Free Regrets Only by M. J. Pullen

nearly enough about navigating the world in four-inch heels. She
had been walking in heels on a regular basis since she was eleven, after months
of practicing in her parents’ hallway with a book on her head, under her
mother’s watchful eye. In recent years, heels had become such an integral part
of her wardrobe that she didn’t feel fully dressed without them.
    Tonight,
however, she felt wobbly—more like Bambi on ice than Ginger Rogers on stage.
Her head was spinning a bit, too. Perhaps her lack of sleep was finally
catching up with her. The normally soothing lights of the High Museum seemed
oppressive and glaring. Having solved the locked bathroom crisis with a call to
Betsy Fuller-Brown, she had made her way up the circular ramps to the third
floor of the rotunda, where she took off her shoes and sat on the floor at the
top of the deserted ramp.
    From
here, she could look down to the other two floors and hear some of what was
going on below without being noticed herself. She rubbed her tired feet and called
Chad over the radio to talk about accommodating the three surprise guests at
the Burke table.
    “Are
you okay?” he asked when they’d solved the problem.
    “Sure.
Why?”
    He
hesitated. “Um…no reason. Why don’t you come sit down for a bit? You’re
exhausted.”
    “I
am sitting.”
    “Okay,
good,” he said. His voice sounded oddly far away and a little too sweet. This
was not the usual Chad.
    “Why
are you talking like that?”
    “What
do you mean?”
    “You
know what I mean. Like you’re the grownup boss of me, instead of I’m being the
boss of you.” This did not come out the way she intended, so she repeated the
main point. “You know what I mean.”
    Now
it was Marci at the other end of the radio. “Suze, why don’t you tell me where
you are and I’ll have Jake come for you?”
    “Marce,
I’m fine. Quit being so overprotective. You’re the one who needs protecting.
You’re prego! Pregnant. With child. Con bambino. Pregno-protecto!” This last
bit sounded very funny to Suzanne. Like Harry Potter.
    “Shh…Suzanne,
that was a secret, remember?”
    “Oh,
sorry!” Suzanne said. She meant it, too. Though at this point she was having
trouble holding on to what she meant. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.” Her thoughts and
words seemed to be slipping through her fingers. Out they went, almost as
though she could see them, through the white metal grid separating her from the
empty air beyond the railing and down, down, down to the ground below. People—lots
of people—were down there, milling around. She could see the tops of their
heads and black suits or bare shoulders, depending on gender. Holy shit, I’m
far up. How have I never noticed how high up this is? Has anyone ever fallen
from here?
    “Well
if it isn’t my favorite Southern belle,” another voice came through the radio,
surprisingly crisp and audible. That was odd. She held the radio out from her
face to examine it.
    A
good-natured laugh sounded from her left. “I’m over here, Miss Scarlett.” She
turned to see her most famous client standing a few feet away from her on the
landing.
    Even
had she felt her normal clarity, it might have taken a moment to recognize
Dylan Burke. He wore the perfectly-faded blue jeans and black boots that were
his standard uniform, of course, but with a pressed white shirt, soft charcoal
vest and a wide, tasteful maroon tie. The most surprising thing, though, was
seeing him for the first time without his trademark camouflage cap. His
hairline was slightly receded, as she had wondered, but the rest of his
hair was thick and had been expertly tousled into a sun-streaked, light brown
mess on top of his head. He wore glasses—round black frames that were thick on
top and thin as wire on the bottom. In spite of her addled state, she couldn’t
help but notice that he looked amazing. Sexy, even.
    “Looks
like you’ve been busy since I saw you last,” he said.
    This
brought her out of her reverie