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

by Whitney Dineen

  First, she totally hates me, as she should after how I’ve treated her. I must have cringed a thousand times since Saturday night about my YouTube comment. Seriously, I even woke up in the middle of the night last night with my face sore from wincing. If I don’t stop soon, I’ll have permanent Steve Buscemi-face.

  Honestly, there’s probably nothing I could have said that would have been more insulting than suggesting she doesn’t need a brain for her job. I certainly don’t believe that. I just wanted to impress her but ended up hurting her feelings instead. I’m relatively certain there’s no coming back from that.

  The second reason I can’t ask her out is that I’m far too busy to get involved with her—or any woman for that matter. I’ve tried it before and it always ends with the “you never make time for me, it’s like I don’t even matter to you” speech. They’re not wrong. I’m a terrible boyfriend and I’d make an even worse husband. I’m of the mind that you cannot excel at more than one thing in life, and I’ve chosen my career over all else. It’s the reason I’ve managed to make it to where I am today at what is considered a very young age in the world of architecture.

  Relationships are definitely not for me. I’ve accepted that I can’t have a serious one without either risking my career or being an utterly neglectful family man. As someone who grew up with a selfish ghost of a father, I know how that feels and I’d never put anyone I loved through the same.

  I need to set aside whatever these feelings are that I have for Aimée and get back to work. That’s who I am, and I’m content with my lot in life.

  The hydraulics on the glass doors hiss causing my heart to pick up its pace. She’s here. I’ve spent the better part of the last few hours trying to figure out how to play this, but keep coming up completely blank. Her lovely voice calls out a hello, and I shut my eyes for a second, praying I don’t mess thing up again. Strolling out of my office to the hall, I do my best to look casual. “Ms. Tompkins, I assume you’re here for your dress.”

  She holds up a dry-cleaning bag. “And to return Cindy’s pants. I had them cleaned.”

  “How very thoughtful of you,” I say, noting that she didn’t mention the repair work. I stride over and pluck the hanger from her fingertips, letting my skin brush against hers. She stares up at me with those huge blue eyes of hers and swallows before glancing away as though she just remembered how I insulted her.

  She reaches into her handbag and pulls out a brown bag. “These are for Byron.”

  I take them and drop them on his desk, reminding myself not to leave them there unless I want to explain to my brother why the caterer is dropping off treats for him.

  She straightens her back, lifts her chin, and announces, “I should get my dress and go so you can get back to your important work.”

  My shoulders drop in reaction to her continued anger. “I really do need to apologize about the other night. It was not my intention to offend you so horribly.”

  Narrowing her eyes, she tilts her head at me. “So you only meant to offend me a little? Or maybe a medium amount?”

  I can’t help but grin at her snappy retort, but I quickly get my lips in check. “Not even the tiniest bit, actually, as improbable as that sounds.”

  “Yeah, it’s not exactly easy to believe. But, it really doesn’t matter,” she says. “Anyway, I’m in a bit of a hurry, so …”

  “Right. The dress,” I say, gesturing toward my office. “It’s in my closet.”

  I step out of the way so she can go first, then do my best not to look at her bottom while she walks ahead. Okay, so I may have glanced once. Or twice. She stops in front of the sliding grey doors and folds her arms while she waits for me to retrieve her clothing. My heart rises to my throat while I desperately try to think of something clever to say. Something that will fix things. Without looking at her, I confess, “I’m a bit of an idiot, to be honest.”

  She makes a strange choking sound, before asking, “What?”

  I leave her dress hanging and turn to face her. “The people stuff, the whole knowing what to say thing. It’s not one of my gifts. Especially around … certain women. I get a bit tongue-tied and tend to say the wrong thing.”

  Aimée nods. “Clearly.”

  “You’re very talented,” I add, grasping at anything to make things better. “You’re not just a caterer, you’re an artist with a clear passion for your work.”

  Tugging the dress off the hanger herself, she answers, “It’s nothing anyone with WiFi couldn’t do.”

