by Virna DePaul
“Lucian, you’re only twenty-eight, and two years younger than me at that.”
He waves a hand. “I feel old in my soul. And you’re deflecting. Who was the girl, and what did she want?”
I can feel my wallet in my jacket pocket, heavy and almost accusatory. Julia had taken the trouble to return it, when she could’ve kept the cash and tossed the rest. I imagine she could use the extra money. My heart warms a little.
“She actually came here to return my wallet. I told you it disappeared after what happened at Cooper’s? Well, apparently she had it the entire time.”
Lucian raises an eyebrow. “Took her long enough to return it, but I guess she gets points for altruism all the same.”
I don’t reply. All I can think about is how Julia looked when she put me in my place: gorgeous. She should get angry more often. Her face flushed, her eyes flashing, and her magnificent rack heaving? God, she’d been glorious, and I can feel my body stirring at the thought of her. Which really isn’t anything new. Since spotting her in Cooper’s that very first day, I’ve made fantasizing about her an Olympic sport.
She’s pretty, and bright, and funny, and now I know she has a backbone, too. My last few girlfriends always complained that they couldn’t get me to do anything they wanted because I’m so stubborn. Clearly, Julia would have no problem telling me to go to hell.
“Now you’re smiling,” Lucian says. “Are you daydreaming? Shit, you are.”
I shuffle through some random papers on my desk, embarrassed. “What do you think our options are with Ryland?”
Now it’s Lucian’s turn to sigh. “Fuck me if I know. We gave him all of the stats, all of the information about why this investment could turn sour quickly, but he didn’t want to hear it. I think with each page of stats we showed him, he shut down even more. It doesn’t bode well for us getting more referrals from Kiss Talent if we can’t make Ryland happy.”
I tap a pen against my desk. RichCo is doing just fine, yet partnering with Kiss Talent Agency to provide financial advice to the bulk of their clients is definitely something worth pursuing. Masters is just the beginning of a long line of stars represented by Declan, Owen, and Hunter Kiss, men Lucian and I respect, and enjoy hanging out with for an occasional social event, which isn’t very often as they split their time between New York and Los Angeles. It doesn’t hurt that Kiss Agency has V.I.P. access to the best sports events, rock shows, and film premieres the entertainment business has to offer, but beyond that Declan, Owen, and Hunter are stand up guys and astute businessmen in spite of their hard-living, fast-car-driving, man-whoring facades.
Been there, done that. I’m much happier living life in the slow lane these days, though my recent run-in with Julia definitely had flooded me with a pleasant adrenaline rush I want to experience again…and soon. Amazingly, however, it is Julia’s business advice that is forefront in my mind just then.
Julia said that I needed to think about how Ryland looked at things, and that taking risks seemed to be a life goal of his (something he’d failed to mention when he hired us). I wouldn’t call myself an overly cautious person, but I also don’t rush headlong into things when I know very well they could go badly. So Ryland’s friend is developing a mobile app? Everyone and their dog has a mobile app, and this one doesn’t seem any different from all the others floating in the App Store.
Lucian and I have told Ryland this, but he wants to proceed anyway. Obviously it’s his money and he can do what he wants, yet he’s taking our advice as a sign of advisor/client incompatibility. I tap the pen harder.
“You know,” I begin, thinking. “I wonder if we really looked at everything. Maybe there’s some component here that would show it’s not a complete wash. Maybe this business has actual potential. Obviously, Ryland thinks so.”
Lucian stares at me, and then he bursts out laughing. “What are you talking about? Didn’t you just explain to me how pointless this mobile app was and how we had to keep Ryland from throwing money at it no matter what?”
I grit my teeth. “Yes, but sometimes you have to change tactics. Sometimes there’s an angle you didn’t look at. I’m thinking there’s something we haven’t considered. Have you even listened to his music?”
“No, I haven’t. But as you pointed out, I’m twenty-eight; I think Ryland’s music is better suited for college kids. And I hardly have time to surf for the latest trends in music.” Sitting back in his chair and putting his feet back up on my desk, Lucian strokes his chin. “Does this have anything to do with that girl? What was her name?”
