I nodded.
“Oh he’s plenty nice,” I agreed, adding as I rolled my eyes heavenward, “To every woman he meets—that is, if you can classify those overdone bimbos he dates as actual, honest to God women. And while he may be sincere to a certain extent, he certainly didn’t hesitate to deceive his own father about our involvement.”
Les shook his head.
“Well I don’t know anything about all of that,” he admitted, adding as he spread his arms expressively before him, “And like I said, Lily, I probably don’t know Oliver quite as well as you do—a good thing, considering the fact that we’re both painfully heterosexual males.” He paused here, adding in a lower, more serious tone, “I’m also a pretty intelligent male, and I can see when a man is in love.”
I froze a moment, considering these words as my gaze again rested on my admittedly stunning jeweled gift.
Finally, though, I stood from my desk with the rose in my hand, holding it with definite intent over my waste can; one conveniently located just next to my work station.
“I’m not altogether sure that Mr. Oliver Clark knows the meaning of the word love,” I declared. “And until he figures it out, and is ready and willing to express his feelings to my face, I’m afraid that I am unable to accept any more of his gaudy, overpriced gifts.”
With this I released my tight hold on what I was sure was a very fragile crystal rose; watching with a bitter smile as it descended into my waste basket.
My grin dissolved as, with a deep-seated groan, Leslie surged forward and intercepted my pass; catching the discarded jewel before it shattered in so many pieces at the bottom of my trash bin.
Holding the rose close to his chest with almost comical protectiveness, Les regarded me with a cold stare as he stepped away from my desk.
“Ma’am, my boss spent a fortune on this gift,” he scolded me. If you won’t accept his present, then at least allow me to return it to him in one piece.”
I thought a moment, then nodded.
“Fine then,” I allowed, waving him away with a dismissive gesture. “Tell Oliver to give the jewel to a woman that wants it—and him.”
~
Chapter Sixteen
~
Lily
The moment that Leslie Peterson cleared my office, my rejected gift clutched tight in his hand, my mind and spirit soared with a renewed strength; not to mention a refreshed sense of confidence.
Until this point I had questioned my ability to say no to Oliver Clark; to resist the charming, irresistibly handsome man that had changed my life and claimed my heart. Ah, but I just had: I had rejected his empty charms, and the beautiful, pricey gift that was just as colorful and appealing as he was.
Don’t ask me how I did it; somehow, though, I think I finally came to realize just what I needed from Oliver Clark—and it wasn’t his charm, his money, or even his expensive gifts. It was the truth—and the courage to tell it. I needed him to approach me face to face, and to be honest and forthright about his feelings for me.
Sure, currency and charm were always nice; but the “c” word that I needed him most to express was commitment. I needed him to acknowledge the fact that the feelings between us were all too real and to express true appreciation for the things that I brought to his life. If I had indeed managed to change Oliver Clark, then I needed him to show it—by expressing a true desire to make things right, to at least try to join me in turning our faux mance into a real and very meaningful relationship.
When would he realize that instead of spending all that money to buy me expensive presents he should instead spend a little more time in my presence; looking into my eyes and sharing his feelings for and intentions toward me?
Only he knew the answer to this question—or maybe he didn’t, and that was the whole problem. At any rate, I for one felt better than I had in ages; confident and prideful in the knowledge that I was the woman that had put Oliver Clark firmly and directly in his place.
Surely the women of the world will honor me for this singular accomplishment. Maybe I’ll get a plaque, a lovely and tasteful floral bouquet, maybe even some decorative candles in my favorite scent and a gift certificate to my favorite sushi bar or miniature golf course.
And while my mind and spirit reveled in this knowledge, in this out and out victory on behalf of all womankind, my heart and body weren’t so sure. Both still ached for want of the man that my brain so reviled; and while my waking hours were filled with the duties that came as part and parcel of my wonderful new job, my nights remained plagued by dreams of that devil; that man that still never failed to arouse and intrigue me.
I now knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I could in fact resist Oliver Clark; only some parts of me didn’t exactly want to resist him.
And I bet I can tell you just which parts, I rolled my eyes heavenward, sitting up straight as I welcomed yet another visitor to my office—this one substantially more welcome than the last one.
Office clerk Kirk Taylor came strolling into my office with a manila folder in his hand; depositing the parcel on my desk with a bright, friendly smile.
“Please tell me that this interoffice delivery a. is intended for Trisha, not for me and b. is not coming directly from one Mr. Oliver Clark,” I returned his smile, but through gritted teeth.
“Um… yes, it’s for Trisha and no, it’s not from Mr. Clark,” Kirk assured me, arching his eyebrows in a quizzical fashion. “Are you OK, Lil?”
I shook my head.
“At this point, Kirk,” I admitted. “I’m sure of nothing.”
The light laughter that I expected in response to this remark was replaced by an intense, curious stare; one that my visitor aimed in my direction as he parked himself on the edge of my desk.