  “That’s not true,” I say, shaking my head. “You don’t just throw things together. You spend your Saturday nights at dingy little spice shops just so you can create the perfect meal for your clients. And your cookies are so good, I’ve dreamed about them. And I don’t even like cookies.”

  She lets out the tiniest grin and raises her eyebrows in question.

  “That sounded dirty, I’m sorry. Obviously I like those cookies, just not the dessert cookies.”

  Then because I haven’t dug a big enough hole for myself, I say, “I didn’t want you to think I was like Byron and not interested in a woman’s cookie. Gah, you see? Total idiot! I don’t know when to stop talking.”

  Her cheeks color and she bites her lip, seeming to be trying to decide what to say next. She finally comes out with, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll still work for you if you need catering in the future.”

  I’m somehow flooded with relief and disappointment at the same time. “Brilliant. I look forward to it.”

  She turns toward the door. “I should get going though. I’m parked in a loading zone.”

  I walk her out, like the gentleman I should have been before. “How did the salad turn out? I assume it was a hit.”

  She smiles. “Everything went really well.”

  There’s something about her words I find quite alarming. I think she’s talking about her upcoming date with Walter Junior. But since I’m not supposed to know about it, I can’t exactly talk her out of it, can I? I opt for reminding her of our first moment together, when the heat was undeniably strong. “No naked incidents?” I ask with a devious grin.

  Shutting her eyes for a second, she says, “That was a one off, I promise.”

  “Probably best that way.”

  There’s that laugh again. “I’d say so.”

  She pushes the button to call the elevator. Much to my chagrin, it opens immediately. After getting on, Aimée gives me a very professional nod. “Have a good night.”

  “You as well,” I answer, wishing I were stepping into the elevator with her. “And I’ll have Byron get in touch with you very—” I call as the doors shut in my face.

  Smooth, loser. Very smooth.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Aimée

  Standing in the elevator on the way down to the parking garage, I lay some truth on myself. I did not want to stop talking to Noel; I just had no reason to stay. It’s not like he offered me a drink or anything. He just kept talking about cookies. I feel flush at the very thought of it.

  Noel Fitzwilliam is a sexy, sexy man, even though he tends toward rudeness with bouts of verbal diarrhea. My phone pings as I pass the twenty-second floor, so I pull it out of my purse and read.

  FitzAssoc: Hey, pretty lady. The boss just messaged me and asked if you could come back upstairs for a few minutes. He said he’d pay your parking ticket if you get one.

  AiméeT: What does he want?

  FitzAssoc: He didn’t say, but who knows, it might be work related.

  AiméeT: Yeah, okay. I’ll go back up. I missed seeing you. I hope his Highness isn’t running you ragged.

  FitzAssoc: Obviously, he is. But he’s such a hunky and lovable guy, I’d do anything for him.

  AiméeT: Um, okay.

  FitzAssoc: Give him a big wet kiss for me when you see him.

  AiméeT: !!!

  FitzAssoc: I’m not kidding. It would make the old boy’s day. His year actually.
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  AiméeT: I don’t think that would be very professional of me, do you?

  FitzAssoc: Sounds like you’re not opposed to the idea.

  AiméeT: I’m almost back at the office. I’m going to stop talking to you now.

  FitzAssoc: Go tap that, girl.

  And just like that, the doors open and I’m staring right at Noel Fitzwilliam as he puts his phone in his pocket. He looks up at me with a crooked smile. “Byron said you had something for me.”

  “What? No!” Byron didn’t tell him about his kissing idea, did he? Oh my god, I’m probably beet red. “He said you wanted me to come back up.”

  “That I did,” he confirms. “It occurred to me that even if we don’t get the new contract we’re bidding for, I’d like to host a Friday lunch for my staff every week. They work hard and I want to let them know how much I appreciate them.”

  “Really? Every Friday?” I pull out my mental calculator and start crunching numbers. If it’s for the same number of people as the lunch I already catered, after paying for food, gas, and other sundries, that weekly meal alone would add nearly two thou to my pocket every month after expenses. Multiply that by twelve, if I can get it to last a full year, mama’s going to be back in her own apartment with at least two separate rooms this time. Sure, it’ll still be under three hundred square feet, but that’s twice the size I was recently in.