I still, my tapping going silent. “Her name’s Julia. What about her?”
“I didn’t hear everything she said, but what did she say to you? I’ve never seen you do a one-eighty on a deal so quickly, if ever. She must’ve made an impression on you.”
I hesitate. Do I tell Lucian how Julia reamed me? I decide not to tell him everything, but I also know that if I lie outright, he’ll be like a shark out for blood. “She and Ryland apparently got to talking and she felt compelled to offer her advice.” I can’t help the snort that comes from me: yes, I admire her spunk, but at the same time, she’s hardly got any credentials. At least, none I’m aware of. I know it sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud. “She told me that Ryland has lived his life taking risks, and I should take that into account.”
“Huh,” Lucian says. “Huh.”
“Is that all you have to say?”
“I’m thinking.”
I start tapping my pen again.
After a few more moments, Lucian stands. He’s a bit like a cat, stretching in a patch of sunlight coming through the office window. “I’m not sure if we should listen to some random woman,” he says finally, “but I guess it wouldn’t hurt to consider what she said, since Ryland isn’t happy with what we did give him.”
He turns then, and suddenly his full focus is on me. “My real question is: are you going to ask her out or not?”
I clench the pen in my fist. That is the real question, isn’t it? Before collapsing at Cooper’s like some Victorian woman with a too-tight corset, I’d planned on asking Julia out after she returned with more chicken wings. Now, though? How can I, when I can already tell I’d want more than a fling with her. In truth, I’m not the fling type. Not anymore. I’ve grown up from the bad-boy man-whore I used to be, and I like the man I’ve become. I like having a girlfriend. I like pursuing something important with the knowledge that it just might end up being the most important thing in my life. I’ve never gotten to that point with a woman, but with Julia . . . I’ve dated doctors, models, CEOs, but there’s something about this grocery store sample girl that has me intrigued, not to mention half hard just thinking about her, most especially her eyes and breasts and smile.
Especially her breasts.
But Julia’s young, and doesn’t deserve to get involved with, and maybe start to care about, a guy who’s fighting a major illness.
I clear my throat a little. “At the moment, no. I’m not going to.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because it’s not exactly an opportune time, if you hadn’t noticed.”
He frowns. “Bastian—”
“I need to get back to work and so do you,” I clip out and start to fuss with some papers on my desk.
I feel my brother’s eyes on me for several seconds before he reluctantly stands. “If she’s scared by a little illness, she’s not worth your time, anyway. But how will you know if you don’t ask her in the first place?” He says this quietly and I don’t look up or respond. Then he’s gone.
I push my fingers through my hair and lean back in my chair. When I do, I feel the wallet in my jacket, and I reach inside, pull it out, and open it up. I don’t believe Julia would have taken anything, but I rifle through the bills anyway. I realize there’s an extra one; there are now two $50 bills.
Everything else is there, including the condoms I always keep handy. Seeing them, I imagine myself between Julia’s thi
ghs. How I’d give anything to sink deep inside her. See those breasts for myself, taste her, hear her moan. Is she a screamer, I wonder, or a moaner? Maybe she doesn’t make much noise during sex at all? I have to shift in my chair because I’m getting hard (again) just imagining the scenario.
I finish up the work I need to do, and then track down Holly to apologize. She’s nicer than I deserve, and she forgives me without issue. I then ask her to look up dates for Ryland Masters’s concerts, and to purchase two tickets for the soonest one. “Contact Kiss Talent and ask for V.I.P. access,” I tell her. She raises her eyebrows at this, but she’s too professional to comment.
I guess I’m going to ask Julia out after all.
7
Julia
After a stellar start to my day, I get to hand out granola bars that contain no gluten, dairy, sugar, eggs, and probably no joy, either. I don’t tell anyone what they’re made out of—or not made out of—as I’m giving them the little cups, mostly to see their reactions when they realize they’re eating cardboard.
A middle-aged woman with flaming red hair chews the offending granola bar so long she looks like a cow chewing its cud. “What’s in this thing?” she asks in disgust. “Sandpaper?”
