She pressed her hand to his back again, tried to feel his heartbeat through the tense muscles, learn his truth. He leaned into her touch, just a millimeter. Enough that hope gave her a little leap of joy, then he turned and grabbed her wrist.
“I’m not dating Rosanna.” His eyes were wicked hard. She flinched. “It was a request on behalf of her father to secure our business merger, which no one can know about. She’s still dating on her own, and I’m free to do what I want with whoever I want. And I…” He locked eyes with her, didn’t blink. “I don’t want you, Anthea. Not like that. That kiss was the adrenaline of performing. This morning’s dream meant nothing. I’m a guy and guys get hard in the morning, especially when a woman’s lying on his lap. I don’t want to hurt you, but I don’t feel the same and I need to get to work.”
She stood motionless as he snatched his tie from the couch and scraped his hand through his messy hair. He glanced around, like he had more he should take with him, the slightest bow to his posture. There was glue on his navy slacks, sparkles on his ear. His cheek was creased from her couch, and it still had that green smudge. He was disheveled and lovely and he would never be hers.
He looked at a photo of Leo on her wall, then at her. Something—regret?—flickered across his face. Then it was gone. Another emotion she’d obviously misread. He turned and stalked out, his new scrapbook left behind, splayed on her floor next to her splintered heart.
14
“If you’re thinking about jumping, word to the wise: the glass is shatterproof.” Duncan moved into Weston’s line of vision and raised a stack of folders. “The revised Alera files. Numbers aren’t ideal, but they’re better. Today’s meeting should go smoothly.”
Weston nodded distractedly, keeping his focus on the steel skyline. A dense fog wove through the jutting skyscrapers. Humidity clung to the windows. “We still have to find more funding, which means the team needs to improve clinical trials. And I spoke with marketing. There are issues with the Seprivan launch.”
Duncan replied, saying something about the competitor undermining their push to market, but Weston’s mind was as murky as the view. He’d felt physically ill since scrapbooking at Annie’s last week. A persistent nausea that had his body aching. He’d been too fatigued to use his home gym. He walked through his days half asleep, while barely sleeping at night. His mind felt like a sieve at work.
He kept remembering Annie’s voice, hopeful yet tentative, as she’d spilled her heart to him. I think about you all the time. I’m tired of pretending I don’t have feelings for you.
Her devastation at his harsh rejection.
“I’m going on a limb here,” Duncan said, breaking through Weston’s morose thoughts, “but you seem a tad distracted. Is everything okay?”
Weston slipped his hands into his pants pockets. The Italian wool felt scratchy. “Not really, no.”
Duncan dropped the files on Weston’s desk and resumed his position at the window, both men watching the hovering fog. “Care to talk about it?”
What he wanted was to erase his past. Bring Leo back. Change the decisions he’d made that fateful night, and the lies he’d told Annie since. He wanted to believe he could date Annie without eventually hurting her by freaking out. “Thanks for asking, but I’ll be fine.”
“You don’t have to be an island, Wes. I know this merger’s stressful, but there are people around you who can help. I can help, if you’ll let me.”
The merger should be the only thing occupying his mind, but he was back to remembering dating Lila, her calls after he’d run out on her, all of them tear-filled and confused. Then one final angry message: You’re an asshole, Weston. I don’t know what broke you, but I hope you’re honest with the next woman you date before you break her heart.
“I’ll be fine,” he repeated as he swallowed the sourness in his mouth. Pushing Annie away had been the right choice. The responsible choice. He massaged his neck. “Thanks for the files.”
Duncan lingered a second longer, then nodded and left.
Weston picked up his phone and called Rosanna. “Let’s go out tomorrow night. Get some visibility. I’ll take you to Angelonia. It was written up this week.”
“Hello to you, too, Weston. How nice of you to call.”
He tried to smile at her sarcasm. His face felt like it had been injected with iron. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”
“What makes you think I’m free?”
“Because we made a deal, and I expect you to uphold your end of it.”
“What’s up with you? This isn’t your usual level of grouchiness.”
