Have You Seen Me?(40)

I frown, momentarily at a loss. “It must have been my researcher, who’s helping me on my next book,” I tell him. “But I can’t imagine why she’d want to speak to someone in that role.”

He doesn’t respond, simply studies me. The silence unrolls like a ball of yarn.

“Damien, I never suggested she talk to anyone at Greenbacks,” I continue, more insistence in my voice this time. “So that call doesn’t explain why I showed up out of the blue. And you and I didn’t have any contact prior to this, did we?”

Another few beats of silence.

“We haven’t talked since you left,” he says coolly. “Per your request.”

“Per my request? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You made it clear after you broke things off that you didn’t want any personal contact with me.”

I nearly gulp in surprise. I have no clue where this is coming from.

“Damien, I wasn’t the one who ended things.”

“No?”

“All I did was suggest that we take a break since people seemed to be wise to us.”

“Kind of a breather, then? And we’d pick up again after the gossip died down?”

“Until I found another job. Or went out on my own.”

“Months later.”

“Well, what we were supposed to do?”

“Keep seeing each other? It was hardly against the rules. I own the damn company, remember?”

I can’t believe any of this—not only what he’s saying but the edge in his voice. I’m almost relieved when the waitress lays the check on the table.

“Look,” he says, his tone softening, “I’m sorry if what I said upset you. That’s the last thing you need right now.”

“It’s okay.” I’m trying not to sound as flustered as I feel. “I appreciate you reaching out—and sending my coat over, too. I guess your assistant found it in the conference room.”

“Actually, I found it.” He fishes a few bills from his wallet and lays them on top of the check. “I went back in there afterwards—to see if you’d left anything.”

He stuffs both arms in his topcoat, readying to leave. I’m briefly tempted to tell him I’m going to stay for another coffee, so I can avoid an awkward good-bye on the sidewalk. But I realize that the awkward good-bye would only happen in here instead.

After I pull on my own coat and rise, Damien gestures for me to lead and I snake through the tables with him trailing me. Outside, the wind whips my hair into my face.

“Take care,” he says. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help.” Leaning forward, he brushes his lips across my cheek. Even in the cold, raw air, I feel my face redden in surprise. He’s gone before I can manage a good-bye.

I wait until he’s far ahead and then hurry toward Broadway myself. As I walk, I check my phone and spot a text from Hugh from a few minutes before: Home in thirty or so, he says. Everything okay?

Yes, all good, I write back. See you soon. I pick up my pace so he won’t beat me there, leaving me to explain where I’ve been.

The urgency distracts me a bit but still, I’m rattled. About the exchange with Damien. About the cool breeze that suddenly blew through the conversation. About his announcement that I dumped him.

Does he really think that? Or has he been rewriting history to serve his own purposes?

There’s also the fact that he has no more idea than I do why I surfaced at Greenbacks. At this point it seems Mulroney is my only hope.

Halfway home, I decide to make a pit stop at a gourmet grocery store, where I pick up chicken cutlets cooked in a mushroom sauce, fresh broccoli, a head of lettuce, and a wedge of triple crème cheese. Surely it’s going to take more than one evening to get things back on track with Hugh, and so why not make dinner special again? Recalling Gabby’s advice, I realize she hasn’t contacted me today. Knowing her, I’m surprised she hasn’t touched base. But at the same time I’m sure she’s jet-lagged and bogged down with work.

I’m turning the key in the door to the apartment when my phone rings. Maybe that’s Gabby, I think, but Sasha’s name flashes on the screen. Calling to fish for compliments, I’m sure.

“Do you have a minute to talk?” she asks. I can tell from the background noise that she’s on the move, probably in a cab or Uber.

“Sure, but give me a second, okay?” Lowering the phone, I drop the shopping bags on the counter and tug off my coat.

“Okay, I’m here,” I say, using my free hand to begin unpacking the bags.

“So how do you feel the podcast went? I was hoping I’d hear from you afterwards.”

“Sorry, I was really busy . . . I thought it went well. Good show. I appreciate all the preparation you did.”

“But what about my segment? Did you like it?”

I’ve been so preoccupied this afternoon with the Mulroney contract and the meeting with Damien that I haven’t thought for a moment about what to tell her. I refuse to lie—that would be of zero value—but I can do my best not to ruffle her feathers.

“It was a good start. I have a few suggestions, though—some little ways to improve going forward.”

“I’m all ears,” she says. Maybe so, but I can sense from her tone that her back is already up.