He grimaces. “Harsh.”

“But I’d work there in a heartbeat if they’d have me.”

He crosses his arms, and I try not to ogle them. “They’d be stupid not to hire you.”

“Thanks, Jack.” His earnestness makes me smile.

“I know you said before you couldn’t waitress, but they make awesome tips. I could—”

“I know you have all kinds of connections, but I couldn’t work as a waitress at one of those clubs. I don’t have the coordination. There’s a reason you guys never let me carry the drinks back to the table. I’d end shifts owing more than I’d made.”

“Fair enough. So—” he says, as my cell phone vibrates against the desktop.

“I’ve got to get this.” I hold up my hand. “Sarah speaking.”

“Hi, Sarah, this is Fern. From Inner Space?”

“Hi, Fern.”
It’s them
, I mouth at Jack. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. Listen, I just wanted to call to let you know that unfortunately”—damn it—“our old receptionist found out we were interviewing and came in for an ugly confrontation before she stormed out, so we’re going to need you to come in tomorrow morning.”

Wait.
“You mean I got the job?”

“Oh yes, didn’t I say?”

I punch the air. “No! Thank you, Fern. I will definitely be there. What time do you need me?”

“You’ll be working Monday to Friday, leaving around six. Is ten too early?”

Too early? The firm had me start work at seven—and now I’ll get weekends off. “Ten is perfect.”

“Great. See you tomorrow.”

“Bye.” I end the call and spring to my feet. “I have a job.”

“Congratulations!” Jack holds his hand up, but our high five turns into an enthusiastic hug.

And here, pressed up against his warm, muscular length, with my face to his chest, I remember why he’s off-limits. Because I want him so very much, and he’s so very wrong for me.

But for once, I don’t care.

I tighten my embrace and breathe deeply, holding his scent in my lungs because I want any part of him inside me right now. His hand splays across my lower back and presses me closer, but no lines are crossed except those in my mind…where we’ve already done everything. Twice. My skin’s cooled from the air-conditioning, but he’s still warm from the heat outside, making the difference even more interesting. How would those heated hands feel trailing up my thighs…

Pulling back, I slowly drag my gaze from his chest to his face. I’ve wanted Jack from the moment I saw him six years ago at a house party, spinning records in the basement. Ten minutes later, I’d learned his nickname. DJ Madhead. My gay best friend’s identical twin.

He licks his lips.

Oh, Jack is sex personified and he knows it. The trouble is, a lot of other women know it too. A lot of women. Too many women.

And I refuse to be just another car on the train. Man whores are firmly off-limits; I’ve seen what cheating can do to people. My mom tore my dad’s heart out again and again. The worst part is he always takes her back. His pride is the least of my worries. It’s the stress that she puts on his heart that worries me and reminds me to never date a potential cheater—no matter how pretty they are, or how pretty their words are. I’ve heard variations on every justification in the book from my mother’s lips.

But even if all that changed, Jack’s rampant Peter Pan syndrome would still keep him from being an option. He’s a DJ. His office is a dance floor covered with intoxicated people. Late nights, flashing lights. How could I live like that, never seeing him? Never getting to spend more than a few hours a week or a stolen moment on a noisy dance floor? How could I compete with all the women who throw themselves at him? I want more for myself—I
need
more. As lame as it may make me, I need someone who’s serious about the future, about me—not just a hot guy who refuses to grow up.

So, despite the quickening of my pulse every time Jack comes near, nothing will ever happen between us. With a sigh, I step back, breaking contact, and head to the living room, hyperaware of him as he follows and sits on the opposite end of the couch, giving me the space I don’t want but need.

He picks up the conversation as if he hadn’t noticed the weirdness.

“They want you to start tomorrow? That’s awesome.”

“Definitely.” Though it’s weird that the old receptionist had to be the deciding factor in me getting hired. Maybe it just sped up the timeline and they had chosen me already.

The door swings open and bangs against the wall. “Honey, I’m homo!” Pete calls out.

“God, you’re such a caricature,” I call with a grin.

“I’m a campy delight.” He and his shopping bags rustle into the kitchen.

“Your brother’s here.”

“Good. I could use a big, strong man to help me with these heavy bags while I freshen up. I’m sweating like a hooker in church.”

Jack rolls his eyes at me but moves to help Pete. I follow, trying not to notice how great Jack’s ass looks in those jeans. Pete’s already deposited the grocery bags on the counters when we reach the kitchen, so I stay out of the way while Jack helps him put stuff away.

They move with a similar grace, but Pete’s a little softer and flows more, while Jack’s like a slinky jungle cat. There’s something about the way he walks that has always hit me right in the nether regions. Other than style choices and Jack’s adorable mole, they are shockingly identical. Jack’s hair is still their natural light brown and lacks the dyed, lacquered finesse of Pete’s. Pete’s eyebrows are also more groomed, but they don’t look overdone. He’s a junior aesthetician and stylist at a trendy, upscale salon in Manhattan, and he does amazing work. I trust no one else with my hair.