“Quinoa and flaxseed,” I reply automatically. At the woman’s look of deeper disgust, I add, “It’s very healthy for you.”
“Uh-huh. I’ll stick to my usual brand, thanks.” The woman walks off, still chewing, and I have to resist the temptation to text Kevin about it.
After my run-in with asshole Bastian this morning, I’ve tried to put him out of my mind. Of course, my mind is extremely rude, and it likes to have wet dreams about the man who was so rude to me, so I haven’t been able to completely forget him. But I’m trying. I really am. I’m disappointed that I crushed so hard on a guy who’s such a jerk. I should’ve known: no guy with an ass like that could be decent.
My chin in my hand, I gaze despairingly at the expanse of Cooper’s. I guess that adventure I was hoping to have isn’t going to happen, is it? How depressing. I’ll be handing out samples until I’m dead and buried, and knowing my luck, people will show up to my funeral hoping for even more free samples.
As I sigh deeply, She-Hulk comes around the corner. She’s been on my ass for everything lately, ever since I ran off to chase Bastian in the taxi. Today, her white-blond hair is in the tightest bun I’ve ever seen; I wonder if she loses circulation in her face doing that to her hair. Her lipstick doesn’t complement her coloring, and it makes her look rather sickly. But all of that fades away when she sees me staring off into space.
“Rominger!” she barks.
I stand at attention, like a soldier in boot camp. “Yes?”
“Stop looking like you could care less and do some work for once.”
“The phrase is actually ‘couldn’t care less.’ Because saying you could care less implies that you could still care, at least a little bit.”
She-Hulk stares at me. Then she glares. “Did you just correct my grammar?”
Good going, dumbass. “Nooooooooo, I just . . . fun fact? Haha?”
“How about you focus on your work instead of trying to sound smart, huh? You don’t need to correct my grammar to hand out granola bars.”
I’m starting to blush. I can see customers staring, and I want to melt into the floor. I shouldn’t have said that, but did She-Hulk have to be so mean about it?
“Look, I know you don’t like me for whatever reason,” I blurt out. Oh God, word vomit, incoming! “But that doesn’t mean you get to talk to me like I’m stupid. Okay? It’s rude. Just, rude.”
When She-Hulk doesn’t say anything, I can almost imagine her starting to get bigger and bigger just like the Hulk, until she’s burst through her clothes and is a bright green, growling and yelling. But she doesn’t transform. Instead, she rolls her eyes and snaps out a brusque, “Fine,” before walking away.
I don’t know if that’s a victory, but I’ll take it.
As I’m about to clean up my station, I see something out of the corner of my eye. When I realize who it is, I gasp. I drop the container of, well, containers, and they spill out onto the floor. Some roll away, and I want to bang my head against something.
None other than Big Sexy Asshole (Kevin’s new name for him) is standing at my stand again, sans suit. He’s less than five feet away from me, but he doesn’t say anything. He just eyes me with those golden eyes a girl could drown in. I’m tongue-tied. I try to speak, but it comes out as a stutter. So I stop trying.
“No suit,” he says.
I blink. “Um, what?”
“I’m not wearing the suit that turns me into an asshole. So you can relax.”
I mentally wince, remembering what I inferred about his suit having super asshole powers.
“What’s your sample today?” he asks.
I blink. Samples? What are samples? Oh, samples. Yes, that’s my job. “Gra-gra-gra-gra-nola bars,” I finally spit out. I hand him one. “They’re healthy.”
“Uh-huh.” He looks at the bite of granola bar, and then tosses it into his mouth. And then I get to watch him make the same face as everyone else who’s eaten them today.
“Tasty, huh?”
He chews. He chews some more. And then he swallows, but it’s with effort. “Sure,” he says with a cough.
The look on his face is ridiculous enough that I have to stifle a laugh.
He clears his throat. “I wanted to apologize. For earlier, I mean.”
I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. Bastian Rich is apologizing to me? Nobody Julia, sample giver and perpetual failure?
