Text Me On Tuesday: All is Fair in Love and Texting ... (An Accidentally in Love Story Book 1)

by Whitney Dineen

  Me: Devastatingly handsome? Virile?

  SexyCaterer: I was going to say cold and intimidating. He’s not the warm fuzzy type, is he?

  Me: One can’t afford to be warm and fuzzy in this business.

  SexyCaterer: Well, most people manage to strike a balance between overly friendly and total a-hole.

  A-hole? Ouch.

  Me: To be fair, your presence in the bathroom was quite the surprise.

  SexyCaterer: I could forgive that part, but the way he acted later—seriously rude. Good thing he has you to make up for his shortcomings. I nicknamed him BM for boss man (and the other way of using those initials together – lol). Anyway, why did you want me to wait until Tuesday to text you? Do you have another job for me?

  Hmmm … how to answer that? I should just tell her the truth. I start to type no, but for some unfathomable reason, I can’t seem to force myself to press send. Her nude body appears in my mind’s eye, and I get lost in the image until my phone dings. I look down to see she’s written:

  SexyCaterer: Byron, are you there?

  Me: Yes. Yup, I’m here. I do have another job for you, but now that I know how you feel about my boss, you might not want it.

  SexyCaterer: I’ve catered for people worse than him and didn’t let my personal feelings get in the way of preparing something delicious. Also, I need the work. I wasn’t sure handing those flyers out was going to get me anywhere and then you called about today’s lunch. Thank you so much for giving me a chance.

  Me: Ah, yes, the flyer… Lunch was delicious, by the way. Our guest asked for your business card. Hopefully that will lead to more work for you.

  SexyCaterer: That would be great! Now, tell me about this other job you have? Is it another luncheon?

  Me: Think bigger. If we land the project we were pitching today, we’ll need someone to keep the staff fed for several weeks – morning snacks, lunches, and afternoon nibbles. Even the occasional supper at a moment’s notice. There’s a team of eighteen people that will be putting in long hours. Can you handle that?

  SexyCaterer: Are you serious?

  Me: Deadly.

  Little does she know, I’m incapable of humor. At least I have been since moving to New York.

  SexyCaterer: Then, yes times a thousand and thank you times a million!!!!

  Me: Don’t thank me yet. We don’t have the contract signed.

  SexyCaterer: But you’ll get it. As much as your boss isn’t my cup of tea, he was pretty amazing in there. I could tell the clients were impressed.

  Oh, well that’s rather nice, isn’t it?

  Me: Really? How?

  SexyCaterer: Every time he spoke, they couldn’t seem to tear their eyes away. I saw lots of nodding too, especially from the men. When women do it, it just means they’re listening, but when men nod, it means they agree.

  Me: Fingers crossed you’re right.

  SexyCaterer: I’m right.

  Me: Maybe it’s wishful thinking because if we get the job, so do you …

  SexyCaterer: Maybe, but I doubt it.

  Me: I like your confidence.

  SexyCaterer: Thank you, but I’m not just saying that for your approval.

  Seems like she’s just as feisty as I thought. That type can keep a man on his toes.

  SexyCaterer: Kidding! I love approval. I just thought that sounded like something a really confident person would say.

  I grin at the screen and flop down on my couch, not wanting the conversation to end just yet.

  Me: You’re funny.

  SexyCaterer: Thanks. Not everyone appreciates my sense of humor. Can I ask you a question?

  Me: Sure.

  SexyCaterer: Why did he call me a desperate stray?

  Damn. I was trying to forget about that.

  Me: You know how it is with single women and gay men. They all seem to want a gay best friend to tell them how to dress, how to do their hair, and how to land their dream man.

  SexyCaterer: Yeah, but that was such a crap thing to say—especially to a girl in the buff.

  Double damn.

  Me: He feels awful about saying that.

  SexyCaterer: He should. I have no interest in men right now, even a dreamy one. What I need is a dreamy contract—which you’ve kindly offered me (sort of).

  Dreamy, huh? I wonder if she realizes she wrote that.

  Me: I’m glad to be of service. If you ever need help with the other thing … let me know.

