* * *
I vow not to pester Naveed about his communications with Elle Valentine, knowing that he likely sent a contract without the cover promise. Instead, I choose to focus on doing my actual job and finding an apartment.
If there’s one thing I learn from my apartment hunt it’s that you can’t have a weak stomach or a strong gag reflex if you hope to explore all your options in Manhattan. I don’t want to get in over my head so I’m trying to be conservative with my monthly rent. Thankfully, the fees I banked from my last big freelance project with Bells Magazine mean I’m not forced to take the fifth-floor walk-up above a seafood shop—even if it’s super close to a subway stop and a sex toy emporium that promises to meet all my self-pleasuring needs. Not that I’m into animal-shaped butt plugs, but it’s a free country, y’all.
Since I’m still a contract employee until the magazine gets full approval, I don’t have as much proof of income to work with. Which is why I thought I’d end up in a shithole with a dozen strange roommates—especially since renting my own place involves a broker’s fee plus first and last month’s rent.
But luck is finally on my side because my broker calls on Thursday with a renovated one-bedroom in my price range and I sign that lease faster than my granddaddy could load a shotgun. It’s a forty-five-minute walk from Kate’s place but only a fraction of that if I take the subway, and it’s even closer to work. The neighborhood is one of the safest in Manhattan, something I know will keep all of Savannah from caravanning up to NYC to personally deliver more pepper spray.
It feels good to accomplish something on my own. I get to move in next week, so I’ll be arranging a reunion with all my worldly possessions as soon as possible. I suspect Iris plans on using that as an excuse to come see me, and I admit I miss her already so I won’t complain.
By Friday morning, Naveed still hasn’t called so I’ve all but lost hope on the McKinley piece. But I don’t know if Naveed has called in his favor yet or not. Either way, I’m glad I’ve changed my focus to perfecting our prototype for the board meeting that will decide our magazine’s fate. Even if I do still feel responsible for screwing things up for Naveed.
I’m more than pleased with the branding identity we’ve achieved on the magazine, and the content is going to be fresh and engaging. Katelyn is in charge of content and Athena runs point on everything from marketing to circulation, but if the product doesn’t look perfect, it’s going nowhere fast. I’ve put together a bold aesthetic with standout typography, transparency play, and careful attention to white spaces. It’s freakin’ beautiful, if I do say so myself. And Warbey has some amazing designers, photographers, and web designers so I’ll have a crack team when this thing gets approved.
I close my laptop and gather up the power cord so I can take it back to Katelyn’s. She’s cleared her calendar tonight so we’re going out for dinner and drinks, and I need to shake off this raincloud over my head so I don’t ruin our night.
My phone rings and when I see it’s Naveed, I mentally cross every appendage I own.
“Tell me it’s good news.” I lean against my desk.
“I wish I could, but the super model said it’s a no.”
“Dammit. What exactly did she say?” I don’t know if I actually want to know since the reason very well could be my big mouth, but I can’t help asking.
“She was cagey when I pressed her. Seemed set on just delivering the canned ‘thanks but no thanks’ response.”
I slump back down in my chair. “Well, thanks for trying, Naveed.”
“Oh, you think I’m done?” His tone lightens.
A smile pulls at my mouth. “Uh, no?”
“Not by a long shot, Miss Peach. Watch me do my magic.”
“That sounds both intriguing and a little scary.”
“That’s more like it. I’ll talk to you Monday.”
We say our goodbyes and I’m feeling a little more optimistic—just what I need to start my girls’ night out.
* * *
“So, what’s this about you going to a meeting with Naveed?”
How I thought I could hide my little mishap from Kate, I don’t know. She’s Naveed’s boss, for cryin’ out loud.
I sip my cocktail and look everywhere but at her.
“For what it’s worth, I think he’d make a great cover.”
“Dude would make a great billboard in Times Square.” I roll my eyes and Kate grins at me as she stirs her drink.
