“Chloe, I knew I could love you, and I knew that was all that really mattered. Just like you. You have all the love that baby needs.” My mother is not the sentimental type, and as her voice softens with love, my throat tightens, squeezing out more tears.

I hear myself say, “I was thinking maybe you could come up and visit? You could bring the pictures with you.”

She pauses. I hear her breathing.

Her voice is tight. “Of course, sweetie.”

The tightness is from tears. She sniffles.

My own come pouring out with hers. I need her now more than I ever have.

“Let me check my schedule and choose a time that doesn’t interfere with golf.”

Right.

“And Howard will be devastated if I leave him for too long.”

Of course.

“This is your only daughter and granddaughter, Charlotte!” Howard’s voice slips through the phone like aromatherapy, soothing and commanding at the same time. “Take all the time you need.”

I love Howard.

“It’s settled, then,” my mother announces. “I shall come and rescue you.”

I break out in a cold sweat and smile at the same time.

Nick

The meeting to review the goSpa specs would normally make me as excited as talking about the difference between taupe and beige with interior designers, but this one is different. Chloe will be present.

She hasn’t answered my texts, and I’m wondering why. Charlie urged me to call, but I’m not going to call when she won’t even reply to a text. Dating rituals in the age of instant communication are more complicated than small-town politics, and about as painful, even if the stakes are higher.

The room fills slowly with the major stakeholders, including me, Anterdec’s budget director for special projects, Diane Geary from accounting, Amanda Warrick, and my long-time assistant, Marisol. Twice divorced, she’s my age, and a modern woman in every way, including keeping her mouth shut at work about her sex life.

In a corporate environment, where buzzwords engender off-site retreats and mission statements can take seven figures and seven months to develop before being kicked back by legal, the sex lives of cubicle dwellers is a treasured diversion for office talk.

Rare is the staff member who remains discreet.

When Mari finally arrives, she gives Diane and me a perplexed look, setting down a box of donuts and a cardboard four-pack of coffees, one marked with my name.

“I’m so sorry, everyone. But Chloe Browne had to cancel.”

My gut tightens. “Why?”

“Maternity leave.”

Diane’s eyebrows shoot up. “Where is she hiding a baby? She’s tiny. Does she have hollow legs?”

“Adoption,” I mutter. “She’s adopting.”

“Oh.” Diane folds her lips in, over her teeth, as if she’s embarrassed. She shouldn’t be. She couldn’t know.

“But the baby’s not due for two months or so,” I add.

Diane and Mari give me an appraising look.

“I—we talked about it during a business meeting.”

Amusement flashes in both sets of eyes. Mari knows I haven’t dated in ages. When I ran my own company, it was a running joke. Brother Nick, the Monk.

Having Anterdec colleagues call me Focus Man is an upgrade.

I force myself into cold mode. “Fine. We’ll just postpone the project until she’s back.”

“Good,” Diane says. “It’s a bizarre one, anyhow. A spa in an RV?”

“You saw the numbers. Great PR.”

She taps a folder in front of her and nods. “I know. Numbers don’t lie. I trust them over people.” She clearly expects me to smile.

I don’t.

Mari is used to it, laughing with Diane. Both have dark hair and dark eyes, with curvy figures, though Mari’s personality is vitality in human form, while Diane is the epitome of buttoned-up. Mari’s business attire runs toward flowing skirts and bright colors, chunky jewelry and layered hair.

Diane looks like a British nanny, hair pulled back in a tight bun, red lips severe.

I don’t generally evaluate the women I work with like this. I’m not an actual monk, so my head does turn on occasion, but not with these women. Not in this environment. Every woman I encounter these days catches my eye as I compare them to Chloe.

Chloe wins.

Every damn time.

“Great. Now we have a dozen donuts and four lattes left over,” Mari complains.

“I’m sure someone will scavenge if we put them in the employee lounge,” Diane says, taking a Boston Cream donut for herself. She flashes Mari a guilty grin. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Mari pats her hip. “If they stay on my desk, they’ll just end up here.”

I walk out of the room, the conversation a blur, as I wonder why Chloe never answered my last text.

Which was, ironically enough, the question, “What’s new?”

What’s new.

I make my way to my office, so numb, the hot coffee in my hand feels cold. Closing my door, I start pacing, mind spinning, blood racing suddenly.

Baby. She had the baby.

Or, rather, the birth mother did. Chloe told me a bit about her. Homeless teen on the streets. Met her during a volunteer stint with the gO Spa RV. The story sounded crazy when Chloe told it, and I had my doubts.

I was wrong, apparently.

The coffee burns my throat as I swallow, and I choke, forced to feel something tangible, some specific sensation that cuts through the blurring rush of too many conclusions I’m jumping to, too many emotions pouring through me.

Damn it.

Why didn’t she answer my text?

Is this a brush off? As my kids would say, am I being “ghosted”?

It’s not like I can go on Reddit and ask someone the modern dating protocol for what to do when the woman you’re with suddenly adopts a baby and doesn’t return texts.

I’m pretty sure this is a one-off.

Besides, if she ghosts on me, I’m stuck with over a thousand dollars worth of sex toys and crap from her ex-lover.

I’m also pretty sure I’m screwing up this whole dating thing.

“Think,” I mutter. “Think, Nick. What does Chloe want?” Memories of her body, under me, over me, the way she tastes during that second kiss, the one where lips part and tongues speak with more authenticity, flood my body, becoming a new pulse, telling me the truth between us.