Rusty Nailed (Cocktail #2)(66)
Author: Alice Clayton

“I owe her an apology.”

“Probably.”

“And I owe you an apology.”

“For what?”

“For not trusting you enough to tell you what was going on. I should have. I just didn’t want to ruin things. Who could complain when things look so perfect?”

“Better to complain than have a fight in a parking lot in the rain, don’t you think?”

He had me there.

“I owe you an apology,” he said, his brow wrinkling. “You were right, I should have fixed that window.”

“Simon, no. I was mad and I never should have said—”

“No, it’s my fault. But I’m going to find him, I promise.” I nodded, my eyes full again. “C’mere.”

I went around to his side of the booth and let him pull me onto his lap. He held me tight, and I kissed him. And then we left to go find our cat.

• • •

The next morning we called the Humane Society, the ASPCA, our vet in the city, and even the pet hotel. The word was out. My cat was lost.

Team Clive was out in force all day, traipsing all over the town. We talked to neighbors, made sure everyone knew whom to call if they caught sight of him.

Simon and I walked together as we searched on until dark, holding hands and flashlights and calling his name until we were hoarse. It wasn’t the only reason my voice was hoarse; I couldn’t stop crying. I tried not to let Simon see, because never had a man felt more terrible about forgetting to fix a window. And when he saw my sadness, it made it worse for him. So I limited my tears to gas station bathrooms and kneeling down to pretend to tie a shoelace over and over again. Stolen moments of panic to keep a strong face. We’d find him. Of course we’d find him.

But then it was the second day. And the third day. Then a week. I spent my nights lying awake listening for the click click click of that stupid hangnail, which would mean this was all just a silly nightmare and I’d wake up with Clive curled into my side. I’d listen for an angry caterwaul by the back door that was saying, “Hey, lady, you weren’t dreaming. I really did run away, but I’m home now, so let me the hell in—it’s freezing out here!”

I watched as the flyers got weatherworn and tattered. We put up new ones. And they got old too.

The worst part was that I kept imagining the worst possible outcomes; it was like my brain was trying to decide what it could handle by showing me phantom glimpses of what might have happened. To see if I could handle it, I suppose.

Clive cold and wet and trying to figure out how to get into a trash can to find something to eat.

Clive approaching a stranger and being chased away with a broom.

Clive flattened out underneath a tree while being circled by two or three other cats. He had no front claws to defend himself with; he was a pampered house cat that slept on a pillow and was served catnip on demand.

I was back at work; I had to. Because being busy helped; because I loved my job; and because the Claremont was finally ready to launch.

The house was really starting to take shape, and things with Simon and me were as well. We talked more than we had before—not just about the silly day-to-day things that made us laugh, but about the real things too. We cleared off more and more of our mental shelving, talking about what really matters and what kind of a life we wanted for ourselves. Don’t get me wrong, there was plenty of the laughing and the sexy, because that’s who we were. But we were evolving. Imagine that.

I told him I wanted to be the kind of couple that spent some of their holidays in some far-off fairy tale. He told me he wanted to be the kind of couple that had all their family and friends over for Christmas—some years. I told him I wanted to be the kind of girl who bought her own car. He told me he wanted to be the kind of man who bought his girlfriend a car.

For the record, I won this one. We took the car back and I bought myself a used Mercedes convertible. Silver this time. It was old enough that I could afford the monthly payments, but new enough that Simon was excited to drive it.

We were dipping our toes into Grown-Up Lake, rather than barreling into it like a giant cannonball. I wasn’t giving up on Clive, but a resignation began to sink in after two weeks had passed, one that I had to acknowledge. I had to be practical here. In the grand scheme of things, I hadn’t suffered an actual tragedy. Only little girls cry themselves to sleep because their favorite pet is gone.

Sure.

chapter twenty-two

I stood in the lobby of the Claremont, my eyes taking in every detail: the check-in desk created entirely of reclaimed wood. The original marble floor restored, polished, and gleaming. The replacement art installation. And the view of the bay as the sun cast its last bit of light over the water, making everything sparkle and shine.

There was a flurry of last-minute activity, with waiters hurrying this way and that, champagne towers beginning to flow, and the earliest of guests starting to arrive. I took a final look around, pronounced it good, and tried to turn my brain from Plan This to Enjoy This. It was time to kick up my heels a bit and dance them across the marble floor.

This entire project had been overwhelming, stressful, gray-hair inducing even, but it had also been the most rewarding, the most fruitful, and the best example of what I could do. And I did it on my own. That’s saying something.

And what it was saying now was get a glass of bubbly, toast your damn self, and—holy shit, Max Camden was here! He was early!

I smoothed my dress, took a deep breath, and hurried down the steps to greet him.

“Mr. Camden, good evening.”

“Evening, Caroline. Are you ready to show off our little hotel?” he asked, shaking my hand. “I thought I’d come by early and walk the space again, before everything gets too hectic.”

“A wonderful idea, sir. Would you like some company?”

“No, thank you. I always do this alone right before we open a new property. It lets me breathe it in a bit.”

“Of course,” I said, watching as he walked past the reception area and down one of the corridors. It was always a bit tough, turning over a space once it was complete. But this job was done. What would be next?

“Caroline,” I heard from behind me, and turned to see Jillian, accompanied by Benjamin.

I greeted her with a kiss on each cheek. “I’m going to vomit. That’s normal, right?”

“Perfectly. I’d worry about you if you didn’t feel like that. Remind me to tell you about the first time I hosted a launch party like this. I’ll just say I never used a chafing dish again.”