Page 1 of The Plus One Professional

1

BAILEY

A loud beepsounded as I held the phone to my ear. My palms tingled, and my heart was lodged in my throat. In an attempt to soothe the butterflies throwing a rave in my stomach, I took a breath. He hadn’t even answered. I was such a mess that I was stressed about leaving a simple message. “Hey, Simon, it’s, um, me. I saw I missed your call, so I was, yeah, just calling you back. I was in the shower.”

Why?Whyhad I told him I was in the shower? That was TMI. Would he think I was trying to be sexy, or something?

Play it cool, I told myself.

“So, yeah, phone tag, you’re it.”

Phone tag, you’re it?!Yeah, that wasnotcool at all. It was the antithesis of cool.

I hung up before I said anything more embarrassing. I stared down at the device in my hand and told myself to put the phone down and finish getting ready. I also instructed myselfnotto listen to the two messages I’d received over the past week again.

Do. Not. Listen. As I watched my finger hit the last saved message from five days ago, those words scrolled through my mind like ticker tape.

Simon’s deep voice echoed off the walls of my tiny, closet-sized bathroom. “Hey, Bay. It’s been a while. I was hoping to catch you. Give me a call back when you have a chance. Miss you… Talk soon.”

As I slathered lotion on my damp legs, I set the phone down and my brain began dissecting what I’d heard. Just like the first time I’d listened to the message and the twenty or so times I’d listened to it since then, I noted the pause between ‘miss you’ and ‘talk soon.’ A few seconds of silence held so much possibility.

What was he going to say?

Why had he stopped himself?

Had he nearly said helovedme?

It had been over three years since I’d seen Simon in person and heard him use the L-word. Two of those years, he’d lived in London. Since returning to the States fourteen months ago, he’d been in New York. We’d kept in touch mainly via emails, and a few texts here and there. Then he’d called two weeks ago to let me know he was moving back to San Francisco and wanted to see me. That was message number one. Message number two was the one I just replayed, saying he missed me. After that, there had only been missed calls. No more voicemails.

I was trying not to get my hopes up, but the hopeless romantic in me was screaming that this was it. This was our time. Finally, we were going to be together for real. Finally, he was ready to settle down. Finally, we’d have the life we talked about having since we were high school sweethearts.

Sure, twenty years was a long time to be off and on, but it would be worth it. Simon was the only man I’d ever loved. He was my first love. My first boyfriend. My first everything. He was the only man I’d ever envisioned myself marrying. He was the only man I’d ever pictured having a family with.

My phone buzzed on the counter, and I grabbed it, thinking it was a message from Simon. The phone slid from my greased-up grip, and I fumbled to catch it before it crashed onto my ’50s-era black and white basket weave tiled floor. After a game of hot potato, I was able to save the device from falling.

I held my breath as I stared down at the screen. The message wasn’t from Simon. It was from Billie, my sister, saying she was around the corner. She wasn’t supposed to be here for another thirty minutes. She was picking me up for the Baxter/Martin wedding, which started in exactly six hours.

My older sister Billie, younger sister Birdie, and I inherited Bliss Bridal Boutique from our Grandma Betty after she passed away over two years ago. Working with my sisters was rewarding in so many ways, but it could also be a lot. The three of us could not be more different. Exhibit A: Billie was always early, and I was always running late.

“Shit,” I mumbled as I raced down the narrow hall into my bedroom, naked as the day I was born.

Water dripped down my back as I rushed toward the closet. I hadn’t even dried my hair yet. Why had I wasted precious minutes trying to come up with what to say when I called Simon back? Especially since I’d totally blown it when my mind blanked while leaving the message.

Phone tag, you’re it?I was going to be thirty-six in a few months.

“Meow. Meow. Meow.” The Duke of Pawsting voiced his displeasure that the sun was not streaming through the window as he rolled on the green and blue braided rug that lay at the end of my bed.

“I’ll open it as soon as I get dressed. I don’t want to flash the neighbors.”

“Meow! Meow! Meow!” He repeated his protest even louder.

“Fine.” I grabbed my robe and threw it on, then pulled up the shades, allowing the mid-morning sun to flood the room.

The sudden burst of light caused her majesty, Lady Whiskerdown, aka Whiskey, to stir from her slumber on the chair in the corner of the room that she’d claimed as her throne. She rose to a standing position and did her morning yoga poses of downward dog with her feet straight out in front of her, then shifted to a cat-cow pose, her back arching and lowering.

Yes, both of my cats were named after theBridgertoncharacters, the Duke of Hastings and Lady Whistledown. Why? Well, the weekend after Simon moved to the UK three years ago, I binge-watchedBridgerton, as one does when the love of their life moves over five thousand miles away. As it turns out, the first name of the main character in season one, the Duke of Hastings, is Simon. Cut to Monday morning, while scrolling Instagram, I saw that one of my favorite rescues had a pair of British shorthair siblings that needed a home and would do best if they were adopted together. The female was a white and orange cat with bright blue eyes, and the male was a cinnamon-colored cat with brown eyes. By the end of the day, I’d welcomed Lady Whiskerdown and the Duke of Pawstings home, and I’d been catering to their every whim ever since. Case in point: I would be dressing in my closet to avoid giving the neighbors a peep show, so Duke could sunbathe.

“Good morning, your Highness,” I greeted Lady Whiskerdown as she jumped to the ground as I fastened my bra behind my back.

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