“Nothing’s up.” Unless the atrophying of his organs counted.
“Does your therapist believe that bullshit?”
He hadn’t seen a therapist in years, but there was no doubt his inability to voice his troubles would have infuriated her. He rested his hip on his desk and eyed his bucking bull sculpture on his coffee table. “I hurt Annie last week,” he finally admitted, words he hadn’t been able to force out with Duncan. Something about Rosanna made her an easier sounding board.
“Is this the Annie you talk about nonstop but swear there’s nothing going on?”
“There isn’t anything going on.” Which was precisely the problem. And the solution.
“Let me rephrase: is this the Annie you won’t admit to being infatuated with?”
He opened his mouth to deny her claim. Nothing came out.
“Are you not attracted to her?”
Annie was stunning and sexy and had starred in one too many of Weston’s recent erotic dreams. Attraction wasn’t the problem. Neither was compatibility. She was perfectly messy and ridiculous and everything he could want in a woman, but if he confessed that truth to her, things would be set in motion he couldn’t undo. “Annie’s my kind of perfect, but I’m not the right man for her. There are things I’ve kept from her. Unforgiveable things. And I have a bad track record with women. So I distanced myself by hurting her.”
“That’s pretty heartless, Wes.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“No, but this might: you’re probably wrong. I don’t know what you haven’t told her, but worrying you’ll hurt her because you’ve hurt other women is nonsense. From the tidbits you’ve shared, it sounds like she’s different to you. More important. But you’ve built up this nasty version of yourself in your head and you think you’re destined to walk through a snake-infested jungle no matter which path you follow. I say start forging not following. Get a machete and hack that shit up.”
Easier said than done when straying into this unknown could mean losing Annie in the end. He still believed this tension-filled blip would pass. They’d resume their friendship in time. Their easy bickering. So why did staying away from her make him feel like he was dying inside?
“I’ll pick you up at eight tomorrow,” he told Rosanna. Taking her to Angelonia was what he needed. A break from his quiet condo. A night of laughing at her wild stories. Eventually, his infatuation with Annie would end.
Annie threaded her fingers through the fringed threads hanging off the end of her throw pillow as she studied the water stains on her ceiling. The gray smudges looked like a jellyfish battle, or a Rastafarian with super cool hair. She blinked, her eyes blurring as she stared harder, deciding on jellyfish at war. By the time she glanced down at her computer, there were two messages from Deaf Jam. According to the time, the last one had been there ten minutes.
Deaf Jam: Did you develop a case of instantaneous blindness or am I boring you?
More like she’d developed a severe case of the mopes. She’d been miserable this week, sad and listless. Barely eating. Not even cramming her face with chips and chocolate. Her self-confidence was at an all-time low. Falling in love with Wes was the worst thing she’d ever done.
Heaving herself to sitting, she replied as her Harley Quinn alias.
Harley Quinn: Sorry for the silent treatment. I’m a bit of a sad sack these days
.
She’d tried to stay positive since Wes had walked out her door. Between waitressing shifts, she’d made halfhearted attempts to practice DJing. She’d gone for walks outside, had logged on to her Punchies page, chatted with Pegasus and a couple of other women. Some online friends’ genders were a mystery. Others had been sussed out through their chats. Deaf Jam was (supposedly) a married man in his late twenties who worked at the post office and loved talking music through the BOOMPop site. Their conversations usually invigorated Annie. Tonight warring jellyfish on her ceiling were more her speed.
Deaf Jam: Something happen?
Annie’s instinct was to brush him off. Discussing personal problems wasn’t part of their usual chats, but her sad-sack state was becoming tedious. She chewed her lip, debating how honest of a reply to give.
Harley Quinn: I’m in love with a guy, but he blatantly told me he’s not interested.
Blunt and succinct for the win.
Deaf Jam: That’s harsh.
Harley Quinn: Lepers feel more attractive than I do right now.
Deaf Jam: Better he was honest than lead you on.
Harley Quinn: In theory sure. In practice it sucks.
It felt like someone had stuck her heart in a blender.
