Call Me Saffron (Greenpoint Pleasures) (14 page)

“No, that’s okay.” I set my stuff down.
 

“It’s just—my apartment is too quiet. My brother’s up in Boston for an overnight, meeting with a prospective client. And I’m…” She shook her head. “I’m not good being alone with my thoughts right now. Everything echoes inside my head, and it makes it all worse. But I’ll go.” She looked as bleak as I felt.
 

When had I become the repository for everyone’s pain? Me, the one who corralled my heart off with barbed-wire fence posts.
 

But I picked up the pizza box. Alanna had sketched Georgette, asleep on the couch. She’d captured the crease the edge of the throw pillow was making against Georgette’s cheek, her friend’s wide cheekbones, a stray curl falling across her forehead. “You’re an artist.”
 

“Yeah. I’ve worked at a few ad agencies. You’ve probably seen my stuff on TV. The toothpaste commercial, the one where you see the important moments in a girl’s life?”

“Where she loses her first tooth and then the kiss with braces where they get stuck, and the hilarious wedding cake…?”

“That’s the one.” She sounded wistful.
 

I sensed a story, but it was late and I was tired. I gave her back the pizza box and went to the kitchen, where I grabbed a bottle of coconut water and uncapped it.
 

Alanna went back to sketching her friend’s sleeping visage on the pizza box. “Your roommate told us about the fake call girl thing.”

I spilled liquid on my top and quickly blotted it with a kitchen towel. “Did she also tell you it was her idea? That he was supposed to be her client?”

“So she actually
is
a call girl? For real?”

I screwed up my mouth, annoyed for no good reason. “For real. But it’s not like you think.”
 

“Whatever. We all have secret lives, right?” Her blond head bent over her work, but her foot came up to rub against her other calf. “It’s none of my business, so tell me to shut up if you want—but don’t let him think you’re something you’re not. It’ll bite you in the ass.”

“Don’t I know it.” I chugged the rest of the drink and tossed the bottle toward the bright blue recycling bucket. “He knows, though. He didn’t, that first night. But he found out.”
And that was when things got complicated.
I faked a yawn. “I’m off to bed. Stay as long as you want.”
 

I went to my room and closed the door softly, stripped out of my clothes, and slipped under the chilly sheets. But I could hear Alanna’s pen softly scratching on the cardboard out in the living room, Jeanine’s sleep snorts from her bedroom across the hall, and the sounds of a city night out the window: a dog bark, a distant siren, a foghorn on the river. Light played on the ceiling, and my memories played in my head. Me with Dylan, my parents together. My mother alone. Persephone, looking mournfully at Dylan, knowing what she’d lost, and then so painfully false with her French lover. I didn’t fall asleep until long after Alanna left the apartment, the door latch clicking quietly into place behind her.

Chapter Twelve

Monday morning, I was standing by the coffeemaker at work waiting for it to finish brewing when Fernando came by, dressed in a bright blue blazer and fiery red-orange tie. He looked like a Playmobil version of a corporate executive.
 

“Morning, Samantha. Glad you’re here. I need you on Juniper.”

“But I told you I didn’t—”

He waved at me. “That was preferential treatment. That would have been wrong. This is me. I need your skill set. And it doesn’t hurt that you know Krause, since you’ll be reporting to him.”
 

“But that would be—” I hesitated, then dove in. No secrets. “What if he and I—what if we’d had something?”

“Romantic, you mean?” He looked amused.
 

I could feel the heat in my cheeks like a bonfire. “Yeah.”
 

“Are you currently seeing him?”
 

Friday night, sex in the hotel. Friday night later:
“Thank you for coming, Samantha. Friend.”
 

Maybe.
“Not exactly.”

“Did you end things amicably?”

“I guess.”
 

“Then I don’t see a conflict. But tell me if things get strange.”
 

“And you’ll take me off the project?”

“No, I need your analytical eye. You can report to someone else at Juniper, if need be. I’ll talk to him about it today, make sure things are squared away. Just in case.”
 

