Lost and Found Read Online Free

He stands and wraps me in his arms and whispers against my ear again. "I love your drive."
    I plant a kiss on the tip of his nose. "I love that you love it."
    AFTER JASON LEAVES I go to the kitchen, take a bag of cat food from the pantry, and fill one of the stainless steel bowls that sits on the floor next to the pantry door. The ping of the pellets hitting the bowl alerts Sam that it's dinnertime. I wait by the bowl until I see him sauntering down the hallway.
    Cool. Independent. Detached.
    Sam's my idol.
    He sits in front of the bowl, all seventeen pounds of him, as though he can't be bothered to eat.
    "I'll leave you alone with your dinner." I bend and scratch the top of his head. He turns and his ice-blue eyes glare at me. "Sorry. I won't intrude, I promise." Before I'm out of the kitchen I hear Sam crunching his food.
    I settle at my desk and pull a pile of papers off the top of the black leather in-box. I nudge the mouse on my desk and the 27-inch screen of my iMac comes to life. I click on the stamp icon and see 198 e-mails in my [email protected] in-box. Those arrived sometime between Cassidy's departure at 4:00 p.m. on Friday and now, 8:17 p.m. on Saturday. I'll leave those for Cass to respond to on Monday.
    I rifle through the papers in front of me—the recent contract from my publisher. I refuse to hire an agent to handle my business negotiations. Why would I pay someone for something I can handle myself? I reach for a red pen and begin marking changes I still expect the publisher to make before I sign. I look at the advance offered. I cross through the figure in red and scrawl in its place the six-figure number that I'll demand. I won't do it for less.
    I've attained financial freedom. I advise the CEOs of some of the top Fortune 500 companies. And because of my radio show, I'm now known across the country. "A household name . . ." I look at the number I've scrawled in red next to the advance and again think of the paltry stipend Urbanity offered for my column. But not everything is about money. I may be known across the country, but this city is where I will be someone.
    Where I'll be accepted.
    That's why I agreed to work with the Bouviers. Brigitte is a stepping-stone. She and Gerard are known in this community. Though not natives, they made a splash when they arrived from France. They've made a name for themselves here.
    As I continue to work, the silence of the penthouse irritates like a nagging gnat.
    I stop, reach for the remote on my desk, swivel in my chair, and point it at the flat screen on my office wall. I turn up the volume. "Sam, where are you? Here kitty." I turn back to my work.
    The next time I glance at the computer screen, it's 10:49 p.m. I stand, reach for the ceiling and then bend at the waist a few times, I grab the remote, turn off the TV, and stack the papers on my desk. Then I wander out to the living room. I drop onto the sofa and pull my feet up under me and allow myself time to think through this morning's brunch.
    What is with Jenna? It isn't just that she was "in her head," as Jason said—she was rude to me during brunch. But what about earlier . . . in the solarium? I'd told Jason I needed to use the bathroom and took a few minutes on my own to explore the Bouvier digs. When Jenna walked into the solarium, I thought I'd introduce myself and maybe apologize for wandering.
    I shift on the sofa and stretch my legs out in front of me.
    But, as I think about it now, that's when she was "in her head." She didn't even see me. So I stepped back, behind the yards of linen hanging from the windows, near the French doors that led to the balcony. I considered making a run for it undetected, but I couldn't pull myself away.
    That look on her face—tension or angst or something. But then she seemed to transform before my eyes. From stressed to serene in sixty seconds or less. Now there's a trick I'd like to learn. And what about the tears that followed? Tears of . . . what? She