Bloody hell, I cannot leave her like this. It’s my fault she got hurt in the first place. If I hadn’t upset her, she would’ve been looking where she was going and she wouldn’t have tripped. But it’s not like I can offer to pay. She’s too proud to accept my help.
Me: I’ll call in a favor. My dentist owes me one. I got him some great tickets to the Knicks once.
SexyCaterer: No, I can’t let you use your favor up on me.
Me: Have you seen my teeth? I’m never going to need to call it in. Besides, you can pay me in extra treats when you come to the office every week.
SexyCaterer: Are you sure? Also, does this mean Noel doesn’t want to fire me?
Me: I’m sure and he definitely doesn’t. He’s not the kind to kick a person when they’re down.
SexyCaterer: Too bad he’s the kind to lead a girl on, get her hopes up, then crush her like a peanut shell.
Ouch. I am such an arse.
Me: Oh, Aimée, forget about him. He’s not worth your time. He’s a workaholic, which is only slightly better (maybe) than dating a crackhead or a guy who frequents Comic Con.
SexyCaterer: Or a sadist.
Me: More like a masochist, if he let you go.
SexyCaterer: Aww, you’re so sweet.
I pause to down a good half-gallon of water in hopes of being a functioning human being by tomorrow.
Me: When I was a kid, I took a knock to the side of the head from a chap at school that made me dizzy for a month. The problem was, I was afraid of him after that. And adolescent boys can smell fear like it’s a chocolate cake.
SexyCaterer: While I appreciate your telling me this, what’s your point?
Me: I don’t want you wearing your heart on your sleeve with my boss. He’s a good guy, but you need to be strong. Hold your head up high and forget him.
I’m telling her this not only so she never feels like I’m worth her sadness, but because I can’t be strong if I witness it, and she deserves so much better than I can offer her.
SexyCaterer: Okay, T just got home. We’re going to watch He’s Just Not That Into You so I can feel like I’m not the only loser on the planet.
Me: You are not a loser. You deserve better than Noel. You really do.
SexyCaterer: Do NOT tell me “he’s” out there somewhere and you promise to help me find him because we both know that’s BS.
Me: Okay, I won’t.
Mostly because I can’t stomach the thought of her finding someone else.
I do a quick Google search of highly rated dentists in Manhattan and jot down the numbers of the top four. I’ll call first thing in the morning and go with whoever can fit her in fastest. Then I wander over to the sofa and surf through the shows on Netflix. I settle on He’s Just Not That Into You. This day has been such a total cock up, the least I can do is watch the same thing as the woman I think I love. Please tell me that’s the tequila talking.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Aimée
My entire body aches like I’ve fallen out of a plane and lived to tell the tale. I roll over on my mattress on T’s floor and groan for all I’m worth. “Owie!” I whimper as I try to sit up. Then I call out, “T!” No answer. So, I call louder, “Teishaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!” Nothing. So much for my getting a handful of aspirin delivered to my bedside.
When I get to the kitchen counter, I find a note saying that T went out to get donuts for us. I’m starting to feel a little guilty about all she’s doing for me. Thank goodness I’ve nursed her through her share of heartaches, or this relationship would definitely be feeling lopsided.
Too bad neither of us is into girls or we could just settle into domestic bliss and forget men even exist. Alas, we don’t play for that team, men exist, and our need for fried fatty dough knows no bounds.
I pick up my phone and check my texts.
FitzAssoc: You have an eleven a.m. appoint with Dr. Pearlman on Fifth Avenue. Text me back and let me know if you can make it.
I look at the clock and see that it’s already ten. Crap, I’m gonna have to book it if I’m going to make it downtown on time. I hurry to text Byron back.
AiméeT: You are a god among men! I hate reaping the benefits of your favor though. The only reason I’m taking you up on it is because I look like I should be sucking on a corncob pipe or spitting chewing tobacco through the gap. I’m scary. I promise to pay you back though, once I get a few of your employee appreciation lunches under my belt.