The coffee finished brewing with a burble and a pout. Fernando snagged the mug I’d chosen and poured himself a cup. I pictured the conversation between Fernando and Dylan:
“Are you sleeping with her? What are your intentions?”
 

“You know what? It’ll be fine.” I gave him as sincere a smile as I could manage and took another mug down from the cabinet.
 

After I’d doctored my coffee with a big dollop of milk and two teaspoons of sugar, I emailed Dylan.
It looks like I’ll be working under you. What do you need done?

He emailed back right away. I winced at the sexual innuendo I’d left myself open to, but his email was equally straightforward.
We’re considering a potential storefront property. Go to the location. Take photos of every angle, and measurements too. Email them to me ASAP so we can nail this down.
He included the address.
 

He hadn’t signed it in any personal way. Just his .sig.
 

I stared at the email for a long moment. Really? Nothing personal at all? Never mind that mine was strictly professional. I was the underling. I had to be excruciatingly correct. But Dylan could have said
thanks for Friday night.
Or
I had a bad hangover.
Anything.
 

Was he having second thoughts about how vulnerable he’d been Friday night? Was that it?

My stomach felt sour. I got up to check on the expiration date of the milk I’d used in my coffee. In retrospect, it hadn’t tasted right.
 

The milk was good through the end of the week. It smelled sweet and creamy. I tilted my head back and let a drop fall onto my tongue. It tasted like butterfat childhood.
 

“Samantha! What are you doing?” Rudy was staring at me as I put the carton down.
 

“I didn’t touch it to my lips. Don’t tell anyone.”
 

“Of course not.” He still stared at me.
 

“Do I have a milk mustache?”

“You seem different.” His gaze swept over my outfit, then back up to my face. “Unbuttoned.”
 

I felt my blouse reflexively, realizing I’d left the top two buttons undone this morning. I was showing a hint of cleavage for a change. I almost fastened them but dropped my hand. After all, why not? Fernando hadn’t objected. I was still work safe.
 

“No, you look great. Kinda hot.” He raised one eyebrow. “Is that okay to say? Will you report me for sexual harassment?”

I smiled wider than I’d intended. “I can handle it.”

He grinned back. “You’re changing. I like it. If you want to reconsider hanging out with me outside of work, let me know. Offer’s still open.”
 

I could, at that. Test Rudy’s kiss against Dylan’s, see if my body responded to his light, playful touch. “I’ll think about it.”
 

His mouth twisted. “Never mind.”

“No. Really. I will.”
 

He nodded. “Good, then.” He rummaged in the office fridge and pulled out a tray of cut-up cantaloupe, then went off to his desk to eat.
 

My flirtation with Rudy made it easier to go to the job site and not think about Dylan the entire time I was there. Just half the time. Maybe three quarters. But in my defense, it was on Seventy-Second Street between Amsterdam and Columbus, close to his apartment. I’d strutted past here in my high heels that first night, back in May. This storefront had been an indie bookstore. Empty shelves still lined the walls and empty magazine carousels adorned the center space, as if waiting for a new shipment.
 

All quiet now. Not unlike my life. My circumscribed, self-limited life.
 

What had Alanna said? That silence made her thoughts echo unbearably?
 

I took shots from multiple angles, jotted down measurements, and got out of there. It wasn’t a suitable space anyway. Not enough light. Too narrow. Fine for a bookstore, where you could get lost in the stacks, but not good for a furniture store where the pieces had to glow with invitation and the promise of a good life.

It was starting to drizzle as I walked to the subway. I hesitated before crossing Columbus. Dylan’s apartment was one block north. He wouldn’t be there, of course. He’d be at work.
 

I walked to Central Park West in the rain and took the subway downtown. I didn’t get off at Thirty-Fourth Street to go back to the office, though. Instead, I stayed on the B all the way to Broadway-Lafayette. SoHo. Juniper Designs’ main office on West Broadway and Prince.
 

I would show Dylan the photos in person. I wanted to see his face. Know where we stood. And maybe if I saw him, I’d know how I felt too.

~*~

Juniper Designs was an open, airy space, with their signature furniture scattered around the large SoHo loft space. Dylan’s office was at the back, in the far right corner. Naturally.
 