  SexyCaterer: What other thing? Your boss? As if. I’m too busy trying to pay my bills to add men to my worries.

  Me: That bad?

  SexyCaterer: Let’s put it this way. I’m moving into my best friend’s apartment this weekend because I can’t afford the shoebox I’ve been renting.

  My gut tightens at the thought of her being in such a bind, and I resolve to find a way to help. Whether we get the contract or not, I can still afford to hire her.

  Me: I’ll definitely push hard to get you a semi-permanent position at Fitzwilliams. If not, I have lots of contacts. Someone with your talent should be at the top of the catering business. The only catch with working for us is that you have to put up with the boss.

  SexyCaterer: For a gig like that, I’ll kiss his feet and call him daddy.

  That should not have caused my stomach to tighten like that. I mean, I don’t really fancy the idea of a woman doing either of those things, but with her …

  Me: No need. You’ll get an email as soon as we know.

  SexyCaterer: Byron, you are seriously the best! I adore you.

  Me: Yes, well, I think I might adore you too.

  She can never find out it was me pretending to be Byron. It would be a total disaster. In fact, I should stop and tell her to email “me” from now on. Yet, that would cut short all of this flirtatious texting, and heaven knows this interchange is the most fun I’ve had with a woman since, well, since holding the same woman naked in my arms only hours ago.

  Chapter Nine

  Aimée

  Moving over to Teisha’s is not as grueling as one might expect. I barely own anything which means I manage the whole relocation in half a day. How sad is that?

  When T gets home from work and sees all my stuff, she says, “I totally would have helped you if you could have waited.”

  “The only thing that was a bit of a struggle was my mattress, but even so, that’s only a twin. Terrance helped me bring it up before he left.”

  T cracks open a Diet Coke and extends the can in front of her. “To good friends, great roommates, and more business than you know what to do with!”

  “Hear, hear!” I pick up my bottle of water and offer an air toast. “If I get a contract at Fitzwilliam & Associates, I can give notice at Bean Town.”

  “When will you hear?” She kicks off her shoes and plops down on the sofa next to me.

  “I don’t know. Hopefully soon, but I did hear from the company they were pitching the other day. They want me to cater a lunch for them on Monday.”

  “Monday—as in two days from now? Girl, you’re on fire! Do you need me to help with that one?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so. They asked for a buffet because they don’t want anyone in the room during the meeting. Probably some top-secret corporate espionage or something.” I giggle at my own joke.

  “Kwon said to tell you that he’ll have Cindy’s pants of torture back by Sunday.”

  “What dry cleaner is open on Sunday?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “I’m not sure whether Kwon’s cousin really owns a dry cleaner or just a dry-cleaning machine that he stores in his living room. It makes no difference to me where the magic happens.”

  “I guess I should plan on returning her pants when I’m downtown on Monday. Then I can pick up my dress at the same time.”

  I reach over to grab my phone off the coffee table and text Byron.

  AiméeT: Hey Byron, I need to return Cindy’s C-POT a
nd pick up my dress. Can I stop by late Monday afternoon?

  FitzAssoc: Cindy’s C-POT? That’s sounds dirty.

  AiméeT: Cindy’s pants of torture would be their formal name. That woman needs to eat a cheeseburger.

  FitzAssoc: Ah yes, those pants were a little snug on you.

  AiméeT: That’s an understatement. I split them right down the middle. They’re off being repaired now.

  FitzAssoc: So that’s why you had two aprons on …

  AiméeT: It certainly wasn’t because I thought it looked hot. Promise you won’t tell her.

  FitzAssoc: Mum’s the word.

  AiméeT: I don’t know if you know this, but Cindy has the hots for your boss in the biggest, baddest way.

  FitzAssoc: Why would you say that?

  AiméeT: Um, because she looks at him like he’s a hot fudge sundae and she hasn’t eaten in a month—which she probably hasn’t.

  FitzAssoc: He’s a very yummy looking man, don’t you think? I bet you wouldn’t mind getting a bite of that yourself.

  AiméeT: Lol. Never you mind who I’d like to take a bite out of. I should be there Monday, no later than four.