“I have no excuse for how I acted. I’m not in a great place, I guess. But I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
“Okay, well . . . thanks.”
“Does that mean I’m forgiven?”
“Well . . .” I bite my lip, and he seems transfixed by the sight, so I quickly stop.
“What is it?”
“Are you not in a good place because you’re . . . sick?” It’s something I should have considered before I’d gotten in his face this morning. The guy had passed out on me, after all.
He stares at me, his cheeks becoming ruddy with color. “I’m not dying or anything,” he says, which doesn’t really answer my question, but it does fill me with a sense of relief. Despite how he acted earlier, I’m glad he’s okay.
“I just . . . Did you apologize to Holly?”
“Hol—?” Understanding overtakes his expression. “Ah yes. I did apologize to Holly. And I was even still wearing my suit when I did it.”
God, I’ve known him mere minutes, but we actually have an inside joke. The knowledge fills me with pleasure. “Good for you. And yes.”
“Yes?”
“Now that I know you apologized to Holly, I forgive you.”
“Do you know Holly?”
“No. It’s just that she tried to schedule Ryland’s appointment, but we were talking and . . . ” I wave my hand. “I kind of felt like I had something to do with you being mad at her.”
He nods, then pulls out his wallet—that infamous wallet, just as fat as before—and I have the horrible suspicion he’s going to offer me a monetary reward for returning it to him, like I’m some random stranger who did him an impersonal favor. Like he’d reward me the same way he’d reward anyone, even that old guy who’d grossed me out when he’d been sampling the Miracle Swabs, for returning his wallet.
“Do you know how I ended up with two fifty-dollar bills in my wallet? I could’ve sworn I only had twenty and hundred-dollar bills.”
Oh, that. I try to laugh it off. But he just raises an eyebrow at me. So I end up confessing. “I tried to follow the ambulance when you collapsed, and I bribed the cabbie with a hundred dollars.” At his look, I add hastily, “I was always going to pay you back! And as you saw, I did. Sorry about using your money, though. That wasn’t very nice of me.”
He thinks a moment, his expression serious, as if he’s no
t sure how to take that I not only tried to follow him, but used his money to do so. “Well,” he says finally, “I’m afraid the two fifties just aren’t good enough.” Shaking his head, he takes out the two fifties and hands them to me.
I’m so stunned I take them. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” Is this his way of giving me a reward?
“I’m saying I don’t want the hundred bucks back, but perhaps you’ll give me something else instead.”
Lord, the images that pop into my head at that statement.
“I took your advice and got tickets to one of Ryland’s concerts on Saturday evening. I’d like you to go with me.”
Is Big Sexy Asshole Bastian asking me out on a date?
A date? A real-live, holy-shit-oh-my-God date?
This can’t be real. Surreptitiously, I pinch myself. Shit, ow—it is real. He’s standing here asking me out.
Then I narrow my eyes. Why is he asking me out? Is this some trick? Some joke? I look around for hidden cameras. But it’s just me and Bastian, standing and staring at each other.
I’m not sure if I should say yes, but then the words tumble out before I know it. “Be honest. Is this just so you can pump me for more financial advice advice?”
He slowly smiles. “You’re on to me. But it won’t be all work. Hell, if you’re a good girl, I’ll even buy you dinner beforehand.”
“And what if I’m a bad girl?” I cringe as soon as the words escape my lips, and pray that somehow he wasn’t able to hear the way those words rolled of my tongue with the tone of a budget call girl. I don’t wait for a response before correcting course. “Never mind. I’ll be good.”
“Come however you’re feeling,” he says. “Good, bad, or in between. I’m betting I’ll enjoy getting to know all of you.”
His eyes flare with heat, and I feel the answering heat course through my entire body. I want to jump over the sample stand like it’s a pommel horse and climb him, but alas I am nowhere near that athletic or brave. In fact, I’m back to wondering if this is some kind of nasty ploy for payback—mess-with-the-chubby-girl-who-mouthed-off-to-him time, or something. And I hate what that says about my self-esteem or lack thereof. “You sure about that? There’s obviously a whole lot of me.”
