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

by Whitney Dineen

  I don’t answer him. I’ve done enough talking. I’ve made a total fool out of myself and I’m not looking to do it again any time soon. If he has something to say to me, he can say it, otherwise we can walk in silence.

  After a few minutes, he finally speaks up. “I work all the time. It wouldn’t be fair to you or me to get involved right now.”

  “Sure, fine, I get it.”

  “What do you get?” he pushes.

  “I get that you’re a busy and important man and that you don’t have time for me.”

  He takes my hand in his. “Not having time to date has nothing to do with being important. I really don’t have time.”

  I want to ask him what last night was all about if he doesn’t have time for romance. It very much looked like we were on a date, and if I hadn’t gotten shit-faced, that date might have ended on a very high note. But, you know, whatever.

  When we get to the parking garage, Noel opens his wallet and pulls out three twenties to pay the attendant. He parked my van in a garage that charges sixty dollars a night? Is he insane? “I don’t have that kind of cash on me right now, but I’ll pay you back,” I tell him.

  “Nonsense. This is on me.”

  I unlock the door and get in the passenger side before asking, “Can I at least give you a lift back to the office?”

  He shakes his head slowly. “No, thanks, I think I’ll walk.” He won’t even drive ten blocks with me. Wow, when he’s done with a woman, he’s really done. Or maybe it’s because I look like a character from Bugs Bunny who just got smacked in the face with an anvil. Or it could be because I totally turned him off last night by throwing myself at him.

  Or—and this is the worst thought—he never wanted me in the first place.

  Tears free-fall down my face, but I don’t say anything. I just close my door, buckle-up, and drive away without looking back.

  Chapter Twenty

  Noel

  “Oof!” I grunt as my body slams against the white wall of the squash court.

  Walter makes a “whoop!” sound, then asks, “You’re not just letting me win so you get the contract, are you?”

  “No,” I answer, which is sadly true. “I’m just a bit rusty.”

  “A bit! Does that mean the opposite in England?” He swipes at the floor, retrieving the dark blue ball. Why, that son of a bitch, I want to wipe the floor with his face. He drops the ball and smacks it with a smirk that says he knows I’m about to lunge like a fool and miss yet again. Which I do.

  We’ve been playing for close to an hour now, and I’ve drenched my new shorts and T-shirt with sweat. I’m so soaked that my stupid goggle things keep sliding down my nose, distracting me and forcing me to stab at them with my finger during the rallies. Well, if there were rallies. It’s pretty much just him serving five times in a row and racking up points, then me serving five that he easily hits back, thus ending the play.

  To be honest, I can’t concentrate for more than thirty seconds at a time. I cannot stop thinking about Aimée and her knees and her mouth and the hurt in her eyes. I want to climb out of the oddly tiny door, find out where she is, and rush to her side. But I can’t very well do that, can I? Not after I’ve gone and rejected her.

  “Game point,” Walter says. “If I get this one, it’ll be ten games to zero.”

  “Brilliant,” I mutter.

  And here comes the ball.

  And there goes the ball … and my stupid paddle or whatever it’s called. Honestly, I’m so tired, I don’t even care to pick it up. I’ll just leave the bloody thing here.

  I bend at the waist and rest my hands on my knees while Walter grabs my racquet for me and hands it to me. “What do you say to a beer?”

  “Yes. I’m much better at holding a pint than a racquet.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we’ve both showered and changed and are seated in the small bar area of the club. Walter holds up two fingers and a middle-aged waitress with big hair gives him a nod.

  “You lasted longer than I thought you would,” he says, grabbing a handful of salted peanuts from the communal bowl (which I would never touch–-this place is probably crawling with single-shake guys).

  “Well, I try to workout. I do some running and weights here and there.”

  “No, I meant, you lasted a long time without asking about the project.”

  “Oh, that. Well, I like to do one thing at a time as poorly as possible,” I say with a grin.

  The waitress drops two glasses of a light ale at our table. Walter looks up and says, “Thanks, Honey.”

  I start to feel offended on her behalf before I check her name tag. Huh, her name actually is Honey.