“Lily, can I level with you?” he asked me, voice low and intimate. “Can I tell you the total and absolute truth?”
“No,” I replied, shaking my head from side to side with absolute certainty.
Ignoring my caustic reply, Kirk went right ahead and said, “People around this office have been talking about you and Mr. Clark—and, by exercising the refined art of eavesdropping that I learned from dear ol’ Mom—I’ve come to hear your story, piece by piece. And now I understand why you didn’t want to go have drinks with me the other day.”
I shrugged.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Kirk,” I told him, adding as I shifted uneasily in my seat, “Things are just really complicated right now. I don’t think any sensible, reasonable man would want to get himself involved in the only slightly organized mess that is my life right now.”
Kirk shook his head.
“In my mind, Lily, things aren’t so very complicated at all,” he insisted, adding with his arms outstretched before him, “You know that you deserve better than some playboy who disposes of his women much faster than he does his silk monogrammed handkerchiefs. You really do want to get over Oliver Clark—chances are, though, you’re not going to get over him unless and until you give someone else a chance.” He paused here, leaning forward to affix my shoulders with two strong, tender hands. “Look, Lily, I know I don’t have his money—but I also don’t have the little black book that isn’t so little at all. And I do believe I can cough up just enough spare change to cover a round of drinks at Jubilee dance club this weekend. Why not forget your troubles for a night and come dancing with me?”
Lifting my head to stare straight into his eyes, I took a moment to savor his warm, sincere words—and, for that matter, the simple masculine beauty of the blue-eyed blond that had said them.
I opened my mouth to issue yet another lame excuse to his kind invitation; only to surrender the cause seconds later and say, “Yes, Kirk. I’d love to go out with you this weekend.”
~
Chapter Seventeen
~
Lily
Saturday evening came around far sooner than I would have liked; indeed, I must admit that I didn’t particularly look forward to my weekend
dance date with Kirk. I really didn’t feel much like dancing or dating at all; wishing instead that I could just stay home, put on a movie, drink a soothing glass of wine, and fall asleep in front of my home entertainment center.
“Yeah,” I chortled aloud, pulling myself from the surface of my day bed and walking with slow, trudging steps in the direction of my bedroom. “If only I could just stay home and watch one of the movies that Oliver and I enjoyed during our infamous movie marathon, drink the vintage wine that he used to share with me, and eventually nod off to dream about the man that bought me that wine in the first place. Grand plan, Ashton.”
Kirk was right, I decided. If I ever hoped to get over Oliver, I would have to at least try to date other gents or, at the very least, to get out of the house and try to have some fun instead of just basking in memories of all the fun evenings I’d enjoyed in Oliver’s company.
Stepping out of the sweater and jeans that I’d worn throughout the day, I opened my closet door and browsed with listless, casual fingers through the assortment of expensive, brightly colored frocks that hung unused or neglected on its wrack.
All of my most beautiful dresses came directly from Oliver and I wondered with a sigh just how many times his name would cross my mind throughout the course of a single day. It would seem terribly tacky to wear a dress that he gave me on a date with another man.
Deciding finally on a basic black dress I’d bought on my own several years ago, I slipped it over my head and took a brush to the strands of my tangled dark hair; combing them into some semblance of order as I wished I could do the same with my addled senses.
I didn’t bother putting on a lot of makeup that evening; opting to just apply a light layer of light brown eye liner and a coat of ruby red lipstick. I was inspecting the results in the mirror when I heard a loud, sharp knock resounding on my door.
Here goes nothing, I mused with a sigh, adding as I trudged with listless steps in the direction of my front door, and that’s about what it will feel like, I’m afraid. Nothing.
Forcing a smile for the benefit of my visitor, I opened my door to reveal a modestly dressed blond in a T-shirt and jeans.
“Hi Lily,” Kirk greeted me with a grin. “You look nice.”
“Hi, thanks,” I replied, widening my forced smile as I added silently, “Oliver never would have worn a T-shirt and jeans on our date. Along the same lines, he never would have told me that I look nice. He would praise my beauty to the high heavens. And, come to think of it, he wouldn’t have come to my door at all, at least not to start off a really special evening. He would have sent his chauffeur ahead of him, to—what do those really fancy schmancy types call it?—fetch me directly.”
Following Kirk downstairs to the front entrance of my apartment building, I saw through the panes of my glass encased doors the very reason that Kirk’s chauffeur didn’t come ahead of him to “fetch” his date. Indeed, those that owned lime green hatch back cars made in the early 90s usually didn’t come complete with hired drivers.
Shaking my head to clear it of its critical haze, I reminded myself that Kirk’s kindness and character more than made up for his modest means.
Even so, the conversation that we shared en route to the dance club did little to show evidence of Kirk’s dynamic, exciting personality.
