The Casual Rule

by AC Netzel

  The shop is packed. I guess no one wants to cook tonight. Most of the cheesemongers already know me. I inform them that tonight’s wine is a Pinot Grigio. They pair it up with Brie and a Chevre. I always trust their selections. I walk over to the olive bar in the center of the store and grab a container. As I’m helping myself to the olives, something catches the corner of my eye. I look up and Mr. Khaki Shorts is standing at the cheese counter.

  Crap. What the hell is he doing in my neighborhood?

  I take a few steps back and duck behind a display of dried pastas. Why does this store have to be so tiny? I’m sure I look like an imbecile, spying on him sampling cheeses. I wonder if he lives around here.

  He looks really hot in a tight white T-shirt and a pair of jeans. He fills out those jeans nicely, very nicely. The bastard still screams sex, even with more clothes on.

  I sigh pensively. He really is a beautiful man. Too beautiful. Then again, I’m always attracted to beautiful gay men, so he must be gay. Yes, that’s it. He must be gay. Well, I feel better. It was never meant to be.

  Just as I convince myself that he’d never want me because I’m born with the wrong anatomy for his taste, a pretty girl with shoulder length pin straight, super shiny brown hair comes up from behind him and wraps her arms around his waist. He quickly turns around, they hug, and he kisses her cheek.

  God, it’s worse than I thought. He’s not gay; he’s taken. Well, I don’t break girl code. Mr. Khaki Shorts is off-limits.

  C'est la Vie.

  I hastily make my way over to the cashier, my eyes cast down toward the floor, hoping he doesn’t recognize me. I glance over to my left where he’s still standing. The girl he’s with is talking, but I can tell he’s not listening to a word she’s saying.

  His index finger is stroking his bottom lip with his gaze fixed on me. Our eyes lock. Whoa…I feel a strong pull, an intense invisible force drawing me to him like a magnet to steel. For a moment, I’m jealous of his index finger. I’d like to be the one stroking those lips. My face flushes. I need to get the hell out of here.

  He says something to his lady friend and walks toward me, politely making his way through the crowded shop. I practically throw my money at the cashier and hightail it out of the store before he reaches me. I walk as fast as I can around the corner. Once I’m out of view, I lean on a brick building, trying to catch my breath.

  Why does this random guy affect me so much?

  I suppose it doesn’t matter. He’s taken and I’ll probably never see him again.

  Looks like it’s just me and BOB again. I hope I have some fresh batteries. I’m going to need them tonight.

  Chapter 2

  There ought to be a law banning alarm clocks, especially on Mondays. Mondays suck. The day should be banished altogether. It’s a cruel reminder that the real world is alive, well and ready to devour us. I’d much prefer a string of endless weekends.

  After a quick shower, I blow dry my hair at record speed. I should patent my routine; I have it down so well, others could benefit from my knowledge. I grab my black pencil skirt and white cotton button down top. Although it’s not a requirement, I like to look professional at work.

  At least I have a great job, a really great job. I’ve been working at Wisteria Hill Publishing ever since Rutgers University placed that hard-earned diploma in my hand, thanks in part to a recommendation from my Communications advisor to my boss Vivian Newman, a fellow Rutgers alumnus. I was shocked when I received a phone call offering me a job. I’m so thankful for it.

  When I first met Vivian two years ago, I was so intimidated. She’s a true broad. Her short spiky fiery red hair is the first thing you notice when you meet her and it matches her personality. She’s always dressed for success, even though Wisteria Hill has a casual work environment. She looks the part of a true professional. She’s achieved it in spades, especially for someone in their late thirties.

  When you meet her, you know immediately that she doesn’t tolerate bullshit from anyone. But for as brash and upfront as Vivian is on the outside, she has a warm and generous side on the inside. She’s taken me under her wing, mentoring me in all aspects of the book business. I’m eternally grateful for the time she’s investing in showing me the ropes from fact checker to her editorial assistant and then some.

  She hates women who hate women, especially in business. She maintains that women have it hard enough in the business world without the cattiness of undermining each other. She’s absolutely fabulous. I’m so fortunate.

  “Julia, my nanny just called. Justin fell and hurt his arm. They’re on their way to get X-rays. Jim is out of town, so I’m the sole parent in charge. I have to leave and meet them at the hospital.”

  “Of course, Vivian. I hope Justin is okay.” I watch her quickly loading her Coach tote bag with paperwork.

  “Thanks. I’m sure he’ll be fine. I’m supposed to meet that author, Ben Martin at Emilio’s Cafe for an early dinner at five-thirty.” She looks at her watch. “Shit. It’s already after five. It’s too late to cancel. We were supposed to go over some editing issues. You know his work. Can you go in my place?”

  “Vivian, I’ve never met with an author alone before. I’ve never even met this guy.”

