by Piper Lawson
“I’ve heard.”
“I should try to dissuade you.”
“You shouldn’t.” I grin.
“Wesley, I hope to see you there.”
“Charity event?” Wes asks as Jake disappears.
“It’s a carnival. Prince Diamonds hosts it every year,” I inform him. “You can’t miss it.”
He takes the tray of glass back to the kitchen and returns. “I’m guessing the dress code isn’t chinos.”
“Tuxes only.” I straighten, smoothing my clothes. “There’ll be investors. The type who might buy your dating app.”
“Really.”
I lead the way to the library. A tray of purple drinks is deposited in front of us as we claim two of the club chairs.
I’m going to have to tell him I can’t take him on. But I don’t have to tell him this minute.
I take a sip, and the cool liquid is sweeter than I expected. “That’s actually good. What is it?”
“No idea. Jake left before he could tell me.” He sinks into his chair, enjoying his drink. “Dare I ask what your father did to incur your wrath?”
I’ve never talked to anyone about my family really, not even Haley. Her problems always put mine to shame. But the look of legitimate interest in Wes’s gaze has me talking.
“He was trying to get hold of my brother’s therapy records. I shouldn’t be surprised, and I can’t change him. I know it. But I’m a little worried about my brother.”
When I left for college, he was ten, hardly old enough to protect himself, and Mom and Dad haven’t gotten more chill since.
“What’s his name?”
“Beck. Beck Byrne.”
Wes nods. “I have him in third period. I’ll keep an eye out for him.”
My heart melts. “Just don’t tell him. He’d do more than steal my car if he knew I asked.” I ask something I haven’t broached yet. “Jake told me your dad passed recently.”
Wes’s face clouds under his damp hair. “Brain cancer.”
My chest tightens. “That’s how you ended up back in New York.”
“I went through the recruitment process at the University of Washington. One of the top life sciences departments in the country. Finally got the offer. I’d been about to accept it when I learned he’d gotten sick again, and this time, he wasn’t getting better. I wanted to be close to him as he dealt with his cancer. I didn’t expect him to die so fast.
“The chair of the board at Baden was a close friend of my father’s. He arranged for me to get a teaching job in biology here so I could be close to my dad.”
I take a sip of my drink, trying to hide my surprise. “The chair?”
“Terry Crawford. Everything goes well, I’m hoping he’ll help get my job back at UW.”
“Wait. They didn’t give it to someone else?”
He shakes his head. “They deferred hiring to look for additional candidates, which is pretty common for academia. When I went back to the dean and let him know the situation, he said they would consider me again, but they found more applicants in the meantime. Meaning more competition.”
“Well, let’s hope everything goes the way you’ve planned.”
We toast, and over the rest of our drinks, he tells me about getting through school. His dad’s three rounds of cancer. Taking care of his mom.
I realize how much I genuinely like Wes. He’s probably the most decent guy in this building.
“So about the test results,” I say at last, thinking back to the email he sent me as I lean in. “Tell me I aced it.”
“It’s not that kind of test,” he informs me crisply. I can’t hide the smile, which has his brows pulling together. “Why are you trying to get under my skin?”
“I’m not. I’m trying to make you smile.”
“Why?”
“Not everything has to have an explanation, Wes. Now, what happens next.”
He looks as if he’s going to protest, but in the end, he goes along with it. “The algorithm uses that data to match you with potential male—or female—candidates through a private website.”
I unlock my phone and hold it out. He takes it, his fingers flying over the keyboard. I shift over to his chair, dropping onto the arm.
“That’s a terrible website,” I inform him because that much I can say with confidence. “It’s not even a little user-friendly. And there’s no call to action.”
“Thanks for that,” he replies dryly. “If you were actually looking to meet someone, you’d upload some basic info, including your preferences, social media information—if you want to improve your matches—and a photo.”
He walks me through, and I realize this might be more complicated than I thought. He’s not selling a standardized product. The product is different every time and probably uncontrollable.
Which makes it hard, but also interesting.
“Okay. Load me up.”
He looks startled. “You want to date someone from here?”
“I want to understand the experience. Besides. I went out with you sight unseen.”
“It wasn’t a date.”
“And I didn’t know that,” I say for what feels like the millionth time.
“You wouldn’t have gone out with me,” he challenges.
“Why not?”
“I’m a nerd.”
My gaze works over him, the planes of his face, his jaw. It takes willpower not to keep going to his shoulders under that crisp button-down, his chest, his abs. “You’re a hot nerd,” I point out. He raises a brow but doesn’t react other than that. “See? That was a compliment and you barely blushed.”
He passes me back the phone with a shake of his head. I scroll through for an appropriate selfie.
I pick one, and Wes makes a noise in his throat.
“What’s the matter with that one?”
“It doesn’t look like you.” I stare at the image. “Your hair’s down. And your lipstick is wrong.” He takes the phone from me and scrolls through. I lean in, distracted by the smell of his shampoo. His hair’s still damp, making it darker, almost caramel.