  “Well then. Would you mind joining me in my office so we can hammer out some of the details?”

  “Tonight?” I ask, feeling my mouth go as dry as the Sahara. “Don’t you want to go home?”

  “Traffic is horrendous this time of day. I prefer to stay at the office late so I’m not sitting in the back of a town car fighting motion sickness.”

  “You have a driver?” I blurt out. Slick, Aimée. Obviously, he has a driver if he’s in the back seat.

  “It makes sense for expediency’s sake. If I’m not responsible for making my own way to the office, I can fit in a couple extra hours of work every day.”

  I follow behind him. “Sounds like you work too much.”

  “I love what I do. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

  “That’s sad,” I say before I think better of it. I wonder if verbal diarrhea is contagious. I hurry to add, “I’m sorry. That was inappropriate.”

  Back in his scrumptiously expensive office, he says, “No offense taken. You’re not the first person to suggest I have a problem.” Then he points to his couch with a thoughtful expression. “Maybe I do. My sofa folds out into a bed in case I want to stay the night. Is that normal?”

  He offers me a confused smile, but instead of smiling back, I glance at the couch. Now both of us stand there staring at it silently. I don’t know what Noel is thinking, but I’m wondering what that bed looks like pulled out. I shrug out of my cardigan before I get so hot I spontaneously combust. Finally, remembering to answer his question, I say, “I’m sure it’s fine as long as you make some time for fun.”

  Glancing up at the ceiling, he says, “Does work count?”

  “Definitely not,” I say. “I mean things like going out dancing all night or traveling somewhere exotic. Or … I don’t know, going to karaoke with friends—that’s always a blast.”

  “Well, I’m not much of a dancer, I’m afraid, traveling requires a great deal of time, and I’d rather spend the rest of my life washing people’s dirty feet than ever singing in public again.”

  Grinning, I say, “You can’t be that bad.”

  “Oh, but I can.”

  In response to what I’m assuming is the skeptical look on my face, he explains, “In grade school, I was asked by more than one teacher to refrain from singing in class and was instructed to mouth the words at our annual Christmas concerts.”

  “No! Those monsters!”

  He nods in a most pitiful way and I know he’s pretending to be hurt, but there’s a hint of truth in his eyes. “True story. I’m scarred for life.” He sighs heavily. “Shame, really, because before I found out how awful I was, I fancied myself the next Bono.”

  I put one hand on my chest. “You poor thing. I can just picture you as a little eight-year-old boy in a school uniform with the shorts and a little crushed heart. What did your parents say when you told them?”

  “Never told them. They’d already banned me from singing at home so I knew they’d consider it good solid advice.” He rolls his eyes. “Don’t embarrass the family by being less than perfect and all that.”

  A pang of real sadness comes over me, thinking about what crappy parents he must have. “Well, I would have marched right down there and given those teachers a piece of my mind. In fact, if you ever want to sing, I’d be happy to listen.”

  Oh wow, do I ever want to hug him right now.

  He keeps his mock-sad expression going. “I’m afraid it would take years of therapy before I could even sing one bar, but should I ever want to try, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “I’ll be here.” We stare at each other for a long moment and there’s a shift in the air from teasing to truth that makes my skin tingle.

  Suddenly, Noel clears his throat. “Why don’t we sit down and bandy some ideas about?”

  Before I can answer, my stomach growls so loudly you’d think a wild bear had joined us. “I’m so sorry,” I apologize. “I didn’t eat lunch. I didn’t expect the job at Brown, Brown, and Green to run so long.”

  Noel strides over to his desk and pulls out a bright lime-green box and hands it to me. “Norman Love truffles. I understand they’re delightful.”

  I cautiously take the box like it’s full of live grenades or snakes. “You haven’t tried them yet?”

  “As I mentioned, I’m not much of a dessert guy.”