  “You’ll be fine. You practically edited the book by yourself anyway. You and I have discussed this book before. Just relay what we’ve already discussed,” she instructs as she continues to hastily shove half her desk into her tote.

  “I don’t want to screw this up for you Vivian.” I don’t want to screw this up for me, either.

  “You won’t. You’re very capable. It’s time for you to get out of your comfort zone and work directly with the authors, cultivate good relationships with them. It’s an essential part of your job. Look, I have to go. The dinner meeting shouldn’t take more than an hour or so. Are you going to help me out here, Julia?”

  “Sure Vivian. No problem.” It’s not like you’re giving me much of a choice.

  “Good. Here…use my Amex. Email me later.” She throws her credit card on my desk and flies out the door like a bat out of hell, leaving me alone with my shattered nerves.

  ~o0o~

  I pass Emilio’s Cafe every day coming to and from work. I’ve always wanted to eat here. The fact that it’s on the company’s dime almost takes away the unsettling feeling I have about this meeting. Almost.

  From the second you walk in, you feel like you’re in the middle of Barcelona. Mission red terracotta floor tile, a dark rustic wood bar with a copper top, dimly lit hanging lanterns illuminating the bar with a warm amber glow. There are several tables with white tablecloths and flickering votive candles. It’s very romantic, too romantic for a business dinner if you ask me. Well, I didn’t pick the place.

  I walk over to the hostess who has her nose buried in the seating chart. “Hello, I’m here to meet a Mr. Ben Martin. Do you know if he’s here yet?”

  “Yes, he arrived a few minutes ago. He’s already seated. Please follow me.”

  I follow her like a lost puppy. With every step closer to the table, I’m more nervous. Of course, I’ve dealt with authors before, but never alone. I was always the observer, Vivian’s student. We reach a table where the person seated has his back to me. He’s looking over the menu. I walk around the table as I reach my seat and he stands. At least he’s a gentleman. I look up and…

  Just kill me now.

  The manuscript copy I’m holding almost falls to the floor. Standing in front of me, in the flesh, is none other than Mr. Khaki Shorts himself. I nearly faint.

  Cool it Julia. This is work. You can do this.

  He’s stunning. There’s no other word…simply stunning. He’s wearing a dark navy blazer over a light blue button down shirt, opened enough at the collar to see some of his chest hair peeking out and a tight in all the right places pair of jeans. He’s perfected the sexy stubble look; I’d like to freeze this moment so I could run my hand through his beard, just to feel it. The man is flawl
ess.

  Okay. I need to get a grip. Yeah, the guy is beautiful, but he’s also taken. And an ass. Besides, I don’t want a man in my life. This much I know for sure. I’ve been burned enough to know the only way to preserve my soul is to stay away from men and love, anything that might break me. I won’t open myself up to that kind of hurt ever again.

  I wonder if he recognizes me as the Central Park Gawker or the Cheese Shop Ducker for that matter. Well, I’m in a different setting. I’m dressed professionally and my hair is down. Maybe I’ll luck out and he won’t put it together. I need to keep my eye on the prize…getting through this meeting without him recognizing me and more importantly, with some degree of respect for the work I do. I’m good at my job. That much I do know. I still have a lot to learn, but since Mikehole demolished my heart, I’ve poured myself into work. At least I got something out of the end of that disastrous relationship…a better work ethic.

  Here goes nothing…

  “Hello Mr. Martin. I’m Julia Conti, Vivian Newman’s assistant. I’m very sorry, but Vivian had an emergency and is unable to make it. She sent me in her place.”

  “I hope everything is all right with Vivian.” He holds his hand out to shake mine with a polite smile.

  Dimples? Damn, I didn’t notice those on Saturday. As my hand slides into his to shake, I feel a spark shoot through my body. I break our handshake, briefly staring at my hand. Whoa…what the hell was that? My eyes quickly dart down to the table and I sit. He politely follows my lead and sits.

  “Just a little mishap with her son, I’m sure it’ll be fine.” I recover.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he says.

  Our server walks up to our table with a small pad in hand. “Can I get you a drink, sir?” she asks. Apparently, I’m invisible.

  “Yes. Thank you. Would you like a drink Miss Conti? They make fantastic sangria here,” he asks.

  “Ah, sure. And it’s Julia.”

  One glass, Julia, one glass only.

  “We’d like a pitcher of white sangria, please.” He smiles. His teeth actually sparkle; this guy could star in a toothpaste commercial.

  “Of course, sir.” She gawks at him as she practically curtseys.

  Seriously? Get a grip, girlie.

  She leaves and his full attention is back on me, his dark brown eyes boring into my green. I squirm in my seat. “Mr. Martin, I have the manuscript here with the latest chapters you submitted. Would you like to go over them?”