  “No problem, Walt,” she says with a wink. “Who’s your friend?”

  “This is Noel. He’s from England.”

  “Well, hello Noel from England. Fancy seeing someone from your neck of the woods on this side of the pond.”

  “Yes, well, I live here now,” I answer politely.

  “Ooh, that accent is what my friends and I call the panty-melter.”

  I choke on what was supposed to be my first sip of beer, then manage to say, “Thank you?” But it comes out as a question.

  “You let me know if you need anything else,” she says with a wink. “I’ll take real good care of you.”

  The bartender calls her name, and she hurries off to pick up another order, leaving Walter and me to deal with the matter at hand. I decide the direct approach is the best. “So, you said you’re going to need to see a lot of changes to the design. Does that mean you’d like to go ahead with us?”

  He tilts his head and screws up his face in a “not sure” sort of way. “Listen, if it were up to me, we’d be going with you. But my dad is really pushing hard for Lassiter and Sons, and since he’s not going to retire until this building is standing, I can’t exactly overrule him. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Pity, I figured you for the man in charge.”

  He puffs up a little and says, “I am for the day-to-day stuff. And I’m the guy the staff comes to for decisions, but this one is different. Dad sees it as his swan song.” Taking a swig of his beer, he says, “Can’t blame him though. The old man’s been in the business for thirty-eight years. It’s natural that he’d want to make his mark before he disappears to Florida to spend his days lawn bowling.”

  “Makes sense,” I say. “You’re a good son to respect him enough to listen to him, especially when he’s on his way out.”

  “I have to. If I don’t play this right, he might decide to stay.”

  “Ah,” I say with a nod. “So, Walter, what do I need to do to help you get what you want?”

  The smile on his face makes me more than a little nervous. He raises his hand to Honey, and when she comes back, he asks to be brought a whole bottle of tequila.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Aimée

  I drive my van straight to Bean Town. Not because I want to go into work looking like I was just hit in the face by a wrecking ball, but because I need to see my best friend. I need some compassion and a shoulder to cry on, stat. Also, Kwon might have another cousin who’s a dentist who could fix my tooth in his living room, or back alley. I’m not particular.

  I park illegally in the loading zone out front before turning on my emergency lights. Hopefully that’ll keep the meter maid from ticketing me. Then I hobble into the bakery.

  Teisha is foaming milk for a cappuccino when she looks up and sees me. “Holy sweet mother of Jesus on the cross! What happened to you?” She drops the metal container holding the milk and rushes toward me. “Do you need an ambulance?”

  Her concern opens the flood gates once again. The tears and snot cue my bloody lip to start gushing again. “Call 911!” T yells to the concerned crowd that’s starting to form.

  “No … no … no …” I hiccup. “I just fell and cracked my tooth. I don’t neeeeeeeeeeeeeed an ambulance.” It’s like my emotional bubble go
t so full that it popped, and is spewing its contents everywhere. Every. Where.

  There are no free tables so T walks up to two businessmen and says, “Time to leave, fellas. Scoot.” Went they don’t move fast enough, she yells, “NOW!” As they beat it out of Dodge, she ushers me to an empty chair and soothes, “I’ll get some tea and cookies.” She stares at my tooth. “Maybe rice pudding. Will you be okay for a minute?”

  Nodding my head, I start the process of trying to pull myself together. A sketchy looking twenty-something man approaches me with a smile on his face. Dude, you’re not going to try to hit on me now, are you? Not the time.

  He opens his wallet and hands me a slip of paper. “I’m a dental student,” he tells me. “I can set you up with a cap on that tooth for a fraction of the price a real dentist would charge. Call me.” Then he walks away.

  First of all, ew. Who tries to drum up business like that? And also, maybe, if Kwon doesn’t have a lead for me.

  Teisha comes back and places a cup of tea and two scones in front of me. Then she hands me a plastic baggie full of ice. “We’re out of pudding. Now, what happened, hon?” she demands as she plops down in the seat across from me.