  I sit down in the large wingback chair in front of his desk and take the lid off the candy. “That’s right, the whole cookie thing.” As I pull out a gorgeous heart-shaped red chocolate with a shiny tempered exterior, I add, “They’re almost too pretty to eat.”

  “Hmmm.” Noel pulls a stack of menus out of his desk. “I always order dinner in. How does something from Daniel sound?”

  “Daniel Boulud’s restaurant? Are you serious?” I practically start to hyperventilate. I have always wanted to eat there but have never had the occasion or the money.

  “Do you not like it?” he asks, sounding concerned.

  “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t actually eaten there before.” As in, I don’t have a spare four hundred dollars to blow on one dinner.

  He picks up his phone and punches in a number. “Sheldon, this is Noel Fitzwilliam. I’d like to order dinner for two, please.” He looks at me and asks, “Any allergies?” I shake my head in awe that he’s ordering carry-out from one of the most expensive restaurants in the city as casually as if he were ordering street tacos from a truck.

  Noel continues, “We’d like the start with the Coquilles Saint-Jacques and the Poached Chicken Breast with Black Truffle Leg Quenelle. For the entrees, the Red Snapper en Croûte and Braised Legs, Foie Gras with Caramelized Endive.” Food is my love language and at this moment, I’m highly, highly aroused. Or in love. I’m not sure I can tell the difference.

  “Dessert?” Noel asks, saving me from falling down the rabbit hole of excitement.

  “I have cookies,” I manage to utter.

  “As much as I’d love to eat your cookie, why don’t we get dessert as well?” What did he say? I decide I couldn’t have heard that right and merely nod my head dumbly in response.

  “We’ll have the Osmanthus Flower Pavlova and the Hazelnut Noisette.” He hangs up and announces, “It will be here in about forty minutes. Can you last that long?”

  “I’m sure I can,” I say while picking up another truffle. This one is bright blue with white polka dots. When I pop it in my mouth, the flavor of wild blueberries bursts onto my tongue. Soooooooo good. “Mmmmmmmmmmmmm.”

  Noel is looking at me with something of a shocked ex
pression.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, my mouth still full of chocolate goodness.

  “Are you? That was an impressive moan.” He looks impressed too.

  Oh god, I did that out loud? I point to the candy box and say, “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  He stands up and asks, “Would you like a glass of wine?” He keeps wine in the office? I feel like I just fell into an episode of Mad Men.

  “I have to drive home, but I suppose one glass would be nice, thank you.”

  Noel walks over to a dark cabinet and pulls out two balloon glasses before grabbing a bottle of Beaujolais. “Why don’t we sit on the sofa?”

  He says sofa, but I hear bed. I watch as he leads the way into the living room set up on the far side of the room. I suddenly feel like I’m on a date. While his back is turned, I covertly sniff a pit to make sure I don’t smell. Ew, I kind of do. I’ve been hauling stuff all day and it’s apparently left me less than sweet-smelling.

  “Do you mind if I use your bathroom?” I ask, sounding like a pubescent boy whose voice is changing.

  “There are fresh towels if you fancy a shower,” he says teasingly.

  “I think I’ll pass on that this time. I don’t want you to think you get to see me naked every time I’m in your office.” Did I say that out loud?

  He turns around and gives me a smoldering look. “That’s too bad. I can’t think of a better reason to try to lure you in here.”

  As he opens the wine, I hurry into his bathroom and run the cold water so I can splash some on my face and snap out of it already. I am in Noel Fitzwilliam’s office to discuss catering lunches. This is a work meeting. Just because he ordered an expensive meal, is pouring wine, and has recently waxed poetically about my cookies, does not mean that we’re on a date.

  Does it?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Noel

  What am I doing? Seriously?! The very last thing I should be, that’s what. Trying to romance the skirt off the woman I can’t stop thinking about, instead of staying focused on work. Ordering a meal that likely costs more than she earns in a week to impress her. Making up Friday appreciation lunches just so I can see her. I don’t want to treat my staff to lunch. I mean, do they work hard? Yes. But they’re also very well-paid and have killer benefits and medical. I don’t bloody well need to feed them too. And yet, I’m going to do just that.