We snagged a high table at a pub near Sutton Place because Kate insisted I show her my new apartment building, and now we’re on our second drink of the night. I’m surprised it took her this long to bring it up.
“Seriously, though, we could probably make a go of it for one of the later issues.”
I scrunch my nose. “Yeah, I may have burned that bridge unless Naveed can work miracles. And, besides, the guy is practically a recluse.” I summon up my most grumpy expression and mimic the big beast. “I don’t do interviews, dammit!”
Kate hums her response and studies me in silence from behind her drink.
“What?”
She shrugs but it doesn’t come off quite as casual as I think she intended. “You have an awful lot invested in this for someone who’s in a completely different department.”
I open my mouth to respond but nothing snappy comes out, so I deflect. “Do you have to pee? I think I have to pee.” I make a move to hop down from my stool.
Kate grabs my arm and grins like a monster. “All right, all right, I’ll shut up about it.”
I draw in a breath and then give up. “Oh, God.” My forehead drops to my hands. “You’d have to meet this guy to understand. He looks at you and you’re like… uhng. And then his voice, I mean… gah. Even his eyebrows, it’s like… I don’t even know!” I risk a glance and Kate’s biting her lip to keep herself from laughing in my face.
I consider for a brief moment that I may have romanticized some of it in my head since reading that news story but… nope—my gut still drops to my toes when I imagine being in the same room as him. I throw my hands out. “Seriously, this man can say more with an eyebrow than Nora Roberts can say with a whole damn book. And all of it is downright filthy—at least that’s how it is in my head. And Naveed’s too, I’m pretty sure.”
She finally gathers herself enough to speak. “Well, he sounds… delightful.” She’s a damn Cheshire cat. “You should ask him out.”
My jaw drops. “Did you not hear what I just said?”
Kate nods. “Yup. You think he’s hot and you want him to talk dirty to you.”
I have no words, so I throw my napkin at her.
She dodges it and laughs. “Relax, I’m just joking.”
I scowl at her and shift in my seat, ignoring the stab of disappointment that comes from God knows where.
“If it were a discreet roll in the sheets, I’d say go for it, but nothing about that tongue-tied, lovesick show you just put on says casual and discreet to me.” She grins. “Probably best to keep your nose clean and admire him from afar.”
I nod in agreement, trying not to let her see the pout I feel coming on. Then I slip off the stool and retreat to the ladies’, muttering to myself the whole way. The bar is noisy with voices raised over the music—some mix of alt-rock and R&B that has me scratching my head. There’s a line at the restroom so I settle in for a wait, relieved I don’t really have to go so much as I just needed a minute.
I don’t know why Kate’s assessment of me and Angus McKinley bothers me. I mean, even the thought is preposterous—I know this. He would chew me up and spit me out in five seconds flat, not that I wouldn’t thank him for the pleasure. But it’s just plain crazy. And Katelyn is absolutely right. It would only end in professional and personal disaster.
My phone vibrates in my back pocket and I pull it out. Bobby Lee’s name appears on the screen, so I press decline. I’m not feeling patient enough to talk to him just now. But it vibrates again before I have a chance to put it aw
ay and there’s a text from him.
Bobby Lee: Please pick up, Poppy.
Well, shit. What if something’s seriously wrong?
I glance around and see there’s a back door just at the end of the hall, so I ditch the line and make my way there, hoping it’s quieter than the pub. I push through the door and find myself on the sidewalk where a couple is smoking and chatting while passersby go about their business on the steamy sidewalks.
Bobby Lee picks up on the first ring.
“How’s my girl?” His voice is like a toothpaste commercial.
I respond through clenched teeth. “I’m just fine, Bobby Lee. How are you?”
“Much better now that I hear your voice.”