FitzAssoc: I won’t hear of it! This is my gift to you, and it comes with heartfelt apologies that my boss is such a bloody wanker.
AiméeT: Well, when you put it like that. Lol. Also, Dr. Pearlman? What are the chances he made that up to suit his chosen profession?
FitzAssoc: He’s legit. Of course, if you find out his first name is Bicuspid, then you might be on to something.
AiméeT: Stop! My face hurts too much to laugh. I’ll text you when I’m done. I adore you!
FitzAssoc: I love you! Truly.
Tossing my phone into my purse so I don’t forget it, I feel a glow of happiness that makes me want to throw handfuls of candy to the masses like I’m a May Queen riding on a toilet paper float in a parade. Byron loves me. I think mama just scored herself a gay best friend which is a gift as special as a best girlfriend, but with the added benefits of insights into the male brain— such as it is.
I take a cab downtown until the traffic backs up around W 60th Street. That’s when I pay the cabbie and run across the park for my appointment. I arrive sweaty and out of breath with a crazy “fleeing from an ax murderer” vibe. I’m no runner.
While looking around the office, I try to slow my breathing enough so I can actually talk. Wow, this place is probably way nicer than anything Kwon could’ve hooked me up with. Sleek leather furnishings and—wait for it—current magazines, like from this year. Dr. P must be rolling in it. The last time I went to a doctor’s office there was a People magazine with a picture of Prince on the cover partying like it was 1999.
I don’t have long to wait until I’m called back into Dr. Herschel B. Pearlman’s office. The B does not stand for bicuspid. I asked and didn’t receive as much as a titter of appreciation.
Dr. Pearlman appears to be a man with little sense of humor, which is a drag because funny is where I go when I’m nervous. And right now, sitting back in this dentist chair, staring at a fifty-something-year-old man’s hair plugs, I’m scared out of my mind. I hate going to the dentist.
The dental technician is trying to match the color of my veneer while giving me quite the eyeful down her obviously tailored-for-her scrubs. I’m willing to bet she’s applying for the role of mistress to one Dr. Herschel B. Pearlman. That is if she doesn’t already have it.
The doctor tells me that he’s going to make a temporary crown for my tooth today. My permanent crown will come in within two weeks. As he’s digging around my mouth and making me bite down on some goo that forms a mold of my teeth, he says, “No hard food, no chewy foods, and no sticky food until the temporary comes off.” What I’m getting from this is that I’m not allowed to eat for two weeks. Good times.
When I make my next appointment, I find myself curious about how big of a favor Dr. P. owes Byron, so I ask the receptionist, “How much is this going to cost, anyway?”
She pulls out my chart and settles down with a calculator. Number after number is punched in until I’m starting to worry this might rival the national debt. After I’m sure her fingers are worn to the bone, she announces, “With this visit, the next visit, the temp, and the crown, the total is going to be three-thousand-seven-hundred and twenty-five dollars.”
“Holy Toledo!” I blurt out. That’s more money than I can comprehend spending at the dentist in my entire lifetime. At the very least I should be walking out of here with an eighteen-karat gold grill.
“Don’t worry,” she tells me. “Your bill is being taken care of.”
“Yeah, well, thank you
. I’ll be back in two weeks.” I stroll out into the sunshine and ponder what it must be like for people who don’t have to blink at an expense like that. I can’t go into Duane Reade to buy a new mascara without wondering what the heck they put into the stuff to make it cost so much. And we’re talking Maybelline here, not Chanel.
I find a nice park bench to sit on and pull out my phone. I’m going to pretend I live in this neighborhood for a hot minute.
AiméeT: Hey, Byron it’s me. I have a gorgeous temporary crown that I’m not allowed to let food near, so I’m thinking I’ll probably be able to fit into Cindy’s pants once I get the permanent.
FitzAssoc: Don’t you dare starve yourself into a skeleton! You’re a sexy woman with curves. No one wants a bone but a dog.
AiméeT: I thought you gay guys were supposed to be super fashion and body conscious. I only tell you this, so you don’t lose your gay card by having a fat friend. Also, can I officially be your straight girlfriend now?
