The Friend Zone

by Kristen Callihan

“Gray! You shouldn’t be on the phone while in a bath. I’m hanging up right now.”

  He laughs. “Okay, okay. Geesh. I’ll hang up, but tell me one thing first.”

  “I’m not having phone sex with you. Again.”

  “You loved it. But not the question. Have you talked to your parents about not wanting to return to London?”

  I frown down at the counter. Gray is right to bug me. I’ve been avoiding telling them. Mainly because I’m a total coward, but the guilt is getting to me. Hell, I need to tell them about Gray, as well. One thing at a time, though, and letting them know about Gray isn’t the news I dread.

  “Fuck it,” I tell Gray. “I’ll tell them today. After I hang up with you.”

  “Honey,” Gray murmurs. “It will be all right.”

  A breath gusts out of me. “I just don’t want to disappoint them.”

  The sound of water sloshing fills my ear, then Gray’s voice, low and soothing. “Ivy Mac, you couldn’t be a disappointment if you tried.”

  “Gray…” My hand slides along the cool counter, and I’m wishing it was his skin I stroked. “You’re really sweet sometimes, you know?”

  “That’s just my thick and creamy frosting. Tell them. And call me afterward, okay?”

  * * *

  Fi is home, an increasingly rare occurrence. But I take advantage, tracking her down in her room. Where mine is an oasis of whites, hers is a dark nest of plums and pinks. It’s disturbingly womblike and features an excess of satin fabric hanging from windows, her wrought-iron canopy—because we both have a thing for canopies—and even skirting her chairs.

  Curled up like a little Thumbelina on one pink satin chair, Fi is reading a text book and making notes on her iPad.

  “What’s up?” she asks, not taking her eyes from her work.

  “I invited Dad over. He’ll be here in five.”

  Her brow quirks as she finally looks at me. “Yeah. So?”

  I set my hand against my fluttering stomach. “I’m going to Skype Mom. You know…tell them about not wanting to work with her.”

  Fi sets aside her things. “You need a little moral support?”

  “Yes.” It’s a burst of breath.

  From the living room Dad’s voice booms out. “Anybody here?”

  “We’re coming,” I shout back as Fi glares at the door.

  “We need to get that key back from him,” she says.

  “He never comes when he isn’t invited.” Well, almost never. I think about Gray pressed on top of me, his gaze on my lips, and Dad finding us. “Yeah,” I say a little raggedly. “I guess we should ask for it back.”

  “Well,” says Fi, standing, “he’s here now. No use stalling.”

  Right. Only I drag my feet as I follow her out.

  I don’t tell Dad why he’s here before Mom is on the computer screen. I set the laptop up on the counter, facing it out toward us, which makes it seem as though her head is a hovering specter in the room.

  Although my mother is blonde and blue-eyed, I look the most like her. Fi has Mom’s coloring, but Dad’s features.

  “Hello, my darlings,” she says to Fi and me as we sit on the couch. “While I’m happy to see you both, is everything all right?”

  “You’ve got me, Helena,” Dad tells her. His attitude with her is, as always, slightly stiff but cordial.

  I take a deep breath. “It’s me. I’m just going to say it. Mom, I’ve been thinking about this for a while, and I’m sorry, but I don’t want to manage the store.”

  “What?” Dad snaps.

  “Darling, why?” Mom says in a shocked voice.

  It’s hard to explain to them my reasons, but I do, with Fi holding my hand the entire time. It’s funny, usually I’m the one holding her hand while she disappoints our parents.

  And disappoint them I have.

  “Oh, Ivy,” Mom says with a sigh. “I don’t understand this. You’ve spent so much time learning the business. And you love baking. Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

  “I do love baking. But, Mom, baking and running a bakery aren’t the same things, are they?”

  Her mouth presses flat in the same way mine does when I’m annoyed. “No,” she says. “They aren’t. But you cannot run a successful bakery without loving baking.”

  “And there’s the fact that I didn’t have a social life when I worked with you,” I say softly. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. Early to bed, early to rise. Everything becomes about the bakery.”

  I glance to Dad and back to Mom. “My whole life I’ve focused on school or working. I want more. I want to love what I do and have time to enjoy the rest as well.”