“That’s kind of you.” If I didn’t know word of this conversation would get back to every damn person I know by morning, I’d cut the bullshit and ask him what the hell he wants. “So, are you just calling to say hello or…”
He chuckles lightly and I press my forehead against the cement of the building. “Getting right to the point? I see the Big Apple is making an impression already.”
“Yes, well, I reckon things do move faster up here.” Come on, Bobby Lee, get on with it already.
“Well, it’s no wonder I prefer it down here, then.” When I don’t respond, he continues. “Mama sends her best.”
I force a smile into my tone and hope he can’t hear my molars grinding. “Well, you tell her I said hello, will you?”
“She’s worried you’re not eating well up there.” Another chuckle.
“They have food up here, same as Georgia. I’m gettin’ along fine.”
“Of course you are. You’ve always been a resourceful girl, Poppy.” And dammit if that doesn’t sound patronizing as hell. Time to switch topics.
“How are things at the firm?” Bobby Lee works with his daddy at one of our local accounting firms, engaging in the age-old tradition of nepotism. He’s poised to take over when his daddy retires in a couple months, and Bunny is beside herself with pride, of course. Bobby Lee was what we like to refer to as a happy surprise and what other people call a late-in-life baby—while others might just use the term, “Oh shit.” At any rate, being born to a couple who thought they couldn’t have children practically made him the second coming in Bunny and Vern’s eyes, a treatment he still enjoys.
Okay, well now I’m just being kind of a bitch. I know Bobby Lee is smart and he works hard, so who am I to begrudge him a good job and a proud mama? I just can’t buy into the whole golden-boy-on-a-pedestal thing, especially when that pedestal is handmade by Bunny herself out of the bones of lesser men.
“Work is going real well. Second quarter numbers looked even better than last year’s.”
“I’m happy to hear that.” Time to wrap this up.
“So, listen, Poppy.” Uh oh, here it comes. “You’ve been gone goin’ on two weeks now…”
If he thinks I’m filling in that blank for him, he’s in for a long-ass wait.
“Don’t you think it’s time for at least a visit back home, if not a… longer stay?”
What in Idris Elba’s britches is he talking about?
“Bobby Lee, I have a job.”
He has the nerve to chuckle again and I wanna reach my hand through the phone and strangle him till he cries. “Plenty of jobs around here. Just look at all the design jobs you scrounged up without needing to leave Savannah.”
My jaw threatens to unhinge itself and hit the sidewalk. Is he insane?
“Look, all I’m sayin’ is that everyone here misses you and now that you’ve had a chance to sow your oats, so to speak, you can come on home. Hold your head high.”
I seriously can’t believe I ever dated this guy.
I finally find my voice. “Bobby Lee, I’m not sowing anything. I’m building a career with a well-respected publishing company and I’m kicking ass.”
“No need to curse, Poppy.” The censure in his voice is glaring.
That’s it. Manners be damned. I mentally apologize to Cookie and prepare to tell Bobby Lee Collinsworth what’s what.
“I can say anything I damn well please, Bobby Lee. I’m a grown woman with a mind of my own and I’m not accountable to you or anyone else. I’m not coming home now or anytime soon, and when I eventually do it’s likely to be for a visit and nothing more, no matter what you think I should or shouldn’t be doing with my life. You forget, I’m not your girlfriend anymore and haven’t been for some time.”
“I can see you’re upset and it seems I’ve hit a nerve. We can certainly talk about this later once you’ve—”
“If the words ‘calm down’ leave your mouth next I swear to God I’m hanging up on you and deleting your contact info.”
He clears his throat. “Fine. We’ll table this for now, but can I just say one more thing?”
My jaw sets. “Fine.” If it will get him off the phone.
“We both know this break we’re taking ain’t gonna last. I know you need time to spread your wings before you settle down and I can be patient because I know it’s important to you.”
Of all the… “Bobby—”
“I’m not done yet. Look, you take the time you need, that’s all I’m sayin’.”
“Bob—”
“I’ll wait. You know you’re the most important thing in the world to me, Poppy.”