  “Oh, T, it was so bad, so very bad.” I explain all about how I thought Noel was about to ask me out for real, but instead of doing that, he squashed my heart like a bug under his shoe. “Then I tripped and fell into a garbage can. Then I … I … I …” I stop for a moment to blubber.

  Another man walks over and hands me his business card. What the …? I don’t even look at him before yelling, “I am not going to a dental school to have my tooth fixed!”

  “I’m a lawyer,” he says. “Looks like you might have cause for a lawsuit.”

  “Who am I going to sue?” I demand.

  “The owner of that garbage can.”

  “Are you serious? You think I should sue someone for having their garbage can exactly where it belongs?” What’s he smoking?

  “You could sue the city for that crack on the sidewalk.” Does he have our table bugged? How did he hear me say that?

  Teisha rolls her eyes and interjects, “Why don’t you sue the company that made her shoes that caused her to trip?”

  “That’s a great idea …” he starts to say.

  He doesn’t finish that thought because T interrupts by shouting, “Get out of here, you bottom feeder!”

  He shrugs his shoulders and walks away like this is normal treatment. Which for him, it probably is.

  My friend refocuses her attention on me. “So, no you and Noel, huh?”

  I shrug my shoulders.

  “But you got the catering gig, right?”

  “I hope. I mean, I think I did. Although he might be reconsidering my employment after the scene I subjected him to.” Two years of White Gloves and Party Manner lessons as a child down the drain.

  “Don’t worry about that. Just text Byron and let him take care of it.”

  “But then I’ll have to see Noel every week,” I complain.

  “No, you won’t. I’ll cover for you if you want. We can even hire Jennifer the dog walker to help out if we need to.”

  I nod my head pathetically. That’s not a bad idea. I’ll need to hire a lot of people if I actually get this business up and running, which I’m determined to do, especially now that I’ve decided to give up on dating. Forever.

  “I’m gonna go home,” I tell T. “Can you ask Kwon if he knows a place where I can get my tooth fixed for cheap?”

  She nods her head. “You betcha. In the meantime, go get some rest and I’ll see you at home in a couple of hours.”

  I wrap my scones in a paper napkin and head out to my van. Luckily, I find parking just down the block from T’s apartment, so I’ll have a few hours before I have to move it uptown to my space in the Bronx.

  Once I’m curled up on the couch under a cozy throw, I pick up my phone and text Byron.

  AiméeT: Oh, Byron. Today went so wrong. I thought Noel was going to tell me how much he liked me and how he couldn’t wait to go out on a date with me, but that isn’t what happened at all.

  I wait for him to text back. When he doesn’t, I continue:

  AiméeT: He said he liked me, but he didn’t have time for me. I think that’s code for “You’re not classy enough for me.” What do you think?

  No answer, so I keep going.

  AiméeT: I thought I was taking the rejection pretty well until I tripped on the sidewalk and did a header into a garbage can. I landed on my face, so my lip is the size of my head. I chipped a tooth, and my knees look like raw hamburger. I’m embarrassed, heartbroken, and look like the world’s worst boxer.

  Nothing.

  AiméeT: Where are you?!!!

  AiméeT: Fine, don’t be there for me in my hour of need. But I tell you this. If Walter Junior still wants to go out with me after seeing my sad new face, I might just let him jump the line on my fifth date rule. It’s not like I need a man to make me feel better about myself, but I could sure use the comfort of a strong pair of arms around me right now.

  When Byron doesn’t text back, I close my eyes and try to let my brain take a break from my real life. Unfortunately, it’s not on board with that idea and all it wants to do is think about Noel.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Noel

  I am drunk. It’s taken me a ridiculously long time to unlock the door to my apartment, which normally isn’t a problem for me. Yay, me. I’m a man of many talents. I can use a key whilst sober. I kick the door shut behind me and dump my squash bag (that will never be used again) on the entryway console.