  “All right,” Mom says slowly. “I do understand, Ivy.”

  “Well, I don’t.” Dad lowers his dark brows at me. “For years this has been your focus. I expect this of Fiona—”

  “Leave Fi out of this.” I squeeze my sister’s hand before she can shout at him. “This is about me and what I want.”

  “If this is about wanting to spend more time with Grayson…” he begins.

  “Finish that thought,” I say softly, “and I’m walking out of here.”

  Silence greets me.

  “Sean,” Mom finally says, “Ivy’s twenty-two years old. She’s an adult now, so let’s treat her as one.”

  That earns Mom a quick glare, but he relents. “I’m just a little shocked. But all right, Ivy. You don’t want to work with your mother. That’s your call. What do you want to do?”

  A small laugh leaves me. And I bite down on my lips to prevent any more. Because I feel slightly crazy for what I’m about to tell them. I know they’re going to think I am.

  “I…” God, getting the words out is harder than I thought. “I think I want to look into sports agenting.”

  Fi’s mouth falls open as she stares at me. “You’re shitting me, right?”

  Mom and Dad are not better.

  “Pardon?”

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  The last one from my outraged father.

  I take a deep breath. “I’m perfectly serious.” My legs tense with the urge to walk away. “I’ve been talking to Gray and his friends, and I realized that it makes me happy to help them. I love sports. I love interacting with athletes. It excites me.”

  “Yeah, but…” Fi makes a helpless gesture. “That world, all the sleaze…”

  Dad glares at her as Mom mutters something censorious.

  Dad focuses on me. “Fi’s vivid imagery aside, she isn’t entirely incorrect. It’s a hard life, Ivy, and not something I want for you.”

  “The thing is, at some point I have to do what I want for my life. Not what I think the two of you want for me.”

  Mom’s lips press together. “Is that what you’ve been doing? Appeasing us?”

  “Not entirely. I thought I wanted the bakery too. But I won’t say your feelings didn’t factor.”

  Dad shakes his head as if this confession is neither here nor there. “You’ve always hated my job. Do not lie to me, young lady. You have.”

  “I know. Hell.” I stand and pace. “I don’t know, maybe I can make it something more.”

  “Sweet Jesus,” Dad snaps. “Don’t you dare go Jerry Maguire on me.”

  I almost laugh. Sports agents hate that movie, calling it a fantasy.

  “I’m not naive,” I say quietly as I sit back down. “Though, really, Daddy? You do care about your clients’ lives. Don’t deny it.”

  “Of course I care. I’m not going to work my ass off for a job I don’t care about. And don’t you use ‘Daddy’ to soften me up,” he counters with a pointed look.

  I huff out a laugh then. “Fine. And maybe I’m not entirely clear on what I want. Perhaps I can go into life coaching and planning for athletes. That’s the part that inspires me, not the deals.”

  Fi nods slowly. “I can see that.”

  Sighing, I run a finger along the edge of the sofa. “I know it sounds weird, and it’s true I’ve res
isted having anything to do with Dad’s business for so long. But when I think of doing this, if feels good. Right.” I can’t explain it any other way.

  Everyone grows quiet. Then my mom speaks up. “Darling, I want you to be happy in your life. If you believe this is the way, then I support you.”

  My throat goes tight. “Thanks, Mom.”

  Dad just sighs and plops his butt on the arm of the sofa. “You want to work with me.” He sounds so shocked that I do laugh.

  “I can go it on my own, Dad. I don’t mind the challenge. I’ll apply for an internship at an agency.”

  “No. You want to learn this business, you’re going to learn it right.” His stern expression eases to wariness. “Or I can set you up with one of my colleagues if you want your independence.”

  “If you think you can treat me like any other intern, I’m happy to work with you.”

  “Oh, well, thank you for that,” he says dryly. Then he laughs. “Get ready for hell.”

  I find myself smiling. “Yes, sir.”

  It feels strange this new course I’m plotting, and my insides are still shaking from excess nerves. But for the first time the future excites me. For the first time everything feels just as it should be.

