She groaned and slid the little phone icon to answer. “This is Calli.”
“Good afternoon, this is Beth Meyer, the secretary for the Special Education department.”
Her pulse caught in her throat as she worried about what she may have forgotten. “Yes?” asked Calli, her mind spinning through possibilities and preparing for yet another school-related misstep with her son Kent. She retraced the morning routine up to the moment she’d sent him off to school. They’d packed his backpack last night before she’d gone out with the girls. He’d showed her his homework, and he’d taken his backpack this morning. She had also filled a glass of water for him to swallow his ADHD medication, so there shouldn’t be an issue there either.
“Mrs. Stockton.”
“Miss Lindley,” Calli corrected.
“Excuse me?”
“Never mind.” It’d take too much energy to explain the situation, and her splitting headache prevented her from thinking straight at the moment. “Is Kent okay?”
“Oh, yes. I was simply calling to remind you and Mr. Stockton about the yearly meeting to review Kent’s individual education plan at 3:00 p.m. next Thursday.”
“Yes. I have it on the calendar,” said Calli. She heaved a sigh of relief, but at the same time, a knot formed in her stomach. She’d have to call Bennett to make sure he’d be in town then to make sure he would be at the meeting. Maybe she could just call the administrative assistant who managed his calendar. Later—when her head wasn’t pounding.
“Thank you, and have a wonderful afternoon,” Beth said and ended the call.
Calli didn’t reply, didn’t even press the button to hang up. She simply let her arm fall onto the desk and released the phone while blinking to bring the time in the corner of her computer screen into focus. Three forty-five. No one else should be calling and no appointments, she thought. She took a long drink of water, hoping that the dose of ibuprofen combined with the rehydration attempt would give some relief from the hangover. How many glasses of wine had she consumed? She couldn’t remember.
Pressing her temple with one hand, she checked her e-mail one more time, then turned the computer volume up so she would hear any notifications, took her phone, and went to the couch. She grabbed the blanket, curled up in the corner, and considered going to sleep.
The boys both had activities after school, then would be staying at their dad’s townhouse for the evening. She had no reason to prepare dinner; she’d just eat some of the leftover pizza she’d ordered for Jax and Kent the night before. She grabbed the remote from the sofa’s arm and turned on the television.
The last story of the early news show had just wrapped up, and a slanderous political commercial started. Calli groaned and flipped through the channels. After a handful, she hit the Food Network, and a bearded man with piercing greenish-silver eyes popped a mouthful of some crab and pasta dish into his mouth, then hummed as he chewed and nodded. Something about him was . . . familiar.
“Oh, dang,” she said and grabbed her phone, scrolling to the group chat.
Me:hey guys . . .
Me:remember that restaurant manager?
Jordan:Oh yeah!
Trina:main dish LOL
Tory:Did he call?
Trina:*MAN dish
Me:why would he call?
Me:anyway . . .
Tory:uh, no reason. ??
Me:what was his name?
The name of the show and subtitle flashed across the screen before switching to commercial: The Dinner Shark with Dominic Moretti.
Trina:Nic
Tory:Yeah, Nic Moore, I think he said.
Jordan:That’s it. Why?
Me:he looks hella like Dominic Moretti
Trina:Who’s that?
Tory:Moretti as in Moretti’s the restaurant? GTFO!
Jordan:Dominic Moretti from the TV show?
Me:yeah The Dinner Shark
Tory:I bet Moore was short. He’s probs the owner.
Me:Nah . . . probs brothers . . . the guy on tv’s too old to be him
Jordan:hahaha
Tory:LOL
Trina:gurl, who cares? he coulda been my main course. ??
Me:all right l8rs ladies
Me:feel like poo
Trina:i feel you
Tory:me 2
Calli silenced the phone and resumed channel surfing. Thirty or so clicks later and she stopped on the scene from The Time Traveler’s Wife when Henry slipped a ring on a sleeping Clare’s finger. Clare woke up, looked at her finger in confusion, then Henry said, “I never wanted to have anything in my life that I couldn’t stand losing.”
The two-dimensional Eric Bana paused in his proposal. A knot formed in Calli’s throat, her sinuses burned, then he continued, “Well, it’s too late for that.”
Her eyes stung and prickled . . . tears welled up and overflowed. She threw the remote to the other end of the couch and grabbed the box of tissues from the end table. Crying wouldn’t make the headache any better, but the movie seemed too perfect for her mood. She’d celebrated last night, maybe she just needed to wallow now.
Movie Henry continued, “I don’t feel alone anymore.” She fell apart, fully sobbing, an ugly and snotty cry. But when Clare said no, then yes, Calli found herself laughing aloud through the sniffles while wiping the salt water from her cheeks.
Dom
Two hectic nights in a row, Dom had emptied his pockets on his office desk before taking the elevator to his eleventh-floor loft where he’d shed all but his shorts and dropped into bed with little preamble. This morning, he’d packed for his trip to San Francisco, dropped his suitcase in his office, and driven over to the gym for the 9:00 a.m. fitness class. Afterward, he’d shaved and dressed in business casual, then returned to his office to finalize a few details before the driver arrived to take him to the airport.
He stowed the papers and his laptop, dropping his shoulder bag beside the rolling suitcase for the five days of business he’d be spending in California. His office was in order except for the junk from his pockets the night before. He swept the change from the desk and dropped it in a jar on his bookshelf, crumpled and tossed a receipt, then held a business card to the light.
Callista Stockton, Sr. Financial Advisor
Moffitt & Hall Financial Services, Inc.
Maybe he could give Kyle a call and get the inside scoop on this woman. Flipping the card, he scanned the numbers and glanced at the phone, contemplating. She had been a sight in the dim light across the restaurant. The warm glow on her neck as she’d laughed with abandon had moved something inside him. Dom pressed his brows together, unsure why his thoughts lingered on that moment, then decided it wasn’t worth the time. He had far too much on his plate to consider calling her now. Besides, as he’d noted before, she wasn’t his type. Surely he just needed a little fun and release. He’d have no problem taking care of that in San Fran.
The phone rang.
Dom waved the card a couple of times, then flipped it into the trash and answered, “Moretti’s.”
“Good morning, Dom,” his personal assistant, Pauline, said.
He skipped being pleasant and asked, “Have you checked me in?”
“Yes. First class as usual, seat 2D. Your favorite.”
“And the hotel?”
“Westin Grand downtown. There will be a driver waiting at the airport for you when you arrive.” Pauline ran down the rest of the list and finished with, “You’ll have the full itinerary in your e-mail when we’re off this call.”