  It’s only just after six, but I already want to climb under the covers—with one foot on the floor to stop the room from spinning—and pretend this day is over. I’ve gone from ordering breakfast for the woman I fancy to dumping her so I don’t hurt her (only to hurt her). From there I moved on to being creamed at a stupid racquet game by Walter the Wanker Junior, who then forced me to drink shot for shot—ostensibly to prove my manhood after that arse-beating he gave to me— while he spills all the secrets about what will cause daddy dearest to sign on the dotted line.

  After his first few shots, he started talking and I started listening with both ears. Thankfully, I managed to pour half of my drinks into a large planter behind me but even so, I’m pissed. Walter has got to be an alcoholic to put away so much booze without being in a coma right now.

  It sounds like Lassiter and Sons has been playing some dirty pool that got Junior and Senior into a big fight over where their loyalties lie. Thank God we didn’t accept that sneak peek at their presentation. It would have come back to bite a huge chunk out of my arse.

  The entire ride home I jotted down notes—everything I could remember in my inebriated state. I only hope I’ll be able to read my chicken scratch in the morning. The bottom line is that if we’re going to have a shot at One Rosenthal, we need to have a brand-new design ready in fewer than six weeks. Basically, they want the back to be the front and the top to be the bottom. They love the eco-friendly elements, but they want an invisible rainwater system (no problem, right? I’ll just hire the folks who made Wonder Woman’s jet to build it). In addition, they want a forty-foot living wall in the lobby which means removing a load-bearing wall on the second, third, and fourth floors, which also means a whole lot of other changes and calculations. Since it took our team eight months to do the first one, I can’t really see anyway in hell that we’ll be able to pull it off.

  But that’s future Noel’s problem. Current Noel is going to drink a gallon of water and take four aspirin so he won’t want to walk off his tenth-floor balcony when he wakes up.

  I kick off my dress shoes and pad toward my ultra-modern kitchen. Once there, I open the fridge. My phone buzzes in my pocket and my insides tighten. It’s probably poor Aimée, trying to get a hold of her confidant, Byron, for advice. I sigh and force myself to look. I haven’t written her back because I feel like an
absolute cad. I’m the last person who should know how upset she is. She clearly wants me to think the entire thing is no biggie, but now she’s considering revenge sex with Walter Junior?

  That’s a terrible idea for several reasons, the first of which being that she’s mad at me, so by rights, if she wants to take her anger out on someone, she should really take it out on me. Honestly, the thought of her in anyone else’s arms gives me heartburn that I feel across my entire body, so bodyburn, I guess? I don’t know, I’m drunk.

  Also, Walter Junior is a real knob, which I discovered by spending the whole bloody day with him. That whole “nice guy” act he put on for Aimée yesterday was just that—an act. Third, he’s one of those obnoxious “walks around fully nude in the dressing room” guys, and honestly, there isn’t much to see.

  My phone buzzes again and I grab it and swipe the screen.

  SexyCaterer: Byron, where are you? Text me as soon as you get this. I need the male perspective. Plus, you know your jackass of a boss better than I do, and maybe you can make sense out of this for me. Or you know, talk him into liking me again … -sad face-

  Oh, god. This is awful. Just awful. I’ve never been privy to the behind-the-scenes carnage of a break-up before, but this is absolutely gut-wrenching. The crazy bit is we weren’t really even dating. It was only the potential of dating. I am not only drunk. I’m an arsehole.

  Me: Hey you. Sorry I’ve been MIA. The boss has had me running all afternoon. Just got home. He said you hurt your face?! Are you okay?

  SexyCaterer: There you are. Thank God. It’s so bad.

  She attaches a photo of her with her enormously swollen lips spread, and a gap where her front right tooth should be. It makes my knees go weak and I slide onto a stool at the island.

  Me: Is that just now? Didn’t you go to a dentist??

  SexyCaterer: Not yet. I have a friend of a friend trying to find someone I can afford, but the chances are slim, and he may be an amateur. To get the real deal to fix it, it’d probably be a couple thousand. IDK, I may have to wait a few months and save up. Until then, I’m going to have to talk with one hand over my mouth. Or mumble a lot. Or go to the Party Store and get vampire teeth. It could be my thing, you know, like how the queen wears bright colors?