by Regina Kyle
Other opportunities. It’s almost exactly what Ainsley said. Right before she walked out.
I tip my head back and stare at a water stain on the ceiling, quietly cursing my own stupidity. “I think I screwed up. Again.”
“You think?” Connor jibes at me.
“Fine. I know.”
“So what are you going to do about it?” he asks.
“I don’t know, man.” I stand and pace the room. I think better when I’m in motion. And I need all my brain cells firing at full capacity to come up with a way to win Ainsley back. “She was pretty pissed at me.”
“Understandable, given her last breakup.”
His words stop me in my tracks. “What about her last breakup? And how do you know more about her love life than I do?”
“Brie,” he explains simply.
“You’ve been talking to my sister?” No. Not going there. I can’t worry about why my best friend and my baby sister are suddenly getting all chummy when I’ve got my own shit to straighten out. “Never mind. Just tell me what you know.”
“Her fiancé dumped her right before their wedding.”
Her what? “She never mentioned that she was engaged.”
“Yeah, and the guy was a total dick. Left her for his secretary. Said Ainsley was already married to her work.”
Ouch. “Let me guess. That was when she quit her job at the law firm.”
“Yep. She started her errand—uh, executive concierge business a few months later.”
Holy shit. It all makes sense now. Ainsley’s laid-back attitude toward work. Daring me to go a whole day without electronics. Her admiration for Ferris Bueller and his life-moves-fast-and-if-you-don’t-stop-and-look-around-you’ll-miss-it mantra.
I start pacing again, my synapses firing at warp speed as a plan begins to take shape. An outrageous, impracticable, so-over-the-top-it-just-might-work plan.
“You still there?” Connor asks. “Or did you finally grow a pair and hang up so you could get your ass on a plane to New York and grovel in person?”
“I’m here,” I say, ignoring his put-down. I’m a man on a mission, and petty insults aren’t going to distract me from my game plan. “Do you have a pen and paper handy? Or better yet, boot up your computer.”
“Why?”
“Because I have an idea. And I’m going to need your help to make it happen.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Ainsley
IT TAKES ALMOST a week for Dale to respond to my email. Not that that surprises me. He always did things at his own, leisurely, the-world-will-wait-for-me pace.
What surprises me is that I’ve been staring at my computer screen for ten minutes without opening the damn thing.
I’m not sure what I’m more afraid of. That he’ll give me the answer I’m hoping for. Or that he won’t.
Before I can overthink this anymore, I pull up my big girl panties and click on the email. It’s another minute before I work up the nerve to focus on the screen and read what he’s written.
Ainsley,
Sorry it’s taken so long for me to get back to you. Una and I are in Fiji, celebrating our anniversary.
I wince. Way to rub it in, Dale. Once a dickweed, always a dickweed, I guess. I say a silent prayer of thanks that I dodged that bullet.
I scroll down and read on.
You asked if your work was really the cause of our breakup, and the answer is yes—and no. Yes, the demands of your job made it hard for us to spend quality time together, and our relationship suffered because of it. And no, despite what I said at the time, that wasn’t the reason I broke off our engagement. Or at least not the only reason.
The truth is, if you were the right woman for me, I would have been willing to compromise on the work thing. Maybe even been a stay-at-home dad to our eventual kids. But love is like the tide, it comes and it goes, and the tide ran out on my love for you.
I know this is hard to hear, but the least I can give you now is honesty. I hope this gives you the closure—or whatever it is—you’re looking for, and that you can move on like the rolling ocean waves, with strength and purpose.
Gotta go. Una has us scheduled for a couple’s massage at the hotel spa. Maybe the three of us can get together for drinks or something when we get back to the city.
Dale
I stare at the screen for a hot second, trying to make sense of the what-the-fuckery I’ve just read, then burst into hysterical laughter. The tide ran out on my love for you? Move on like the rolling ocean waves? Who does Dale think he is, Walt freaking Whitman? Hell will freeze over before I meet him and his not-so-blushing bride for drinks or anything else.
