Page 105 of The Cruiser
ChapterThirty-Seven
TWO MONTHS LATER
“Vans?” Vaughn knocks on my office door, pokes his head in. “You busy?”
I push back from my computer with a smile. “I always have time for you.”
He steps inside, surveying the minor mess strewn across my desk. This whole morning has been an art direction show-and-tell from hell. A new client wanting feedback on their branding switch-up.
“How did the open house go this weekend?” he asks.
“Great,” I say. “The realtor created a bidding war. It’ll probably sell this week.”
“Amazing,” he says, tossing a manila envelope on my desk.
“What’s that?”
“A courier just dropped it off. Probably some samples. You’re still the hot ticket.” He perches on the edge of my desk, grinning.
All sorts of packages arrive out of the blue these days. We’re busier than ever. Weeks after my Monaco mess, it still blows my mind. What kind of crazed world do we live in when a naked scandal does more for your bottom line than a year’s worth of marketing? I shake the envelope. It has bulk, but whatever’s inside isn’t heavy. My name is typed on front in capital letters. Nothing else.
I’ll get to it later.
“So what’s up?” I ask, spinning in my chair.
“I’m looking at December and wanted to check in with you. Lindsay’s itching to do a getaway to Cabo over Christmas. You mentioned some time off. Anything concrete yet?”
I’m still getting used to the new Vaughn. The one who comes to my office to talk instead of yelling down the hall. Who takes two hour lunches with his wife. Who leaves the office earlier than me. His safari kick started this welcome renaissance and every aspect of his life is benefiting.
“If the house sells, I’m thinking December. Get out of dodge for Christmas. Destination wise, I’m thinking Europe. Three to four months.”
He lets out a deep breath. “Okay. So … lots of time. Like you said.”
“You’ll be fine?”
“It’s never the same if you’re not here, but I’ve got TQ. Holly’s ready to step up to the plate. We’ll get ‘er done.” He smiles, although I see the creep of worry in it. The same worry that’s inside me. I might not ever come back. After a beat he says, “Seeing as how you’ve chosen Europe, what’s the story with yacht boy?”
“I don’t know,” I say, shrugging off his question. Vaughn and I don’t talk much about Morgan, primarily due to me not wanting to.
“All this time, nothing?”
“He did send the contract back,” I remind him. “That pretty much says it all.”
Vaughn flips one of my pens back and forth between fingers. “If he did reach out, would you talk to him?”
I sit up in my chair. It’s been crickets from Morgan’s end. Sweet nothing. “Probably. Why?”
He looks past me, at the retro Monaco poster gracing my wall. Boats in a blue harbor. I found it at a tourist shop the day Morgan was busy with his staff. I couldn’t leave it behind. “You’re a big girl, Vans, and you don’t need me to tell you what to do.”
I smile. “But you will?”
“Let’s put it this way. I’m not saying what he did was right, but from what you told me, you can’t really blame the guy for trying. You’re the whole package. Smart. Ballsy. A stunner. Men are weak. Fuck, look at me. Chasing skirts. Chasing you.”
“Is this your way of apologizing?”
He considers this. “Maybe.”
“Accepted. And I know what you’re saying.”