“Bobby L—”
“Okay, now you can talk.”
My head is spinning and I might be in danger of passing out. I open my mouth again and the words come tumbling out.
“I’m dating a blacksmith named Angus McKinley and we’re madly in love!”
Well, damn. It’s gonna take Cookie a whole month at church to save my lying soul.
Seven
“Keep it simple, stupid. Creation only took God seven days, so I don’t wanna hear your excuse.” – Cookie Rutledge
Saturday begins with coffee, a map of the city, and my phone on Do Not Disturb. I’ve been up since the butt crack of dawn when I declined my first call of the day from Iris. There is no way I’m wasting today fielding calls or explaining myself or eating crow. I plan on spending the day walking around town and doing all the touristy things before I become an official, jaded New Yorker and am required to shake my head at the fanny-packed Midwestern interlopers. Times Square, Rockefeller Center, the Empire State Building, Central Park—I’m doing it all and I’m taking a boatload of pictures to send back home once I’ve worked my shit out.
Kate’s already gone, which impresses the hell out of me given the four cocktails we each had last night. When I returned from my phone call from hell, I declared it was time for shots, but Kate maintained a more level head and, instead, ordered us another round of pear mojitos. I woke up with only the smallest of headaches, thanks in no small part to the water and ibuprofen by my bedside. Thank you, Katelyn.
I can’t even think about the mess I left down in Savannah, so I’m focusing on my New York day. And since I’m not working, I’m also dressing the part with cut-offs and a classic “I (heart) NY” tank top I picked up on my trip here last month along with matching red Converse on my feet. And while I don’t own a fanny pack, I’m bringing a small backpack with a couple huge bottles of water so I don’t pass out from dehydration. My lunch plan is a street dog in the park and I can’t friggin’ wait. If I happen upon some real sweet tea, it’ll be the cherry on my sundae. Bring it on, NYC!
By mid-afternoon, I’ve all but forgotten about Bobby Lee and am lost in the hedge maze that is Strand Bookstore. This place is nuts. I’m beginning to suspect they intentionally make it this way so you’ll be forced to stay and spend all your money. I’ve already picked out a coffee table book on New York artists for my new apartment and a couple paperbacks from my favorite romance authors. Next up is the cookbook section where I plan to treat myself to something local.
I’ve been cooking for Kate and me a lot of nights in lieu of rent since she won’t let me pay a dime. And it’s a good thing because Kate’s
a disaster in the kitchen, something she’s managed to hide from me all these years. I had to wipe cobwebs out of her sauté pan, for God’s sake.
An employee leads me to the right section and I start pulling books from New York chefs to check out my options, careful to bypass Geoffrey Sang in the event he’s peddling more low-fat blasphemy.
One cookbook catches my attention.
The Art of Macaroni and Cheese
Somebody ain’t right, that’s for damn sure.
What is it with this city and their mac and cheese obsession?
“What’s that?”
I realize I’ve spoken out loud. An older woman perusing the section nearby looks at me expectantly.
“Oh, sorry.” I hold up the book for her inspection. “I was just talking about this cookbook.”
She nods politely and I should probably take this as a sign our conversation is done, but I haven’t talked to a damn soul all day apart from general pleasantries while handing over cash. When I smiled at some guy in the park he looked like I’d just asked him for a pint of his best blood. So I’m latching onto my one chance for human connection today. And, besides, she started it.
“I mean, how can there possibly be an entire book on mac and cheese?”
She shrugs but says nothing, suddenly finding something fascinating in another aisle.
I ignore the unspoken rule of hushed voices and raise mine a touch. “It ain’t rocket science.”
A man in a sport coat furrows his brow at me as he passes by and I quiet back down.
“I mean, why mess with a good thing, y’all? Make a roux, add in milk and cheese, throw in some salt and pepper, and mix it with macaroni. Voi-freakin’-la.”
Game Changer Page 6