Still, I appreciate his honesty. No matter how painfully saccharine. And I’m talking acute physical pain here, like I’ve got a stomach bug. Or food poisoning. But he did make one good point—being in a relationship requires trade-offs. Compromise, not sacrifice. Bending, not breaking.
Am I willing to meet Jake halfway? Is he willing to meet me?
I know my answer—hell to the yes. Sure, Jake went a little off the deep end when his deal fell through. But so did I, dropping ultimatums like atom bombs and storming out without giving him a chance to calm down. We had a good thing going, and I let it go without lifting so much as a finger, never mind putting up a fight.
No more. Time to lace up my gloves and get into the ring. Metaphorically speaking, of course.
I open a new browser tab and I’m deep into an Expedia search for last minute deals on flights to Miami when someone knocks—no, pounds—on my door. I glance at the clock on my computer screen. 8:59. My worker bees are right on time.
“Come on in, door’s open,” I call, minimizing my browser. Strategizing my next move with Jake will have to wait. You know the saying, “little pitchers have big ears?” Well, nosy assistants have big eyes. And long necks, perfect for reading over your shoulder.
“What’s so funny?” Erin asks as she barrels into my apartment like she’s got the NYPD hot on her heels. But no, it’s just Aaron, balancing a tray of cardboard coffee cups with a familiar green logo.
“Yeah.” He hands me one of the coffees and takes his usual place for our morning meetings in one of the chairs across from my desk. “We could hear you laughing all the way down the hall.”
“Funny meme on Facebook,” I lie, taking a sip of my coffee—light and with more artificial sweetener than I care to admit, just the way I like it.
“Ooh, can I see?” Erin comes up behind me, craning her neck over my shoulder to peek at the computer screen.
See what I mean? Big eyes. Long neck.
I point to the empty chair next to Aaron and open up my almighty spreadsheet. “Sit. No time for social media this morning. We’ve got important new business to discuss.”
It’s not a lie. I met with Martin Fletcher and the tenants in my parents’ building last week, and my mom wasn’t kidding when she said they were a needy bunch. We’ve got three new clients already, and I have an inbox full of résumés to cull through from prospective additions to the Odds & Errands team.
Of course, the sooner I send these two on their way, the sooner I can concentrate on Operation Get Jake Back. No, that makes me sound like a bounty hunter. Operation Miami Vice? I grimace. Not much better.
Never mind. I’ll figure out the name later.
“Okay, first on the agenda—”
“What’s that?” Erin’s head swivels to the open window across the room.
Aaron’s eyes follow her. “What’s what?”
“That music.” She crosses to the window. “Can’t you hear it?”
I can, now that she mentions it. It sounds like...
“‘Twist and Shout,’” Aaron confirms, unfolding his lanky body from the chair and joining Erin. “The Rolling Stones, right?”
I wince. He’s only a f
ew years younger than me, but sometimes it seems like an eternity.
“Beatles, you idiot,” Erin corrects him, smacking him on the shoulder. “Haven’t I taught you anything?”
She turns her attention back to the commotion outside, which is growing louder by the minute. “Holy shit. Is that what I think it is?”
Aaron waves me over behind his back, not taking his eyes off whatever the hell is happening on the other side of the window. “Boss, you’ve got to come over here and see this.”
I glance longingly at my spreadsheet. Every second wasted is a second farther away from Jake. “Is it more important than our morning meeting?”
“I don’t know about important,” he says, still not tearing his gaze away from the window. “But it’s a lot more interesting.”
“If I indulge you, will you both quit goofing around so we can get back to business?”
“Trust me.” Erin turns to face me, her eyes wide and a shit-eating grin splitting her face. “You don’t want to miss this.”