  FitzAssoc: I shall long for the moment when I lay eyes on you again.

  AiméeT: I’m sure you hear this all the time, Byron, but I wish you were straight.

  FitzAssoc: So, you could ravish me and make me your love slave?

  AiméeT: Affirmative. Lol. Any news on the contract you were bidding for?

  FitzAssoc: Not yet. Why are you coming downtown on Monday? Do you have another job?

  AiméeT: With the client you gave my card to!

  FitzAssoc: Brilliant. Let me know if you hear anything about us. ;)

  FitszAssoc: …

  FitzAssoc: Obviously, I’m kidding.

  AiméeT: Obviously. Okay, Gorgeous, I’m off to the market to shop for my next gig. See you soon.

  FitzAssoc: All right, you sexy little minx. I’ve started counting the minutes.

  When I put the phone down, I tell Teisha, “I adore that man. He’s so funny and easy to talk to.”

  “They should embroider those words on the gay flag,” Teisha laughs.

  “You want to go on a field trip with me?”

  “That’s like asking the folks in my mom’s Weight Watchers meeting if they want a brownie. You know I do. Where are we going?”

  “I want to check out a new market in the Village. I hear they have all kinds of interesting spices at rock bottom prices.”

  I quickly pick up my phone again and send Byron another text.

  AiméeT: Do you think corporate guys would be down with curry in their chicken salad or would it be better to keep it bland?

  FitzAssoc: My personal opinion is that life is too short to eat bland food, so I’d say curry, but within reason. Not everyone is as adventurous as me.

  AiméeT: I believe that. Have you ever shopped at Spice-zing! in the Village?

  FitzAssoc: I have not. What do they sell?

  AiméeT: Um, spices? I’m heading over there now if you want me to pick up some curry for you. I owe you for all your help yesterday.

  FitsAssoc: As it would happen, I don’t know how to cook, so I’ll have to rely on your bringing me a sample of your chicken salad on Monday.

  AiméeT: Consider it done, my friend. Later.

  T and I get from her apartment on 112th St. to the Spring Street stop on the subway in just under 25 minutes. A horrible thought hits me. Now that I’ve moved eighty blocks north of my old apartment, it’ll probably take me two hours to get to the Financial District for catering jobs. Crap! If I get a steady job with Fitzwilliam & Assoc., I’m going to have quite the haul until I can afford my own apartment again. But that’s future Aimée’s problem. For now, I shop.

  Spice-zing! is a tiny little hole in the wall. If I didn’t have the address, we would have totally missed it. There’s no sign. As we walk in, it feels like we’re entering a secret opium den.

  The smells are to die for though. Thick, smokey, earthy, and pungent. Without even looking, I know they have a lot of cumin and coriander. “Hey, dudes,” says a young surfer boy-looking guy. You here for the special special?”

  “What’s a special special?” Teisha demands like he just offered to give her a flu shot with a dirty needle. Her mouth is curled up in a look of horror.

  “Special special is today’s special spice flavor. You buy one, you get a free matsutake. Gnarly, am I right?” How is this guy in New York City and not lining up to catch the next wave on a Southern California beach somewhere?

  “You’re giving away a free massage when you buy spices?” Teisha grabs my arm. “I don’t think this is the place for us, Aimes.” She leans in and whispers, “I bet once they get you into the back room, they drug you and sell your ass on the black market.”

  I roll my eyes at her and ask the proprietor, “Matsutake mushrooms? I can hardly ever find those!”

  “Right? It’s like the raddest special special ever.” I’m guessing someone sparked a doobie before we came in.

  “So, no massage …” T needs confirmation.

  “Not unless you want to catch a drink with me tonight.” He shrugs his eyebrows flirtatiously.

  “Are you even legal?” T asks.

  “Totes, mama. Legal as they come.”

  Good lord.

  T cocks her head to the side. “Let’s start with the special special and see where that takes us.”

  My friend is an African-American goddess who does not discriminate as far as men are concerned. She likes white guys, black guys, Hispanic guys, Asian guys, and apparently she might have her eye on a barely legal surfer dude.

