Page 76 of Meant to be Mine

The air was cooler than LA. I loosened my collar and flagged down a cab.

“Union Square,” I told the driver as I slid into the back seat.

The car pulled into traffic. I leaned my head back against the seat, tired. Not physically tired but the kind of tired that came from spending hours with people I would never willingly spend time with. They talked about data and synergy and a bunch of other gobbledygook that I didn’t understand and didn’t want to. I wasn’t a techie.

But they were writing a check. A big one. And that would defray some of the cost to Blackwell Couture. That was the part about running a business I really didn’t like. Dealing with people you’d rather not deal with because they had something you needed.

I pulled out my phone and texted Kensey.

Me: On my way.

Kensey: Hey sexy, can’t wait to see you.

That made me smile. It felt good to be missed. And wanted.

What was I going to do when Kensey left? I pictured myself in the house again, microwaving leftover Chinese. Alone. Broken-hearted. A smart man would spare himself the pain. But I was not known for being smart, not when it came to her.

I could see the end and it was unpleasant. Kensey standing in an airport, bags at her feet, saying goodbye. Maybe we’d hug. Maybe we’d promise to stay in touch. And then she’d walk through security and back to her life in New Jersey.

She had students who needed her. Friends, routines, a whole existence that had nothing to do with me. She loved that job. She was doing something that mattered.

And I had the store. The family. Obligations I couldn’t just walk away from because I’d finally figured out I was in love with my best friend. The New York cousins had trusted me with their flagship store. They were counting on me to make the store a success. So far so good, but I couldn’t pack up the store and move it to New Jersey.

And trying a long-distance relationship was a joke. I’d watched enough people try it to know how that story ended. Someone always got tired of the phone calls and the missed flights. The constant negotiating about whose turn it was to visit. I wasn’t doing that to us. I wasn’t going to be the guy who resented her for not being there or made her feel guilty for living her life.

The alternative was letting her go. We’d stay friends. Or try. How long would that last? Could we ever be “just friends” again?

I was so screwed.

The cab pulled up in front of the hotel. I paid the driver and walked through the lobby, my mind still turning over the problem. There were no simple solutions to this problem.

I let myself into the quiet suite. Kensey walked out of the bathroom, backlit by the afternoon sun, wearing one of the hotel robes.

“Hey,” she said, smiling. “How was the meeting?”

“Productive but boring.” I drank Kensey in, feeling lucky to have someone so amazing waiting here for me. “How was your mini spa day?”

“Relaxing,” she said. “I think I fell asleep during the massage. Is that normal?”

“Completely normal.”

She looked so at ease. Like she belonged here in this suite with the view of the bay. Like she belonged with me.

“How often do you get massages?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Not often.”

“Female masseuses?”

“Sometimes.”

“Hmm,” she said.

I grinned. “Jealous?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure how I feel about a woman greasing you up and running her hands all over your body.”

I liked that she was jealous. Even if she was just joking. I crossed the room and pulled her into my arms. She wrapped her arms around my waist and tucked her head under my chin.