“Fine.” I can’t imagine what has my coworkers so amped up, unless someone’s down there handing out free lattes and warm chocolate chip cookies, but I might as well give in and do what they’re asking. The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can give them their assignments and send them on their way. And the sooner I can send them on their way, the sooner I can get back to Operation Jake in the Box.
I cringe at my own bad pun. Strike three. Naming covert ops is definitely not my superpower.
As I approach the window, Aaron and Erin part to make room for me, like I’m Moses and they’re the Red Sea. The music is deafening now, the final strains of “Twist and Shout” shaking the glass.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a familiar voice booms over a loudspeaker as the Beatles give way to Wayne Newton and the opening bars of “Danke Schoen.”
“You’re such a wonderful crowd. We’d like to play a little tune for you. It’s one of my personal favorites. And I’d like to dedicate it to a young woman who thinks I don’t know how to have fun.”
I slowly lower one butt cheek to the windowsill, needing something to keep me vertical since my legs, which have turned into overcooked spaghetti, are threatening to collapse out from under me. It can’t be him. It can’t. No matter how much I want it to be. I must be hearing things. The Jake I know would never make a spectacle of himself on a busy New York City street in broad daylight.
Or would he? Maybe I’m not the only one who’s had a change of heart. Maybe this is his way of telling me he’s willing to bend, too.
I flatten my palm against the glass and look down. All those classic, clichéd symptoms of shock—slack jaw, shortness of breath, pulse racing like a hummingbird on heroin—come at me with the force of a ten-ton truck. Or a two-ton SUV pulling a flatbed trailer. Because that’s what’s stopped in the middle of 31st Street, almost directly below my window.
But this is no ordinary trailer. It’s covered in electric blue Astroturf, fake pine trees and tacky plastic flowers. At the back are three wide, semi-circular steps leading to a platform packed with dirndl-wearing women—no, wait. Are those the drag queens from the diner? I’m almost positive that’s Cher with the accordion. And Marilyn Monroe on her left, holding Roscoe’s leash as he dozes at their feet, totally unfazed by the music blaring from the two huge speakers behind him.
And in the center of it all is Jake, wearing gray pants, a white T-shirt and a strangely patterned black-and-gold vest. My heart does its predictable flip-flop. He looks damn delicious, even from forty feet up and in clothes that can only be described as dorktastic.
He lifts his head and his eyes scan the facade of my building. When they find me in the window, he brings the microphone closer to his sinful mouth and smiles.
That’s when it hits me, what he’s doing. The music. The outfit. The dirndl-wearing drag queens.
It’s the parade scene from Ferris Bueller.
My hand flies to my mouth and tears burn the backs of my eyelids. I blink them back and dig the heels of my hands into my eye sockets to make sure I’m not hallucinating. Nope. Still there, all of it, down to the last drag queen.
“Ainsley Scott,” Jake says, his voice thick with emotion and conviction. “This one’s for you.”
“How does that guy know your name?” Aaron asks.
Erin moves to his side and smacks him on the arm again. Harder this time, from the sound of it. “Do us all a favor and just stand there, be quiet and look pretty.”
“Ow.” He rubs his shoulder and pouts at her. “Was that really necessary?”
“You’re still talking, so I’d say yes. Do I need to hit you again?”
They continue to squabble, but I ignore them. Jake has my undivided attention. He’s in full Ferris mode now, lip synching along with Wayne and hamming it up with everything he’s got.
“What are you still doing here?”
Erin’s question is met with silence, and it takes a second for me to realize she’s talking to me and not Aaron. I pry my gaze off Jake and stare at her, confused. “Should I be somewhere else?”
“Yes.” This time it’s my arm she smacks. And yeah, it’s hard and it hurts. She gestures out the window to the street below. “Down there. Unless you’re playing hard to get or something.”
Hard to get is definitely not the message I want to send. More like take me, I’m yours.
I make a mad dash for the door, but somehow Erin gets in front of me.
