Coda Books 04 - Strawberries for Dessert (MM)

Date: April 11
    From: Cole
    To: Jared
    Hey Sweets! It’s good to hear from you, even if your email is dreadfully short. What happens in Vegas doesn’t really have to stay in Vegas, honey. Would it kill you to give me some juicy details?
    So, you think I should look up this Jonathan fellow? I’ll take your word on the good-looking part. After all, you do have fabulous taste in men, even if that big pissed-off cop you’re with now isn’t exactly my type. As long as I’m “not the one dating his ex”? That’s terribly intriguing. I suspect there’s a good story to go along with such a cryptic statement.
    You never were much of a gossip (you really should work on that,
    Sweets). I’ll be in New York for the next few days, but when I get back home, maybe I’ll give him a call. God knows Phoenix has been awfully dry lately—and sugar, I’m not talking about the weather!

    THE flight from LA to Phoenix took about an hour. One hour that I had a perfectly legitimate excuse for turning off my cell phone.
    What did it say about my job when the commute was the fun part?
    I’d just spent a week in LA helping our newest hotel client transition their accounting data into my company’s software. Next week, I would be doing the same thing for another client in Vegas.
    Between those two cities and Phoenix, I was currently juggling six different clients in various stages of the transition process. All of them seemed inclined to call me at all hours.
    And then there was my boss.
    The calls started at six a.m. and usually ended by ten at night.
    Although I was skeptical that my simple cell phone really posed any threat to modern aviation equipment, I was quite happy to abide by the FAA’s rule that it be turned off during the flight. But all too soon we were on the ground in Phoenix, and my reprieve was over. As I walked from the gate to the baggage claim, I turned my phone back on and was immediately informed that I had four voice mail messages. Four messages in one hour?
    I bit back my annoyance. Another year or two in this position, and I would be eligible for a promotion. I tried to keep my eye on the prize.
    Still, four messages waiting for me was a definite sign that my arrival home in Phoenix was not going to be the end of my work week, even if it was Friday afternoon.
    Before I could even listen to the first one, my phone rang. Shit.
    Here we go again. “This is Jonathan.”
    “Jonathan! Where the hell are you?” It was Marcus Barry, my boss.
    “I’m at the airport. Is there something wrong?”

    “That woman from the Clifton Inn has been trying to reach you for the last hour.” I had only left the Clifton Inn four hours ago. What could possibly have come up in that time that was so urgent?
    “I was on the plane,” I said, trying not to let him hear my frustration.
    He sighed. “Well, she’s driving everybody here nuts. She wants answers now .”
    “I’ll call her right away.”
    “Good,” he said, and hung up without saying goodbye. Not that I minded.
    I made it to the baggage claim carousel and confirmed that my bag had yet to be spit out onto the conveyor belt. I stood there watching for it while I called Sarah, the accounts manager at the Clifton Inn. It went directly to her voice mail. I left her a message saying that I was now back in Phoenix and for her to call. Before I could even hang up, my phone buzzed again.
    Five voice mails now. Great.
    I saw my bag spill out of the chute, and I shouldered my way to the front of the crush of people so that I would be able to grab it when it got to me. I was just about to reach for it when my phone rang.
    “This is Jonathan.”
    There was a half a second of silence, and then a voice I did not recognize said, “So formal, aren’t you darling? I wasn’t expecting that.
    This is Cole.” The voice was light, the tone mocking. Definitely a man’s voice but with a very feminine quality.
    “I’m sorry,” I said. “Who— shit !” Because I realized at that moment that, in the process of answering the phone, I had missed my bag and would now have to wait for it to make another circuit on the conveyor before I could retrieve it.
    “Is something wrong?”
    “No.” My phone buzzed in my hand. Six voice mails. I at least managed to keep my obscenities silent this time. “I’m sorry,” I said, trying not to let him hear the annoyance in my voice. “Who are you?”

    “I’m a friend of Jared’s. He gave me your number, darling.”
    Darling?