We’re also on alert at all times for crazies.

Sometimes it seems like we’re a magnet for crazies. Conservative protestors pop up once in a while and need to be convinced that we really aren’t the place for protests. Generally, sending the g-stringed, all-male revue out to the protestors with boxes of donuts does the trick, but security is always there for backup.

And every once in a while, an O client confuses a staff member’s professional attention to physical pampering with True Love. Those situations can be tricky. Henry gets at least one proposition a week, and some of them are quite insistent.

What we offer our club members is relaxation and serenity. Our mission you might say, is inner peace. Our security team is invisible, dressed just like the spa staff, but when Code Seven is announced, they react very differently.

Nick Grafton is frozen in my doorway as men and women wearing grey silk kimono jackets and very little else race by.

I can hear shouting now, and some banging. Just like everyone else who works here, I have attended training sessions for this exact set of circumstances. I have the certificate to prove it.

And damned if I can remember one single thing that I am supposed to be doing.

Standing lopsided at my desk with one heeled sandal on and one off, staring like a deer in the headlights, is probably not what I was taught, though.

The shouting is getting louder, and dear god, is that my name I hear? Like some horror movie where the demon is closing in on the innocent victim? Nick Grafton and I look at each other.

Rushing toward the source of danger is probably wrong also? I hobble to the door as fast as possible. Three feet away, I trip, pitching forward. Nick catches me by reflex, one hand under my arm and one squarely on my breast as he inserts himself ahead of me, protectively.

I should be totally embarrassed. He’s a business associate and a complete stranger, but damn, that feels good. I need to fall more often. I need to practice klutziness. I never realized before what an important skill it is.

At that exact moment, my ex-boyfriend Joe heaves into view, dragging three security guards and screaming, “Chloe! Goddammit, let go of me! Chloe!” Joe’s tie is loose and his shirt is pulled out. His face is bright red and dripping sweat.

As Aaron Sorkin would say, this is not happening.

O’s corporate office is not huge. We all know each other, and everyone here knows Joe, at least by sight. The looks of fear on staff members’ faces shift to curiosity, and maybe a little embarrassment. But like a traffic accident, they can’t look away. They are Relationship Rubberneckers, and I’m a two-car pile-up on the Mass Pike. WBZ should cover this on the threes.

No one moves.

Just then, Joe looks up and sees me in Nick’s arms. Or hands. Or both.

He wrenches himself free from the security guards and lunges at Nick, who lets go of me.

“STOP!” I scream.

“She’s MINE!” Joe roars, a wave of hot breath expelling from him. Drunk, alcohol-soaked breath.

Nick makes two quick moves, so powerful and authoritative that he seems choreographed. Instinct makes me step back. I’m being protected, even if I didn’t ask for Nick’s help. His fluid grace takes Joe’s clumsy charge and turns his weight against him, overpowering my ex-boyfriend. I choke back a laugh driven by pure shock.

In seconds, Nick’s forearm is around Joe’s throat and one of Joe’s arms is pinned behind his back.

That was unexpected.

And if I weren’t mortified beyond belief, I’d have to admit it was kind of hot, too.

The security guards catch up. Nick says something to them that I can’t hear, and one of them handcuffs Joe. I can smell alcohol, and French cologne.

“Chloe, I have to talk to you, it’s all a mistake, I can explain, I’m so sorry, you know I love you, no one else matters to me, please.” Joe’s talking fast and low.

Henry comes sprinting in, dressed in a g-string, cowboy boots and a big belt buckle that says Everything’s Bigger in Texas. “Chloe, what the hell...? Joe?”

I’m undone. Without thinking, I take three unbalanced steps toward Henry and throw my arms around his mostly naked torso.

Nick looks at us for a long moment, then walks out behind the guards and Joe, who is still talking.

“Get your hands off of me! Don’t you know who I am? Chloe, call them off. Damn it, call them off! Please? C’mon, Chloe, you know I—”

Then—wait? Yep. The unmistakable sound of vomiting.

Some of those roses will need to go to the cleaning crew.

This is not my beautiful life.

* * *

Henry drives me home in his 1996 Audi. A fitting end to a day of uncertainty, discomfort, and some danger. Henry grew up in California, where he learned to drive. He is courteous. He observes the posted speed limit. He yields to the right-of-way.

In Boston traffic, this kind of thing will get you killed. No one expects it and no one knows how to react. Lacking a better idea, they usually respond with their middle fingers.

Surprisingly, we arrive safely at my condo. Climbing out of his car, I pause.

“So… you don’t mind if Jemma hangs out here tonight? I need some girl time. You come, too.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that, Chloe. Anyway, I’m working tonight, so it’s perfect. If I get out early, I can do research on my thesis until Jem gets home.”

“Thank you, Henry. For everything.”

He winks at me. “You’re our girl.”

I tear up, and wave. He signals, looks over his shoulder, and eases out into the street. Miraculously, no one hits him.

Godspeed.

Inside, a shower. Hot water and ginger-scented soap to wash everything off my skin. As if Joe never touched me. A clean slate.

By the time Jemma walks in the door, I have assembled the following out of the refrigerator: a container of olives (cocktail mix, the kind with tiny onions and dried cranberries), a small block of Parmesan cheese, a dish of honey, a Granny Smith apple, and three slices of smoked ham. Also some crackers of questionable freshness.

She looks it over.

“Maybe if we boiled a pound of pasta and mixed it all together, we could make a dinner out of this?” She sounds doubtful.

“I have an entire case of Prisoner, Jem,” I offer. The Prisoner is our favorite Napa red. Food just became irrelevant. Dinner will be served in a glass tonight. Possibly tomorrow night as well.