FitzAssoc: Consider yourself promoted to fruit fly, darling.
AiméeT: Why don’t we get together and go out for drinks some time? It was super weird seeing you in the office yesterday and not jumping into your arms.
FitzAssoc: We absolutely should!
AiméeT: Where do live anyway?
FitzAssoc: …
FitzAssoc: …
AiméeT: Byron, you there?
FitzAssoc: Whoops, gotta go! The boss is due in any minute and he’ll flip a biscuit if I don’t have his coffee ready for him.
AiméeT: He’s not in the office yet? I thought he lived there.
FitzAssoc: He had a late meeting last night. Where are you anyway? Are you still at the dentist’s office?
AiméeT: I’m sitting on a park bench out front. I’m pretending I’m fancy enough to live in a neighborhood like this. Okay, I know you have to go. Text me later and let’s set up a date.
FitzAssoc: …
“Aimée, is that you?” I look up and stare into the luminous green eyes of one Noel Fitzwilliam.
“Noel? What are you doing here?”
“I live here,” he tells me, while shoving his phone into his pocket.
“What do you mean you live here?” I look around like I’ve suddenly been transported to his living room or something.
He points to the building behind him. “I live there.”
I shouldn’t be surprised that Noel lives on Fifth Avenue with not one, but two liveried doormen. The disparity of our financial portfolios is truly staggering. He gets takeout from Daniel and lives in what I’m sure is a multi-million-dollar apartment, and I don’t even buy a hot dog on the street because I can get a whole pack for the same price in the grocery store.
“I just got done at the dentist’s office,” I tell him, pointing my finger around the corner.
“You still look a bit swollen,” he tells me. “Give us a smile and let me see.”
I give him a half-hearted grin. “See? All better.”
He suddenly sits down next to me. “Are you all better? Your lip looks ravaged.”
“I’m right as rain.” I jump up like I just hit the eject button on a fighter jet seat. “I better get going. I have to, um, get to work.”
“Do you work somewhere other than catering?” He sounds surprised.
Nodding, I say, “Bean Town Bakery on Amsterdam Avenue.”
“I’ve been there.” He sounds surprised that we have something in common. “Best pumpkin muffin in the city.”
“That’s right.” I shift uncomfortably from foot to foot. I want to throw myself into Noel’s arms and beg him to love me. I want to tell him about all my great qualities and prove that I’m good enough for him. But he told me point blank yesterday that nothing could ever happen between us. He sounded very firm in his decision, so I merely offer another small smile.
“See ya,” I tell him while I walk away. I pull out my phone and text Byron.
AiméeT: Your boss is a beautiful man. But just so you know, he totally broke my heart.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Noel
“Noel? Hello?” Cindy says, waving her hand in front of my face.
Bollocks. I’m doing it again. Daydreaming about a certain curvy caterer when I should be solidly focused on the massive undertaking at hand. “I’m sorry, you were saying …”
“What is going on with you, Noel? You’ve been totally distracted today.”
That’s because I have this terrible feeling I’ve made a horrible mistake and will never be happy again. “I’m just tired. It’s been a rather long week.”
“Well, there’s really no time to be tired because we have an ungodly deadline breathing down our neck. I’ll tell Byron to get you a coffee,” she says, picking up the conference room phone. “Yeah, Noel needs coffee. Actually, we could all use some. It’s going to be another late night.”
She’s right. It will be. Another sixteen-hour day for me, followed by at least forty more until we have to present to the Walters again. Normally, I’d be completely energized by the challenge we’re facing, but my creativity has taken a nose-dive. It’s guilt. I know it. Aimée’s text from yesterday pops into my mind: Just so you know, he totally broke my heart, as does my lame reply: If he’s not smart enough to scoop you up, you’re better off.
Byron appears in the doorway with a tray holding a carafe, several mugs, and the fixings. He sets it down on the side table and I thank him, before asking, “Can you order in some dinner for everyone?”
Byron nods. “Pizza or Chinese? Show of hands for za.”