  * * *

  IvyMac: It is done. Parents are okay with my change of plans. I’m going to try to work with my dad. Tell me I’m not crazy.

  GrayG: Not crazy. You’re my girl. So proud of you, Special Sauce.

  IvyMac: Come over?

  GrayG: Better idea. Go to Red Room Lounge at 8 p.m. Wear a skirt (panties optional but greatly discouraged). Head for the bar. Hot blond dude will be there. Let him say hello first.

  IvyMac: ?? And what’s with the cryptic text? Are you on something?

  GrayG: No more questions. You’ll like what I have planned. Trust me.

  IvyMac: Ok. But only because it’s you.

  GrayG: Don’t forget: No questions. Wear a skirt. And a hot top too.

  IvyMac: *Grumble*

  Twenty-Four

  Ivy

  The Red Room Lounge isn’t the kind of place I’d usually frequent—at least, not on my own. The decor is tasteful, moody, the walls a deep, lush red. Low-slung cream leather couches are arranged in intimate seating groups. Votive candles flicker on glossy wood tables. For all the style, it’s clearly a meat market. Not in the lively college-age way of Palmers, but for serious businessmen on the prowl.

  Eyes follow me as soon as I give the hostess my coat and walk in. I’m aware of every step I take, the way the black-and-white striped A-line skirt I’m wearing slides over my bare legs. On an average-height girl, it would probably rest a few inches above the knee. On me, it’s mid-thigh, and I’m far too aware of my panty-less state.

  The thought of flashing the bar with a flick of my skirt fills me with horror. It’s also oddly arousing. I feel naughty, sexy. A rarity for me—I usually either feel a bit like a giraffe or I act like one of the guys.

  If I wasn’t looking for Gray, I might have missed him at first glance. He’s standing at the bar, his back to me. I know it’s him because I know every line of his body, the way he likes to plant his feet slightly apart, as if he’s waiting for his next play, and how he always sets his broad shoulders ruler-straight. But he isn’t dressed like the Gray I know. He’s wearing dark dress slacks that cup his fine ass and a soft, gray knit sweater that hugs his muscled torso.

  As if sensing my gaze, he turns. Holy hell. His hair is combed back from his brow, highlighting the strong bones of his face, making him appear older, sharper. But how he looks at me sears my skin and has my heart kicking against my ribs. He knows the effect he has on me. It’s there in his eyes and the way the corner of his luscious mouth slowly kicks up.

  He’s smiled at me dozens of times, but never like this. It’s pure sex, no tenderness, no familiarity. I should be offended. I’m hot instead, slippery between my legs as I walk towards him.

  That assessing stare travels over my body, and the tip of his tongue flicks out to swipe his lower lip. “Hey,” he says when I stop at the bar. “I’ve never seen you around here before.”

  He’s not even looking at my face but leers at my chest. My nipples stiffen, and he sucks in a sharp breath, a little grunt rumbling deep in his throat.

  My lips part, but no words come out. He’s treating me like a stranger. Like he’s Gray but Not Gray. And I remember the text. Head for the bar. Hot blond dude will be there. Let him say hello first. Not “let me say hello,” but him. My heart starts pounding, and flutters fill my belly. I think about the sexual fantasy I told him that lazy morning in bed.

  His eyes meet mine, and a look flickers there: Is this all right? Do you want to play?

  It’s a struggle not to grin, not to fling myself on him and kiss the hell out of him. I lower my lids and turn my attention to the bartender instead, pretending that my insides aren’t a mass of nerves and anticipation. “I’m waiting for my friends,” I tell Not Gray, which is how I choose to think of him now, my tone standoffish.

  “Sure you are,” he murmurs.

  Mellow music softly plays, highlighting the quiet between us. His tanned forearm rests against the bar. A thick steel sports watch is on his wrist. I’ve never seen it before. Or seen him drink Scotch. That strong arm lifts as he takes a drink. The peaty scent of whiskey fills the air between us.