Dylan half-rose from his chair, then sat back down, making a sweeping gesture between me and the two other people in the room. “Beth, Fritz, this Sa—Samantha Lilly.” The stutter was so smoothly covered, nobody but me could possibly know he’d been about to say Saffron. “She’s a junior architect with Alvarez.”

Beth, an elegant older woman perched on the low-slung modernist couch, gave me a look. Her narrow legs were tightly crossed and her gaze conveyed authority. “You’re working on the storefront?”

“I just came from the Seventy-Second Street site. I thought you’d like to see.” I gestured with my pocket camera.
 

Fritz held his hand out. He could have been Dylan’s older brother, with mussed dark hair and cheekbones so sharp they’d cut you if you came too close.
 

I glanced at Dylan. He nodded, all business. So much for a
tête-à-tête
.
 

“It would be better to view the images on the computer screen.” But I handed over the camera.
 

Fritz thumbed through them fast, then handed the camera to Beth. Dylan came around the desk and looked over her shoulder. Nobody said a word.
 

When they finished, Dylan handed the camera back to me. His fingers brushed against mine, sending a jolt of recognition through me.
This touch. This man. Yes.
 

His gaze caught mine briefly. The hunger was back but banked before he turned back to his colleagues with raised eyebrows. “Told you.” He crossed his arms and leaned back against the desk.
 

Beth turned to me, her lips quirked. “I want to hear what our young architect thinks of the space.”

Me? I looked at Dylan for help, but he wasn’t giving me anything. Some friend. “I’m only here dropping off the pictures.”

“You don’t have an opinion?” Dylan’s voice was deceptively soft. “Unusual.” Yup, soft but with a hidden bite.
 

You couldn’t get fired for having an unpopular opinion, could you?
 

Of course you could. And though Fernando was currently amused with me, if I screwed things up with Juniper, I wouldn’t be so funny anymore.
 

Still, I wasn’t going to prevaricate. “It would be a disaster. The light’s all wrong. It makes the space feel oppressive. And there’s no real freight entrance. To move furniture in and out, you’d have to reconfigure the back entirely, and I’m not sure you could get a variance for the freight entrance you’d need. The community board up there is prickly, I hear.”

“So you’re saying it’s not a flexible space. It’s not open to change.” Dylan’s words definitely had a bite to them. Why? I thought we were friends. I thought Friday night brought us closer. What was this about? What did he expect from me?
Open to change,
what did that even mean?
 

But I persevered as if we were talking about the potential storefront, not our personal lives. “There are better choices. Even if they’re not quite as convenient for you to roll out of bed and be in the showroom five minutes later.”

Fritz and Beth gave me startled glances, and I realized my faux pas. There was no way some random underling at Alvarez would know where a top executive at Juniper lived.
 

“I mean, I heard you live around there.”

He gave me an approving look. “You heard right. But I wasn’t in favor of the site.”

I exhaled, but quietly, so they couldn’t tell I’d felt my entire body go from DEFCON Five back to normal. Thank God. I hadn’t just killed my career.
 

“So we find another space.” Beth turned to me. “Where do you suggest?”

“I heard the big pharmacy on Eighty-Sixth is shutting its doors. There was some talk of Banana Republic moving in, but I don’t think it came to anything.”
 

“Get up there, take some shots for us. Report back.” She turned to Dylan. “Now, about the Jurgen chair, here’s a mock-up, but I think it’s not going to work with the wood.” She tapped on her tablet screen and turned it to face him.

Clearly dismissed, I turned to go, feeling perversely disappointed.

~*~

I didn’t go back uptown to take more pictures. Dylan’s bossy compatriot could wait until tomorrow. I had other work to do, after all, and a job that didn’t involve all Dylan, all the time.
 

Which didn’t make it easier to block the man from my thoughts. Back at my station at Alvarez and Associates, I chewed on the end of my mechanical pencil and stared at the Newark building drawings one more time. I’d managed to put in bathrooms and even doors this time, but it was flat and boring. An office complex like thousands of others. It needed curved wood, track lighting, warmth.