He does a quick count, then disappears, and leaves me alone with my exhausted staff. I glance around at their tired faces. “I know this has been a particularly trying time and I want you all to know I really am grateful. In fact, I was going to make it a surprise, but I’ve decided to hold a team appreciation lunch every Friday from now on, starting tomorrow.”
Ali stares at me for a second. “That’s really nice, but I’d rather be able to get home to my family earlier than sit at a two-hour lunch once a week. No offense.”
“Do we even have time for that?” Jack asks.
“I, for one, think it’s a great idea,” Cindy says, batting her eyelashes at me.
No, Cindy, I’m not going to ask you to marry me. “I’ve hired a caterer to come in, actually.”
“Not that Aimée person who bathes in perfume, I hope,” Cindy sneers.
Sitting back in my chair, I raise one eyebrow. “Yes, actually. The lunch she served for our pitch was a real hit, but if you prefer, you can bring your own food.”
Cindy shrugs, looking unimpressed. “No, that’s fine. If you want to go that way, it’s your call. Just tell her she can’t borrow my pants again. I found weird little holes around the bottom hem. I don’t know what she did to them.”
“Ooh, is she going to make those cookies for us?” Jack asks. “I’m still dreaming about them.”
I nod and smile to cover up the ridiculous pang in my chest at the thought of her cookies. Seriously, Noel? Getting misty-eyed over baked goods now?
I look back down at the schematics in front of me. “Okay, let’s get back to it …”
Cindy picks up where I assume she left off a few minutes ago and I start daydreaming, even though I really should be listening. But I don’t want to listen to boring Cindy drone on, even though she’s talking about my favorite topic—design. Also, the thought of seeing Aimée tomorrow has me all tangled up and I suddenly regret telling her she could cater a lunch here every week. Seeing her that often after everything that’s happened—and didn’t happen—is going to be pure torture.
Of course, it’s not like I can back out now. Not if I don’t want to cross the line to complete wanker. Urgh, I need to tell Byron about that whole texting thing before she gets here in the morning. I know I should have told him before, but it’s such a hard thing for me to admit—I’m the sensible, responsible rule-follower. He is NEVE
R going to let it go. Like N-E-V-E-R. We’ll be sitting in a nursing home in side-by-side wheelchairs someday and he’ll say, “Remember that time you pretended to be me so you could have phone sex with that caterer?” And I’ll roll my eyes and say, “Yes.” And he’ll say, “That was the stupidest, most pathetic thing you ever did.”
And he’ll be right.
Yet, I still have to tell him, don’t I? And it has to be done tonight.
We tie up our staff meeting at eleven. Seven of us, including me, opt to sleep on couches at the office so we can hit the ground with our feet running in the morning. Cindy sidles up to me and whispers, “Your pull-out couch is big enough for two. Do you mind sharing?”
“Not at all,” I tell her before calling out to Byron. “You’re sleeping with me tonight, Byron.”
He turns around like I just ordered him to have a hot tar facial. “What a lovely offer, but I’m going home.”
“I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.” I send him my sternest I’m-your-boss-and not-your-brother glare. I follow that up with a pleading I’ll-buy-you-opening-night-tickets-to any-Broadway-musical-you-want-to see-for-an-entire-year look.
“Fine.” He slams the stack of papers he’s holding down on the conference table. “But if you hog the covers, we’re through!”
Cindy leans in. “Byron is as big as you are. Surely that little mattress would work better for the two of us.” This must be what it’s like when Cruella De Vil is hitting on someone. I’m positively terrified.
“I’m good, Cindy, but thank you for being so concerned for my comfort.” Take the hint already.
When she huffs off, I tell my brother, “We need to talk. My office, now.”
“Unless you’re calling me in there to give me a raise, I’m going straight to bed.”
“Byron …” I sound pathetic. “I’ve made a mess of things with Aimée and I need your help.”
Text Me On Tuesday: All is Fair in Love and Texting ... (An Accidentally in Love Story Book 1) Page 12