“There. That one.” He adds it to the site with a flourish, oblivious to the fact I’m still hung up on the way he thinks he knows me. “And then you’d access your matches.” He shows me.
Disappointment sets in as soon as the page loads. “But… the pictures are blurry.”
“That’s by design. You shouldn’t pick someone on looks.”
“Then what does it matter if my hair’s down and my lipstick’s wrong?” I toss back.
He freezes, and I get a hit of satisfaction knowing I’ve stumped him as I tuck the phone away and shift off the arm of the chair and back to my seat.
“Tell me something. You seem uncomfortable talking about this DNA dating stuff. Why?”
“It’s not science. At least, it’s not serious science. It doesn’t help people the way my cancer research could.”
“So, then why do you want it so badly?”
“Everything in this country takes money. Learning, living, suffering, dying. I need the money.”
His confession eats at me in a different way than the anxiety in my gut.
I’ve never been great at doing what I should do.
But I really shouldn’t be doing this.
I take a long sip of my drink, studying him over the rim. “The interface needs work, but the possibilities are amazing.”
He cocks his head. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I’ll help you sell this app.”
Conviction surges through me, and it’s the best feeling I’ve had all week. Especially when his expression fills with relief.
I check my watch as we head out the door.
“At the risk of sounding ungrateful, how much should I budget for this top-shelf help?” We’re on the front sidewalk when he asks.
I search his expression. “It’s pro bono.”
“No. I’m paying you. I’m not a charity case.”
“I
didn’t say you were.” I lift my chin. “Consider it a favor for a friend.”
“You and Jake must be good friends.”
“Jake’s like my brother.”
Wes steps closer to let other people pass us on the sidewalk. “So, it’s good you didn’t see him naked today.”
Stop.
Just stop.
An hour ago I would’ve done cartwheels to earn a smile.
Now, Wes Robinson is teasing me—unprompted—and I feel like I should be documenting this for the public record.
“I didn’t see you naked today,” I toss back. “All the good bits were covered.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets, squinting into the sun. “All the good bits?”
Oh. That’s definitely teasing, and it has my stomach fluttering in an entirely new way.
“My help isn’t entirely free,” I say, surprising myself. “I need an assistant. For Jake’s charity gala.”
He rubs a hand over his neck, back to grim Wes. “Text me the details.”
“Done.” The feeling of triumph is chased by anticipation at the prospect of seeing him at Jake’s party. “And don’t forget the tux, or you’re not getting in the door. No matter how good your abs are.”
I can’t resist dragging a finger down those abs—which flex deliciously in surprise under his sweater—before I turn and start down the sidewalk.
8
Rena
“Hello, this is the ‘my life sucks, I’m marrying a rock star’ hotline. How may we direct your call?” I answer the phone Sunday.
“Funny.” Haley’s laughter comes over the line.
“No, what’s funny is I just finished getting walked on by a bunch of goats.”
“Goats?”
I tug my still-shower-damp hair into a messy top knot as I talk into the speakerphone. “Kendall wanted to do goat yoga. I couldn’t put her off.”
“I’m surprised they’re legal in New York when pet skunks aren’t.”
“Right?! They’re behind on the times.” I turn to see the guy in question sniffing at my heels as I go to make coffee.
I bend to lift him into my arms and stroke his soft fur as the coffee brews. I didn’t know it was possible to love something as much as I love my skunk. Scrunch came to me a few years ago, and he’s still my most loyal friend. Besides Haley.
“How is he?”
“Lately he’s been trying to escape. I think the sounds and smells here have him on overdrive. I’m afraid he’ll make a run for the garbage disposal and I’ll never see him again.” I finish making coffee, pour it into a mug that says “DON’T EVEN” on the front, add cream—what the hell is coffee without cream?—and carry it across my apartment, which doesn’t take long given the place consists of an open-concept kitchen and living room, and drop into an armchair by the window. “So, tell me something nice. How’s the music industry? How’s wedding planning?”
“Wedding planning… yeah.”
“You guys got engaged three months ago,” I remind her. “Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts.”
“No. Definitely not. But I don’t know what a wedding should look like. I want Jax, not the big party. Maybe we can elope.”
Scrunchie scrambles back from my fake fur pillow. He doesn’t like the pillow, no matter how many times I tell him it’s not real fur. Or skunk.
“The tabloids will find out,” I tell her. “There’ll be a helicopter over you in no time.”
“That’s what I’m terrified of.”
My friend isn’t into the spectacle, which is ironic given she’s marrying possibly the biggest rock star on the planet.
“You’ve lived in the spotlight for a while now, Haley. How is this different?”
I can practically hear her giant brain working. “Because it’s personal. Jax and I have always had our special moments behind closed doors. I understand that fans feel they have a right to him—hell, I felt that way once—but I don’t want to let strangers into this.”
The pleading in her voice works at my heart.
“I know what you need,” I decide. “A dress.”
“Well, eventually.”