  “Can you point me in the direction of your curry selection?” I ask.

  He nods his head like it’s connected to a windmill and he’s trying to create enough power for the lower West Side. “Righteous! Love me some curry.”

  The backroom is so narrow, we have to stand single file.

  T takes one look and says, “No way am I going in there. I’ll be out front.”

  I turn and whisper to her, “Okay, but come look for me if I’m not out in ten minutes.”

  Shaking her head, Teisha says, “I love you like a sister, but no.”

  Surfer dude and I continue to squeeze ourselves down the aisle, then he stops suddenly and says, “Dude, you gotta move. The lady here needs her curry.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  I can’t see who’s answering him, but I know that voice. It’s deliciously familiar and British. “Mr. Fitzwilliam?” I ask, practically choking on the question.

  “Yes? Do I know you?” He still can’t see me, so he says, “Skippy, can you step aside so I can see who’s talking to me?” This kid’s name isn’t really Skippy, is it?

  Skippy answers, “Dude, unless you want me to jump up so you can look under me, it’s not going to work. We need to evacuate the premises so this bae can get her curry.” Then he pushes past me, causing me to do a face plant against an apothecary jar of dried tien-tsin red chiles which knocks over a vial of saffron threads—ooh, saffron threads! Once Skippy’s gone, I look up. Yup, there he is, the BM himself, Noel Fitzwilliam, is standing in front of the curry selection in probably the most exotic and off-the-beaten-path shop in all of New York City.

  “What are you doing at Spice-Zing!?” I demand, sounding angrier than I’d intended to. “Did Byron tell you I was coming here?”

  “Why would Byron tell me that?” He looks as confused as I am. “And how would he even know?”

  “Why are you here?” I demand again, ignoring his second question.

  “Well, Ms. Tompkins, I’m not sure that it’s any of your concern, but I’m in the mood for a good curry and I thought I’d make myself one.”

  “You cook?” The man I met, and by “met” I mean laid naked in his arms, doesn’t strike me as a person who knows his way around the stove. A woman’s body though …

/>   “Yes, as shocking as that may sound to you, it was the only way I could get decent food at Oxford. Great school. Horrible restaurants.” He leans down and practically sniffs my neck before adding, “Now that you know why I’m here, would you mind telling me why you’re here? You aren’t, by any chance, stalking me, are you?”

  “As if!” I push him away before thinking better of it. He is, after all, my potential gravy train. “What I mean is, of course I’m not stalking you. I have a luncheon to cater on Monday and I’m making a curried chicken salad.”

  “Mmmmm,” he groans. “Don’t forget the raisins. Something spicy always needs a little something sweet to go with it, don’t you think?”

  My limbs start to feel like they’re full of helium and are floating around me. The last time I felt like this was my big Elsa moment in his bathroom. My brain short-circuits and I lose all train of thought, which is why I stand there staring at him in stunned silence.

  Chapter Ten

  Noel

  I shouldn’t have come. I told myself to turn around and go home the entire way here, and yet, I completely ignored my good advice. In my defense, I am unbelievably bored. Byron went upstate with his new jazz musician to sit in the audience and swoon while he plays at a bar in the Poconos, which means I don’t even have him around to annoy me. It’s been so long since I’ve taken a day off work that I don’t remember what I used to do when I had free time. I seem to recall playing video games at one point, and I definitely used to frequent the pub with friends back in London, but since I’m no longer a spotty teenager and I haven’t had time to make new friends here in the US, I’ve spent the better part of the day wandering restlessly around my empty apartment. There was literally nothing on the telly that could hold my interest. Not even cricket, which used to be bit of an obsession for me. So, now I’m staring down the barrel of an entire weekend without anything to fill my days (or worse, my nights).

  And that’s how I convinced myself to make an appearance at this dark little hovel of a spice store. This is insanely risky because at some point Aimée may very well figure out she’s not texting Byron. Then whatever this intriguing feeling is will be—poof—gone. No woman in her right mind would take up with a creepy guy pretending to be his own assistant. So much for being a man of integrity.