What's Left of Our Hearts

Cat and Mouse and Sophie

After a week of large group meetings in tiny spaces confined by suffocating professionalism, Dominic was ready to put a bullet in his head. He couldn't get a single minute alone with Clara and, he suspected, part of that was by her design. It was as if she was using the buddy system to go to the bathroom or kitchen or even walk to her desk and back. It would have been impressive if it weren't so bloody infuriating. That Friday, Dom had had enough.

"Sophie! My most wonderful, vibrant, incredible Super-Woman," he said, upping the wattage on his charm. He approached her after a particularly dry meeting had disbanded, while all were still in the room.

"Yes, my darling?" Sophie responded in a mock British accent. Almost nailed it.

The two of them had grown to be almost friends by the end of this first week. She was a feisty little thing with a quick wit and a quicker tongue, and women like that were far and few in between. She was a shot of tequila in a world of red wine.

"We are celebrating a successful week with cocktails at a bar of your choosing," announced Dom.

"Oh, are we? How wonderful!" Sophie said, again with the almost-British accent.

The mood in the room instantly changed. It was cocktail hour.

"Miss Tosi will join us, of course," said Dom, standing beside Sophie.

"Oh, I'm afraid I can't, I have other—"

"Of course, she will!" Sophie cut her off." The whole team will be delighted to come."

"But I have the thing, remember?" Clara said, her eyes bulging at Sophie.

"Oh, right! Dinner with the mother-in-law," Sophie said conspiratorially. Clara gave her a look, while Dom ran breathing drills in his head. "Sorry, future mother-in-law," amended Sophie.

That was quite a rollercoaster drop Dom's stomach had done. He hoped his smile was still fixed in place. "We'll make it an early start. You can stop by for a bit, say hello, and make your next appointment," he said in a manner that left little to negotiation. Truth be told, it all came out in panic, but he thought he'd sounded pretty confident. He had to squeeze his right hand into a fist to stop the jazz fingers.

Sophie made a face at Clara and left her with no choice if she were not to be rude.

"Okay, then. Wonderful," Clara said at last. There was a strangled quality to her voice as she rushed to excuse herself and head out early.

Later that afternoon, locked away in her bathroom, she wiped the third shade of red lipstick she'd tried on in as many minutes. Too daring. Too sexy. Sending the wrong signal. Too dull. Too Jersey Shore. Everything was wrong with her makeup, and her hair, and she had nothing to wear. She needed a drink. Owen, bless his soul, was dressed and watching the news, blissfully oblivious to the turmoil in Clara's world. She crossed her arms in front of her closet and mentally dismissed all of it. No. No. Hell no. Over my dead body. Is that Aunt Muriel's? No. Did I wear that in the 90s? No. And...no.

She was startled by Owen's hands appearing on her hips.

"I love your outfit," he said.

"I'm in my underwear."

"That's what I love about it," he murmured in her ear.

"Owen—Owen, honey, we don't have time," she said, pushing his mouth away. "I can't decide what to wear."

"My mom will love you in whatever you wear. And so will I," he said, resting his chin in the crook of her neck.

"I know, but it's not about that."

"Oh?"

"Well," Clara stuttered. "It's this cocktail thing." She could feel her pulse rising. Why was her pulse rising? "It's really important to Sophie, and I want to make sure I leave a good impression," she finished breathily. Her mouth tasted metallic for some reason. She unraveled Owen's arms from her and walked over to open the window and let some fresh fall air in.

"You would look gorgeous in a dress," he said with a peck on her shoulder and left. She turned around and glared at her closet like her arch nemesis was hidden between the hangers. Maybe if she were to start with the color, she could choose something easier. White, blue, red, yellow. She padded over to the rack where a strip of yellow peeked from the clutter. She held up the dress standing in front of the full-length mirror, pencil shape, square neck, hugging all the right places but appropriate enough for dinner with Owen's mom. Once she'd put it on, everything fell into place. She slid a palm down her thigh, the jersey feeling smooth over her skin. Light pink lipstick to make her lips fuller, nude high heels to extend her legs, and her hair let loose to curl around her face. She exhaled a shaky breath. Owen's mother would be so pleased. Sophie would be pleased, too. Deep inside, some small voice laughed at Clara. You are such a liar. That little voice knew. She wanted to look good. And it wasn't Owen's mom, or Owen, or Sophie she had in mind. 

She wanted to look good for him.

Dominic is taking matters into his own hands, and Clara can't escape him for long. Are you excited about the cocktail?

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