He doesn’t smile back.

“There are no more services that I can provide for our clients and still be faithful to Jemma. None. Thank god I have an understanding wife. I am giving my all, thanks to your uniform design.”

“Which, by the way, got very high marks,” I say cheerfully. “Who knew shoelaces could be so popular?”

He gives me an arched eyebrow and leans forward. “Let’s see that report.”

I hold it away from him just as my phone buzzes with a text.

“Don’t answer that!” he snaps. I wince. Henry’s not just an employee. He’s a good friend, and he knows why I want to look.

I look.

“It might be the adoption agency,” I protest. “I have to take it.” I’m waiting to hear whether I’ve been cleared after my home study for adoption. Nearly a year since I started the process, and I’m finally in the home stretch.

Henry groans.

The text says, Hey beautiful.

Not the adoption agency, unless part of their services now includes self-esteem building for prospective mothers.

It’s Joe. My boyfriend of three years.

I tell myself not to reply.

I can’t help myself. I reply. Hey.

How’s your morning? he writes back quickly.

It’s had its highlights. Too much to text. One hundred and twenty-five pages too much.

Tell me tonight? Your place?

I tell myself to say no. I do. I really do.

“Chloe.” Henry’s voice holds a low warning, like he’s defending me from myself.

Yes, I text back.

Great 6:30

Self-loathing is an art. I should be pinned to a wall at the Institute of Contemporary Art.

I met Joe at my last job. He was the chief legal counsel. I was a project manager. One of our vendors failed to deliver a $40,000 conference table to Joe’s legal firm, and we sued. Joe got the table, and earned a bonus.

When the table finally arrived on site, Joe and I immediately used it to conduct a late-night intimate meeting—and a very satisfying meeting it was, too. That table was fabulous for spreading out and getting the job done under tight circumstances.

;)

Joe is my greatest supporter, my confidante, my tender lover. And due to some rather unfortunate timing, still someone else’s husband.

I know, I know, don’t even say it. It’s such a cliché, right? They grew apart, they haven’t slept together in years, the divorce will be final any day now…and we fell in love.

A familiar story, so contrived, but when it happens to you, it feels painfully real.

At least at first. Lately, it’s just painful.

And Joe needs to get real.

“I can’t believe you’re caving in,” Henry says with a sigh. Henry and his wife are not Joe fans, to say the least. He plucks the thick report out of my hands deftly and maneuvers away, like he’s practicing a dance move. His ginger waves have tightened with summer humidity, and curls ring his forehead. They bounce as he shakes his head.

“I can’t show you the whole thing, Henry. You know I have a non-disclosure agreement on things like this! Let me find the spa section, and the private entertainment review.”

Henry is a rule follower at heart, so he returns the report.

I check the index, and pull out a highlighter of my own. Orange.

“Okay, here it is…” I hand him the report and watch his eyes scan the pages.

“Think, Henry.” I lean forward. “Do you remember anyone who seemed to know a little too much about your services, or asked too many questions?”

He frowns. “There was one woman—you know, when I enter the room, the client is always lying on the table, under the cover, as instructed.”

I wish he hadn’t mentioned lying on a table. Joe. Technically, I wasn’t lying on the table. I was bent over it. Well, the first time, at least…

“Chloe?” Henry waves his hand in front of my face. “Earth to Chloe! You listening?”

“Um, right. Yes.” I will away the memory with a sigh and a sip of my coffee.

“But this woman had the linen sheet wrapped around her, and she was looking at my framed diplomas on the wall.”

“Anything else?”

“Well, yeah, now that I think about it… she was older. Blonde. Kind of wild. Ditzy, but I got a sense it was an act. She came here with a younger woman, and later mentioned her daughter was getting married. She drank a shot out of my navel.”

“How is that memorable?” I tease. “Every woman who sets foot in O does that.” I pause and think. “Hell, so have I.”

“I think it was a requirement during my interview,” he says dryly.

Everyone working at O has some pretty good stories. We have a very appealing staff of men and women, all highly trained to provide the ultimate release from stressful reality. O space is carefully designed to encourage escapism. But Henry is on the frontlines of funny. As he says, it’s lucky he has an understanding wife. Actually, Jemma is one of my closest friends.

Technically, we’re not supposed to talk about clients, ever, but when the three of us have dinner, it’s confidential.

And hilarious. I’d write a book if my employment contract didn’t specifically prohibit it.

“Not sure I want the details.” I pause. “Yet. Do you remember her name?”

He snorts. “No, are you kidding? I don’t even see client names. I just see their membership number. But if I recall correctly, her number should have been sixty-nine.”

I burst out laughing. “We didn’t assign sixty-nine to anyone! Sort of like high-rise buildings that don’t have a thirteenth floor. It would be tempting fate.”

He stands to leave, glances at my phone, then looks at me closely. “Is the mystery shop the only thing on your mind?”

Unexpectedly, my eyes fill up with tears.

I’m not a crier.

I am cool. I am collected. I hate crying.

“Dammit, Chloe.” He knows. We all know.

Joe.

“Henry, do NOT make a Joe Blow joke.” We’ve been down this road before.

Henry leans down, and I stand up for his hug, but forget I’m holding the orange marker. Which somehow highlights the front of his grey gym shorts.

Perfect. But at least we’re laughing now.

“Better highlighter than lipstick, I guess,” I offer.

“Only until Mystery Shopper #69 comes back,” he says ruefully.