“Wait a second.” She reaches up, pulls out my ponytail, and fluffs my hair. Then she pinches my makeup-free cheeks, unbuttons the top button on my blouse, and stands back to examine her handiwork, nodding approvingly. “There. That’s better. Now go get him, tiger.”
“Thanks,” I croak as Aaron opens the door and ushers me into the hall with a dramatic sweep of his arm.
“Break a leg,” he calls after me. “That means good luck.”
“Only in the theater,” Erin corrects him. “In normal, everyday life, good luck means good luck. Or you got this. Or knock ’em dead. Although I admit that last one’s probably not the best in this particular situation...”
The door clicks shut, cutting her off, and I race down the hall to the elevator. The damn thing is slow as fuck, so I wind up taking the stairs. It’s only four flights, but by the time I reach the bottom, a crowd is gathered on the sidewalk, traffic is backed up and people are hanging out of their windows to get a better view.
But just like in the movie, no one seems to mind the disruption to their daily routine. Instead, everyone’s cheering and clapping and whipping out their cell phones to record it all for posterity. And YouTube, no doubt. Jake will be plastered all over the world wide web by lunch, if not sooner.
“Ainsley.”
I whip my head around to see the driver’s door of the SUV swing open. A guy almost as criminally good-looking as Jake steps out and waves at me.
“Hang on,” he yells, working his way through the crowd. “I’m coming to get you.”
Jake has spotted me, too. His eyes lock with mine as he mouths the last lines of the song.
Danke schoen.
Auf Wiedersehen.
Danke schoen.
But this isn’t goodbye, it’s hello. The sweetest, wackiest, most elaborately orchestrated hello of my life. When I think of what Jake must have gone through to set this whole thing up...
A loud, involuntary sob escapes from somewhere deep inside me, and happy tears stream down my cheeks.
“Are you all right, dear?” the woman beside me asks, patting my shoulder.
“Oh my God, Marsha,” her friend exclaims, grabbing my arm. “It’s her.”
“Who her?” Marsha asks.
“The girl he’s singing to. Ashley. No, Ainsley. You are her, aren’t you?”
I nod—no use denying it when everyone will know who I
am in a matter of minutes—and as-of-yet-unnamed woman number two sighs. “Isn’t it romantic?”
“I wish Hank would do something like this for me,” Marsha laments. “But I’m lucky if he remembers to put the toilet seat down.”
“Ainsley.” SUV guy appears in front of me, holding out his hand. “Connor Dow. Nice to finally meet you face-to-face.”
So this is the infamous Connor. I take his hand and shake it. “Likewise.”
Jake lets out a very un-Ferris-like growl into the microphone. Connor chuckles and throws an arm around my shoulders, making Jake growl even louder. “Let’s get you on that float before my best friend threatens to kick my ass. As if he could.”
“Hold on to that one, honey,” Marsha tells me, and her friend nods in agreement. “Any man who’s willing to risk public humiliation in the name of true love is a keeper.”
“Thanks,” I toss over my shoulder as Connor steers me toward the trailer. “I will.”
Word of my identify must have spread because the crowd gives us a clear path from the sidewalk to the street. When we reach the float, Connor gives me a quick squeeze and whispers in my ear.
“He can be a jackass sometimes, but he’s one of the good guys. Take care of him. And if you can get him out of the office and off my back every so often, I’d be eternally grateful.”
“I’ll try.”
I squeeze him back, and he hands me over to Jake, who passes the microphone off to one of the drag queens. Then he bends down, wraps strong fingers around my upper arms, and hauls me up onto the trailer.
“You’re crazy,” I say, echoing Cam’s line to Ferris.
“Yeah,” Jake agrees. “For you.”
He swallows hard, making his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. Now that I’m up close to him, I can see other telltale signs of nervousness. The thin line of sweat at his brow. The clammy hands. The slight twitch in his left eye.
It’s fucking adorable.
I shake my head and smile, a big, dopey grin that makes my cheeks ache. “That line’s not in the movie.”