“So Lily,” he cleared his throat loudly as he made several attempts to rev his engine—and mine too, apparently. “Like I said, you look super cute tonight. I’m glad you decided to come out with me. I sure hope we’ll have fun.”
“I do too,” I agreed, with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.
Soon we completed our mercifully short trek to Jubilee dance emporium; a modest, single level mirrored building on the sketchy side of town.
Olli never would have brought me here, I mused in silence, gathering close to my muscular date as we walked with brisk steps into the club.
Taking our seats at a corner table, I coughed roughly as my senses were assailed with a cloud of smoke; a haze no doubt inspired by the circle of avid smokers that surrounded us in the club.
These same senses underwent a second assault as they were struck with the shattering notes of a hard rocking heavy metal tune; one that managed to drown out all attempts at conversation that transpired between my date and myself. Finally Kirk just motioned for me to write down my drink order, which he then passed on to a waiting waiter.
“This seems like a really cool place!” Kirk screamed above the music. “Don’tcha think?”
“Oh yeah!” I replied, flashing an awkward thumbs up sign in his direction. “The best!”
OK, so maybe the conversation-killing music was a blessing in disguise.
Finally Kirk suggested that we get up and dance and as we walked hand in hand toward the rickety wooden dance floor that formed the center of Jubilee, I recalled the many passionate, heartfelt dances that had transpired between Oliver and me.
Somehow it didn’t feel the same when Kirk took me into his arms; his own arms loose and tentative as he swung me around the floor.
Keeping a respectful distance between us, we moved out of synch and even stumbled a bit as we tried to match the rhythm of the song. Twirling slightly away from my date, I stumbled backward against the tall, muscular body of another dancer on the floor.
Turning with a flourish to apologize to the gentleman I’d just jarred on the dance floor, my mouth fell agape as I faced the man whose image haunted my mind.
Refined and handsome in a sleek black dinner suit, Oliver Clark looked strangely out of place on a stained, rickety dance floor and suddenly I wondered if he was something out of a dream.
But when he said, “Good evening, Lily,” his voice sounded all too real and in lieu of answering his very polite greeting, I turned and ran from the floor.
Racing through the crowd in the direction of the door, I cleared the club entrance in seconds; emerging in the moonlight to cover my face with my hands, letting loose with a loud, sharp sob that released my long held sorrow.
How could I ever escape that man? And even if I resigned from Clark Industries, how could I escape his memory?
My troubled meditation was soothed somewhat by the sudden presence of two strong hands on my shoulders; hands that I simultaneously hoped and feared belonged to Oliver.
Raising my head, my gaze locked with a pair of eyes that were blue, not brown.
“Are you all right, Lily?” Kirk asked me, tone low and gentle.
Nodding, I stood upright and squared my shoulders; forcing a faint smile as I replied, “I’m OK, thanks. I think, though, that maybe you should take me home now.”
Kirk looked at me for a long moment, then nodded.
“I think you’re right,” he agreed, adding in a lower tone, “I don’t have a chance here, do I Lil? You really are in love with that man.”
I bit my lip.
“I’m sorry, Kirk,” I offered with a smile. “I know this sounds hopelessly clichéd but I do hope we can still be friends. Good friends.”
Wrapping his arms around my shoulders, Kirk nodded as he turned my body in the direction of the parking lot.
“We can, dear,” he affirmed, adding with a gentle nudge, “Now let’s get you home.”
~
Chapter Eighteen
~
Oliver
Saturday evening came around far too early for my liking; particularly as this night provided a dismal capper to a downright miserable week.
I had to admit it; Lily’s rejection of my gift had left me disgusted, frustrated and more than a little stunned. What did this woman want, anyway? I had given her the prettiest, most expensive gift I could find. What more could I do? Did she just enjoy torturing me?
During the week, of course, I could bury my worries in the pile of work that filled my office inbox. I’m proud to say that my relationship woes did not destroy the newfound momentum I’d established at work; even my father, another person I’d managed to royally tick off
, stopped briefly in my office to deliver a brief, roughly spoken compliment (“Good job, I suppose,” were his exact words) regarding my recent performance on an important project.
OK so I didn’t expect the dude to nominate me for Employee of the Year anytime soon but at least I saw some remote hope for our relationship.
Not so when it came to Lily. And while I could forget this fact during the work week, it wasn’t easy to do so on the weekend—the time I usually spent with Lily.
I spent all day Saturday moping in my apartment; finding no easy escape route from my exhausting, stifling haze of complete and utter misery.
Around 5 o’clock that evening, I had had enough. No woman was going to make a weepy, emotional mess of Oliver Clark—and if she didn’t realize what a find she had in me, then I would just call up one of the many beautiful women who did appreciate and want to be with me.
OK, so the first five women I called had already made plans for the evening; the sixth had just come down with an inexplicable headache, and the seventh seemed to be having problems with her phone—or at least that seemed to be the case, given the loud click I heard in my ear the moment I said, “Hi, it’s Oliver.”