In the end, they book Hannah. Through it all, though, Zayne keeps hold of my hand, his fingers tight around mine, his touch giving me the strength to see through the end of this nightmare at last.
"I didn't know she worked at your company," he murmurs. "I haven't spoken to her in years. She sends me messages now and again, but I delete them unread-they're usually too crazy, too upsetting to read."
I shake my head. "It's okay. It's over now. Work will figure it out; I'll explain it all to my boss … "
When the police car lights finally fade in the distance, and we're left alone at last on the edge of Central Park, the last obstacle in our path finally removed, I collapse against him, relieved and exhausted at once. Zayne wraps his arms around me tightly, strong and reassuring as always, even now. Even after dragging up all of his own personal past shit, and confronting a person he used to care about, a person who has gone off the rails with her abuse.
"Did you mean what you said?" I murmur, tilting my head up to meet his gaze.
He smiles down at me. Plants a soft kiss on my lips. My strong savior, he doesn't even look ruffled, even after all of that. "What I said when?"
"In the bathroom. When Hannah was yelling at you, you said … " I pause. Shake my head, because my throat has gone tight again just remembering. "You said you know what real love is now … "
"I do." His eyes stay locked on mine, burning into me, snagging my gaze the way nobody else can. "You taught me that, Clove." He nudges my chin, tilts my head up further, and leans in to kiss me once more, slower, softer. When our lips part, I sigh, leaning unconsciously closer to him, our bodies pressed together. "I love you, Clove."
"I love you, Zayne." I laugh faintly, breathless. "It's crazy, but-"
"Who cares?" He grins and kisses me again, and that kiss is breathing again after years of drowning. That kiss is finally feeling all the puzzle pieces click into place. "I love you, you crazy beautiful woman."
"I love you, you crazy handsome doorman." I smirk, and he laughs and smacks my ass in response. "Do me one favor though?" I add, lifting an eyebrow.
"Anything for you." He runs a hand through my hair, smoothing it back from my forehead before he plants a soft kiss on my forehead.
"When we're telling everyone how we met, do not tell them you won me over with a sext message."
He bursts into laughter then, and sweeps me off my feet into a low dip, planting a kiss on me as he does. I laugh against his mouth, until the kiss turns deep, slow, serious, and our mouths part, his tongue entwining with mine, exploring my mouth. He straightens, draws me back up against him, and slides one hand down to grip my ass, pulling me up against him.
I arch my hips, lean against his strong body, and wrap my arms around his neck.
"I promise nothing of the sort," he murmurs, just before he dips to kiss along my neck, his mouth searing against my skin in the cool night air.
I sigh and let my head fall back, let him kiss me wherever he wants, touch me any way he wants. "Ah well, nobody's perfect," I reply in a whisper as he kisses along my throat now. "I suppose I can live with all of your friends thinking I'm a huge slut."
"As long as this particular slut is all mine, I'm happy." He winks.
I laugh and swat his shoulder.
In response, he dips to fling me over one shoulder. I cry out as he stands, and kick my legs in feeble protest. But he's already walking away from the park, toward our apartment building.
"Now, if you're my slut, I believe that means I should have my way with you … Again."
Those words send a spark of desire through me. I'm surprised to find that I'm already getting wet just thinking about what he'll do to me tonight when we get back to the apartment.
"Promises, promises," I repeat, and that earns me another spank, which sends shivers through me.
Okay, so one slutty photo may have nearly upended my life. But now that we have our privacy back, I have to admit, being slutty wasn't such a bad idea. After all, it landed me right in the arms of the hottie I never noticed standing right in front of me …
THE END
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The Pool Boy
The Pool Boy
Copyright © 2016 Penny Wylder
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or businesses, organizations, or locales, is completely coincidental.
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1
Vera
I read the email again for the third time, the disappointment sinking into my chest and sticking like glue.
Dear Ms. Caldwell,
Thank you very much for giving us the chance to consider you. We have reviewed your application and the supplemental materials you sent, but we are sorry to say that we are not able to offer you a position at this time.
Please feel free to continue checking our website so that you may apply again if another position becomes available.
Best,
The Essex Foundation Recruiting Team
P.S. We very much enjoyed meeting with you this past week. Please give our best to your father.
I don't understand what's happening here. I walked out of that interview feeling amazing. I connected with my interviewers, and they seemed genuinely interested in me. They also seemed really intrigued by my insistence on working in low-income areas. Plus, I rocked the test they gave me-hypothetical plans for a neighborhood square. What could have possibly gone wrong?
I guess it doesn't really matter why. Once someone turns you down, that's it. I sigh, grabbing a pen and crossing off The Essex Foundation from my list of applications. That's my twenty third rejection in the last three months. It's only the fourth time I even got an interview. I try not to take it personally anymore, but it feels personal.
I glance down at my list of outstanding applications. It's getting thin now. I'll have to take some time tonight to send some more out because I'm running out of time.
Wandering down to the kitchen, I grab a sleeve of Oreos from the secret stash that our chef Gregory keeps for me. It's definitely cookie time. I get a glass of milk and a fork and dig in, pushing the fork through the cream and dunking. I watch little air bubble pop up as the cookie absorbs the milk. Whoever thought of this combination should be added to the list of saints.
I'm halfway through the sleeve when my mother comes into the kitchen. "Uh-oh," she says, "I know that face and I know that snack." My mother pretends to understand my obsession with Oreos, though she doesn't. To her, processed food is the devil and all evil springs from it. But she tries not to judge too much. I shove another cookie in my mouth.
"Another rejection?" she asks.
"The Essex Foundation."
"Oh, sweetie, I'm sorry. I know you wanted that one."
I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, trying to gauge whether she's being sincere. Neither of my parents agrees with my professed choice of career, but just like the Oreos, my mom tries to give me as much support as she can. From the look on her face, she's actually a bit sad for me. That's nice.
She pours herself a glass of water and perches on a bar stool across from me. "What happened?"
The last thing I want to do is rehash everything I've been thinking about for the last hour, but I know better than to not answer. She'll just continue to ask me pointed questions until I do. I shake my head. "I honestly don't know. That was the interview I felt best about. The interviewers and I really had a great conversation, and I thought we connected. I was really confident about the sample materials I sent in. I just … I don't know."
"Well," my father's voice cuts across the kitchen, "If they didn't hire you, it's obviously not the right place for you. Time to move on."
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. My father is Timothy Caldwell. Yes, that Timothy Caldwell. Architect to the stars, builder of half the celebrity homes and high rises in L.A., and number one on the list of people who disapprove of my life choices. "I am moving on, Dad," I say, "I thought maybe I'd just take an hour to regroup." I dunk another Oreo a little too forcefully, causing some milk to spill onto the counter.
Dad comes into the kitchen and stands in front of my mother, who helps him fix his tie automatically. This has been one of their routines for as long as I can remember. Whenever my father goes out to meet a client, my mother gets the final polish. "How much longer?" he asks.