Big Chicas Don't Cry(31)

I stayed sitting as everyone else stood up to leave. Kat always expected me to put away the laptop and display boards and clean up the coffee cups and croissant trays after all client meetings. So I gathered the papers on the table and started to power down the laptop. That’s when I noticed that she’d left behind her cell phone. I grabbed it and was just about to run out the door after her when she appeared.

“I knew I forgot something,” she said.

“I was just about to go find you,” I explained, handing her the phone.

Of course, she didn’t thank me. “Did you look at my texts?”

“What? Of course not.”

She scrolled through her phone, smiled, and then stuffed it into her pants pocket. Her smile disappeared. “I was going to meet with you later about this, but I have to run out for an errand and might not be back for the rest of the day,” she said. “I’ve decided to bring in Rebecca to handle the social media strategy for this account.”

My heart dropped. “I don’t understand. I think I proved that I—”

“You did fine today, but I’m not convinced your approach is what Cup of Sugar needs.”

“Mr. Anderson seemed to like my approach.”

I couldn’t help but add the dig.

Her eyes narrowed even more. “Yes, well, Mr. Anderson isn’t your boss. Besides, you’re not going to have the time to devote to an account of this magnitude. We have some new campaigns starting up, and you’re going to be up to your eyeballs in status reports.”

As soon as Kat left the room, I collapsed into a chair. What the hell had just happened? I’d totally given a damn good presentation. Especially since I’d had absolutely no advance preparation—and she knew that. How could she take me off the account? It wasn’t fair.

But I refused to cry about it. That wasn’t my style.

Instead, I picked up my phone from the table and texted Nathan.

Guess I was going to plan a visit to New York after all.





Chapter Sixteen


MARI


The warm water felt good. It was a quiet Sunday, and I took advantage of it by going for a quick dip in my heated backyard pool.

I was always a pretty good swimmer. It was the one good thing I inherited from my dad. Supposedly, he’d won lots of high school swim meets back in the day (according to my welita). So before I could even walk, my dad put me in our apartment complex’s pool and taught me to tread water. Also, according to Welita, he used to call me his “pescadito.” Something I also don’t remember.

What I do remember is that every summer until we were eleven or twelve, my cousins and I took swimming lessons at the local public pool. While they stayed in the basics class in the shallow end, I quickly moved into the advanced group on the deep side. My abuelo would drive us there and then sit in the car listening to the radio while we had our lesson. He’d always make a big deal about us getting his car seats wet, so we’d sit on our towels and shiver the whole ride home.

I ended up making the swim team in high school, but dropped out halfway through my first season. My dad had made a big deal of wanting to come to the meets, so rather than tell him I didn’t want him there, I just quit.

I was just coming up for air on my tenth lap when I noticed a pair of expensive men’s dress shoes standing at the edge of the pool. I rubbed the water out of my eyes, slicked back my hair, and saw my husband looking down at me.

“I love watching you swim,” he told me. Even with a chlorine haze, I could see the desire in his eyes.

It turned me on immediately. “I know. Why don’t you take off your shirt and jump in? I could teach you a few strokes.”

“As tempting as that sounds, I just came out to let you know I was home, but I’m leaving again.” He bent down just as I’d propped myself up on the edge of the pool with my elbows. “Finish your swim.”

I wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easy. Especially since it had been days since we’d made love. “No, that’s okay. I was done anyway. Wait there, and I’ll get out and walk with you back to the house.”

Pushing myself away from the edge, I gave him a sly smile. Then I turned to dive underneath the water. I knew I was showing off my swimming skills, but I actually had another type of show in mind. I wanted him to watch me walk out of the pool. I was wearing one of my sexiest bikinis—it was white with silver loop trimming—and I was grateful to be able to model it in front of him.

Once I arrived at the shallow end, I slowly stood and walked up the three steps so he could take a good long look. The cool air ignited goose bumps along my skin, and I shivered. Esteban grabbed my striped towel from one of the loungers and wrapped it around my shoulders.

I raised my head to kiss him, but he pulled away.

“You’re going to get me wet,” he whispered.

“That’s the idea,” I whispered back with a smile.

“We can’t.”

“Sure we could. I’m already half-naked.”

“Chris is inside waiting for me.”

At the mention of Chris’s name, I took a step back. “Chris? Why?”

“We’re headed to Santa Monica to meet a new client for dinner. I told you about it last night.”

Bits and pieces of the conversation began to come back. The one we’d had while he was in the shower and I was brushing my hair before bed. That’s what constituted quality catching-up time during trial mode.