  I order a citrus martini and try to ignore Not Gray, because he’s doing his best to unnerve me, standing close enough that the light hairs on his sun-kissed forearm tickle my arm. Close enough that I feel his stare. It’s strange, knowing that this is Gray eyeing me like I’m some cheap conquest. I should be appalled. But no one on Earth turns me on the way he does. That he’s acting this out for me makes me hotter, has me growing wet and breathless already, without him even touching me. Vodka sloshes over the sides of my glass and slides cold over my fingers as I take a sip. I lick my wet lips, tasting the tart sweetness, and Gray grunts deep within his chest.

  “I’d like to do that,” he says to me in a low voice.

  My throat goes dry. I keep my gaze on the bar. “Do what?”

  He’s closer, his shoulder pressing mine. “Lick those lips.”

  Playing the shy girl, I look the other way as if I’m shocked. It doesn’t deter him. My skin shivers at the soft brush of his lips against the shell of my ear.

  “When I’m done with your lips, I’ll lick the tips of those sweet little nipples perking up beneath your top. They’re begging for it, aren’t they, sweetheart?” Warm breath gusts down my neck as he exhales. “To be licked and licked.”

  Heat snakes down my body, clenches in my belly. And he keeps talking in that low, rumbly way. “I’ll get you nice and wet playing with those little buds. So fucking wet that when I finally lick your plump pussy lips, you’ll come on my tongue at the first taste.”

  A strangled sound leaves me, and I have to lean against the bar, my knees have gone so weak. My heart pounds against my chest, so hard I wonder if he can see it.

  The tips of his fingers take my elbow, a light but steady grip. “Come with me.”

  I’m breathless, my voice faint. “No. I… My friends are…”

  “We won’t be long,” he says against my neck before taking a taste with a flick of his tongue. “Come on, sweetness. No one will know. It will be our little secret.”

  Oh, God, I know it’s an act, but my body shakes with illicit lust. I can barely nod. But he sees it, makes a sound of satisfaction. Then I’m being led to the back of the club, the sound of my blood whooshing through my ears. No one stops him or even looks our way. Not even when he opens the door to a small supply room and closes us inside.

  Not Gray leans against the door and simply watches me. Bathed in the light of one dingy bulb that hangs overhead, his big body seems larger, looming and taut with tension. It’s so strange seeing him this way, dressed like a stranger, acting like one, that it’s easy to slip into the role, lose myself to it.

  “What do you want?”
I ask him, plucking at the folds of my skirt as my heart thuds in time to my breathing.

  His answer is a small, calculating smile. “Oh, I think you know, sweetheart.”

  Sweetheart, sweetness. Gray never calls me those things. Never uses that slightly smarmy tone. It only serves to make him more foreign, more dangerous.

  It’s almost too easy, the way he backs me up, guiding me to a low counter that runs along one wall. His hands settle on my hips and he lifts me onto its cool surface. It brings us eye to eye. Grasping the edges of the counter, he crowds me, his gaze hot and roaming.

  “There,” he murmurs. “That’s better.”

  “I should get back to the bar.” A weak protest.

  One he ignores. The backs of his fingers skim up my arm, raising goose bumps on my skin. “Nice top.”

  Even though it’s thirty degrees out, I chose a black silk tank that hugs my waist but gathers loosely over my breasts. A tie around my neck holds the top secure. That I am braless is not lost on him. He stares at my stiff nipples as his fingers drift to the bow at the back of my neck and give it a little flick. “Take it off.”

  “W-what?”

  “Let me see those sweet tits you’ve been teasing me with since you walked in the bar.”

  “I—” My breath catches. “No. I’m not taking my clothes off for a stranger.”

  He doesn’t look away. “But you want to, don’t you? You want me to look at you.” He bends his head until his lips are at my ear. “You’re dying to expose yourself, to let me see those pretty pink nipples.”

  My skin draws tight. I struggle not to sway into him.

  He leans back, his attention on my top again. “Untie the bow.”

  “Someone might come in.” Despite our play, my fear of getting caught is real, though not completely unwelcome.

  “They won’t. I took care of it.”

  I believe that. Gray would cover all the bases. In his own way, he’s as much of a planner as I am. But I can’t think of him as Gray now, not when he’s doing this for me.

  His fingers are back, skimming over my inner arm, teasing the edges of my top. “Just a little peek.”