“Not eventually. Soon. Now. Come here. I know all the best places. I’ll take you around.”
“You’d do that?”
“Of course.” I glance out the window, excited for the first time all week.
“I figured you’d be too busy with guys of your own.”
“I’m helping a friend of Jake’s with some research.”
I explain Wes’s program to her, and I can practically hear her lean in over the phone.
“So, it matches you up based on DNA?” she says.
“Your analytic mind is fascinated. I can tell.”
“It’s totally fascinating. Will you send it to me? What’s the algorithm he uses? What computer software?” The anticipation in her voice makes me snort.
“I dunno, lady. But I told him I’d help.”
“Why?”
The sip of coffee turns into a long glug, and it burns the top of my mouth. “Because work’s been a pain. I’m losing clients, and I have to prove I’ve got what it takes to make it here.”
“You have what it takes. And I like this guy Wes already.”
“You would. He’s that genius type. And he’s handsome. Like, Jake Gyllenhaal mouth and Bradley Cooper eyes.”
“What about the rest of him?”
“I haven’t seen it. And I’m not going to.” I get out of my chair fast enough that Scrunchie leaps from my arms to the floor. I go to my room and flip through my closet for an outfit.
“Really?”
“I’m taking a break from guys. At least of the non-work variety.”
“That must free up a lot of time.” I’m not offended, especially since it’s true. “What are you doing instead?”
“Tonight, it’s dinner at the parents’. One big happy family.” I pick a dress and grab it off the hanger. “You?”
“Lita’s playing a benefit concert. We said we’d stop by.”
“You, Jax, and Annie?”
“Plus Tyler. They don’t go anywhere apart. It’s really cute.”
“The cute part of teenagerdom.” I think of my brother. “It gets worse.”
“Can’t wait.”
“What are you doing here?”
Those are the first words out of my brother’s mouth when I enter the foyer. He’s parked in the doorway, halfway to—or judging from the box of crackers in his hand, from—the kitchen. Beck’s got longish dark hair that falls over his face and green-brown eyes that change with his mood. Which means they’re always changing. He’s got a couple of inches on me even in sock feet. His jeans might be baggy on his lean frame, and his hoodie’s the latest from some basketball player’s line, though I can’t remember seeing him play the sport.
In fact, I can’t remember what sports he’s been into. I think he played lacrosse in junior high. But when I left for college, he was ten, and we haven’t exactly stayed in touch beyond the obligatory family holidays. Half of which I’ve managed to duck out of under the guise of staying with my friend Haley, who doesn’t have much family to visit.
“Nice to see you too, Beck.”
“I was talking to the skunk.” I wonder when the high-pitched voice I remember gave way to the gravelly deadpan. “Dad’s going to lose his shit.”
“Yeah, well, where I go, so goes the Scrunchmaster.”
The doorman didn’t blink when I got on the elevator with Scrunchie. People have all kinds of pets these days.
After making sure the door is locked, I set Scrunchie on the floor.
The apartment I grew up in is just west of Central Park. It has three bedrooms plus my dad’s office, though he’s only there at night when he’s finished a day of surgeries at the hospital or his private practice.
My mom prefers working at her law firm. Like most things between them, I think it’s a power play, her way of saying she’s too important to work in the hou
se.
Of course, her choice of specialty as a malpractice lawyer, prosecuting physicians and insurance companies, might’ve been a dig at him too.
“I thought dinner’s at seven,” I say, glancing at my phone.
“It is.” He pulls a cracker out of the box and drops it on the carpet. Scrunchie scurries over to sniff at it. When I look up, Beck’s gone.
I follow him to his bedroom and lean in the doorway. His room isn’t black. I guess I was hoping it would shout something obvious. Like there’d be a poster of Channing Tatum or streaks of white dust on the surface of his cherry dresser.
“Are we doing the conversation thing?” he asks flatly.
I ignore his question. “Haley says hi.”
“Haley’s hot.”
Maybe he’s not gay.
“You stole my car,” I point out.
“Borrowed. I needed to get somewhere.”
“You have a learner’s permit. You can take the subway. Or get a friend to drive you. Hell, Mom will buy you a car when you get your full license, if you want.”
“No, she won’t. She doesn’t approve of my choices.”
“Which are?”
“My own.”
I give up on Beck and head for the dining room.
“What the hell is that?” my dad demands as I enter, Scrunchie at my heels.
“My skunk. You know that.”
“It can wait outside the apartment. With any luck, animal control will come for it.”
I settle for putting Scrunchie in his carrier by the door even though he protests. He hates being caged.
By the time the four of us are seated around the dinner table, it’s like old times. Dad talks about work. Mom drinks two glasses of wine while checking her phone. They argue about his travel schedule. Her caseload.
Partway through, she turns to me. “Emily Tremblay was just appointed VP of her PR firm. They assigned her to Tokyo.”
I reach for my wine. “That’s great.”
“She’s also engaged to Grant Howard. He just made partner.”