Deaf Jam: If this dude told you he’s not interested, no point mooning over him. He doesn’t deserve you. Go out. Find some guy to have fun with.
Again, easier said than done. Annie had never been a once-and-done girl. She liked romance, dating. Getting to know a man.
Harley Quinn: Casual hookups aren’t usually my thing.
Deaf Jam: Nothing wrong with blowing off steam by blowing…
Harley Quinn: Why do guys always fall back on blow job jokes?
Deaf Jam: We’re the more primitive of our species.
Harley Quinn: Agreed, and one-night stands feel skeezy to me.
But she remembered Duncan’s forward suggestions to add benefits to their “friend” status. Hooking up with him wouldn’t be as nerve-racking as taking a stranger home. Based on his continued jokes on the subject, he’d probably agree to a no-strings romp between the sheets. The thought still made her squeamish.
Deaf Jam: If this guy made you feel shitty, a casual fling could help you get your mojo back.
Or it could make her feel worse.
Annie thanked him for the advice and dropped her head back onto her couch cushion. Deaf Jam was right about her mojo: it was obliterated. Nonexistent. She was edgy and sad, and she felt incredibly unattractive. A man telling you a kiss was adrenaline, not lust, was up there with getting laughed at naked. She eyed her phone. Maybe calling Duncan wasn’t the worst idea. He was free with his compliments, quick to make a woman feel desirable. But she wasn’t overly attracted to him. Their occasional texts were always light and fun, with Duncan eventually prodding about Wes, worried about his friend and boss, but she couldn’t imagine kissing him.
Still, a friendly night out with a guy could be just what she needed.
She grabbed her phone and texted Duncan one word: Hey.
When he didn’t reply, she resumed analyzing the water stains on the ceiling. Not a particularly fun activity, she sat at her piano instead and played. Choppy at first, then she closed her eyes, pictured Leo beside her, moving her fingers to the right keys. She relaxed slightly, let the notes tumble from her fingers, but they sounded thoughtless and angry, a strike of chords to excise her frustrations.
She hadn’t spoken with Wes since his epic brushoff. There had been no friendly chatter, no talk of more DJ lessons. Her only remote connection to him had been working on the video feed, without him knowing. Another activity to busy her mind. She’d searched through endless clips, all portraying the effects of gun violence, sorrow and devastation in violent images, hope and artistic portrayals in others: objects that looked like guns dissolved into a blur of butterflies, graveyards of rifles and revolvers and semi-automatics covered with dirt, blooming into flowers and new growth above.
The possibility of change. But first, the violence.
When she’d learned Vivian had video editing skills, Annie had offered free piano lessons in exchange for her help. She hadn’t explained how deeply the gun violence images affected her, why the topic was so personal, but they’d created something bold and moving. A flowing montage Wes could enhance with his beats.
But she hadn’t breathed a word about her work to Wes. Her humiliation and pride kept her quiet. Wes hadn’t opened the lines of communication, either. He must be utterly embarrassed for her.
She practiced a jazz rhythm next, harmonizing the melody, a weave of notes from delicate to robust, along with a few flat clunkers that hurt her ears. She slowed her breaths, rocked her body to feel the sound and melody. Feel don’t listen, Wes had said. She played until she was nothing but breath and movement, no drama punching holes in her heart.
Music was freedom. It was escape. The only way to unlock that privilege was to first master the rules. Build then break. Create then dismantle.
Drown the sad with glory.
She hadn’t quite reached glory, but this rhythm was doing it for her. It would be cool to use the piece in her DJ set. Add some soul funk to the jazzy beats.
She snuck a glance at her phone. The screen was lit, and her fingers hit an off note.
She hated how uneasy she felt, anxious and jumpy. She wasn’t sure asking Duncan out was the smart move, even as friends, but this quiver in her stomach wasn’t all hesitation. This clammy sinkhole was rejection and longing, topped with a dollop of grief. On top of Wes’s sexual brush-off, she might have lost her best friend.
She walked over to her phone and checked the message.
Duncan: I was thinking about you this morning. Wondered if you’d had a chance to chat with Wes yet. He’s looking worse for wear.
She stared at the text until her eyes burned. Was Wes haggard because he regretted his abrupt rudeness? Was he having second thoughts? Just as quickly she squeezed her eyes shut. She was so done with her pathetic pining. Instead of texting Duncan back, she dialed his number.
“Is something wrong?” Duncan asked in a hushed tone. “Did you speak to him?”
“This actually isn’t about Wes. I have a question.”
“Oh.”
His flat reply shouldn’t hurt, but she was a giant bruise, the slightest hint of rebuff poking her insecurity. “Did you want to go out sometime? Not as a date. Like, there will be no benefits, to be clear. Zero peer pleasure. I just thought it would be nice to hang out as friends. Grab dinner or something. We’d split the bill, of course. Because no benefits will be happening. And if you’re busy that’s cool, because I’m thinking I’m babbling and we should hang up and pretend I never called.” She rolled her eyes, horrified with herself.
Duncan laughed. “You’re cute when you’re nervous.”
Cute wasn’t the word she’d choose. “It’s been a rough week. But you’re easy to be around, and I need a night out with no heavy topics. I promise I’m not always this weird.”
“Weird works for me, and I’ve noted the benefit clause. But I choose the restaurant and insist on paying for dinner.”
She slumped, relieved at his willingness to go out as friends. “I’d usually argue, but I’m desperate. What are you thinking?”
“I actually read a great write-up about Angelonia—trendy French fusion place. How’s tonight?”
“I’m working tonight, but I’m free tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow it is. And Annie?”
She bounced an agitated knee. “Yeah?”
“If you change your mind on the benefits, you won’t get an argument from me.”
15
Duncan picked Annie up right on time, his bright smile still blinding. His cologne still made her nose itch, and he was still dressed to attend a board meeting, but his first words to her were: “You look ravishing.”
Her crushed ego gave its first feeble signs of life. “You look pretty handsome, too. For a friend’s
night out,” she added.
A pleasant drive later, he led her into a boisterous restaurant. “It’s not an all-night rave, but the food’s supposed to be outstanding.”
The red brick walls reminded her of Wes’s condo, as did the minimalist art, but laughter and noise lifted with the jazz tunes, warming up the space. Tables were spread out, lining the long room. “It’s perfect. And I like the music.” The chefs in the open kitchen moved like a choreographed dance troupe. Bartenders dressed in black popped ice cubes and shook drinks. “Classy but cool. Excellent choice.”
Duncan blushed, the modesty surprising but cute. “Only the best for my no-benefit friend.”
He placed his hand on her lower back as they were led to their table. Not quite a friend move, but the attention was nice.
Once they were settled, Duncan clasped his hands on the table and fiddled with his college ring. “How’s the DJ thing going? Is that Falcon guy teaching you like you hoped?”
She appreciated the personal question, but she appreciated their waitress arriving at the table even more. Duncan ordered a martini. She ordered a negroni, while figuring out how to side-step that landmine. Duncan didn’t know his boss was Falcon. He could never know.
Once the waitress left, Annie forced an honest-ish reply. “I worked with Falcon for a bit, but he’s too busy to keep it up.” Too afraid of her lusty advances. “I’m practicing solo now and might take more lessons from this guy Julio, who’s also pretty killer. Still figuring out my style and how to approach it all.”
“But you love it? The music, the club scene, being onstage—that’s your dream?”
She wasn’t sure if she’d ever be as amazing as Wes, but she wouldn’t let their drama thwart her plans. “I don’t know about dream, but the bug bit me and now I’m hooked. I’ll make it work, one way or another. What about you? Is working for Aldrich Pharma your dream job?”
His gaze cut to his ring. He spun it slowly. “Weston took a chance promoting me when he did. There was another candidate more qualified, but when he called me in to give me the news, he said, ‘You have less experience, but there’s more hunger in your eyes. The job’s yours, as long as you promise not to let me down.’”
The Beat Match Page 15