  “First off, it’s Ben. Why don’t we order our dinner first? There’s plenty of time for work, Julia,” he answers smoothly.

  Duh…of course, what a rookie move on my part. We have to order dinner first. This is a dinner meeting. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  “Of course…Ben.”

  He hands a menu sitting on the table in front of him to me. I open the menu and frown. I don’t have a clue where to start, paella, tapas, and everything under the sun on a skewer. There’s too much to select. Ben peeks over his menu, looking amused. “It’s quite a varied menu, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I’ve never had tapas before. There’s so much to choose from.”

  “Why don’t I order a few different tapas? We can share them. It’s a nice way to sample a little bit of everything. Do you like fish?”

  “Yes. Fish is fine. Thank you,” I answer, relieved.

  Our server returns to the table with a large pitcher of sangria.

  One glass, Julia, I remind myself.

  After a little too much fanfare in pouring two glasses and spooning a few chunks of fruit in our glasses, we finally have our drinks. All of her attention is directed toward Ben and I am, once again, the invisible woman.

  She’s so obvious. Why don’t you pull up a chair and gawk at him while we eat our dinner? Better yet, sit on his lap and feed him?

  “Are you ready to order, sir?” she stammers.

  Whatever happened to ladies first?

  “Yes, we’d like the baby chorizo, cracked Spanish olives, shrimp ajillo, plato de quesos variados and plato de jamón Serrano.”

  I peek over my opened menu and study his face while he orders our meal. He looks so in command and sure of himself. I wish he wasn’t so good looking, I know it’s going to distract the hell out of me.

  “Very good.” She nods, takes our menus and leaves.

  “So Julia, how long have you worked with Vivian?”

  “Two years.”

  “She speaks very highly of you. I was wondering if I was ever going to work with you.”

  “Well, here I am.” I take a sip of the sangria. It doesn’t seem to be packing too much of a punch. I hate when restaurants water down drinks, although I imagine in this case, it’s a good thing. “There are a few points about your book I was hoping to go over with you.”

  “We don’t need to rush. First tell me more about yourself. I only know the little bit Vivian has mentioned.”

  “Uh, I’ve been with Wisteria Hill for two years.”

  “As an assistant editor?”

  “No, I started as a fact checker. Vivian took me under her wing and eventually I became her assistant.”

  “You must be good. Vivian has a reputation for only taking on the best.”

  I try not to blush. I’m determined to keep this professional and not get lost in his gorgeous eyes or those kissable lips. I wonder if his hair is soft. I bet it is. “Vivian surrounds herself with the best team and only takes on authors she feels have true talent. She has great instincts.”

  “What made you choose publishing?”

  “Stories. I love all kinds of stories.” And gossip rags, but I’ll leave that out.

  “What kind of stories do you like?”

  Gossip, gossip and more gossip.

  “Nonfiction, mostly. I like to read about people, learn how they tick. You know, behind the scene accounts of true life events, which is why I was drawn to your book.”

  “This may sound sexist but I did have reservations about a woman editing a book about baseball.”

  Want to know why it may sound sexist? Because it is sexist, you good looking chauvinist pig.

  I grab my glass of sangria and take a huge gulp. “A good editor knows how to make a story flow. And let me assure you, even we women know a thing or two about baseball, after all baseball is known to have the hottest quarterbacks.”

  His jaw drops.

  “I’m kidding, Ben.”

  “I was about to contact my lawyer to find the get out clause in my contract.” He laughs.

  “I promise we won’t steer you wrong,” I assure him.

  “No, I don’t think you will, Julia. More sangria?”

  “Sure.” I can drink twelve watered down versions of this sangria, besides half the glass is full of fruit.

  Our server brings our dinner to the table. This girl has real skills because she’s placing each small plate on our table while never taking her eyes off of Ben. Maybe I should give her my napkin so she can wipe the drool off her chin. I look at our table of small savory foods on colorful intricately patterned ceramic plates. The presentation itself is a work of art. They say you eat with your eyes first; my appetite is sated from the visual alone.

  Ben explains each plate of tapas on our table. Some are blatantly obvious. Does he think I’ve never seen an olive before? He seems so nice. I have to keep reminding myself that somewhere behind the good looks and charm is the same idiot who called me out at Central Park. At least he doesn’t recognize me as the stalker gawker.

  “I read through your manuscript. I love the premise. Behind the scenes stories of the Mets is brilliant. How did you get access to so many people in the know? You have everyone from groundskeepers and batboys to security guards and upper management.”

  “I had a connection.”

  “Who?”

  “My father does business with some of the higher ups in the organization. They hooked me up with the right people. The rest is history.”

  So he’s good looking and rich.
Figures.

  “You know people in the organization?”

  “Yes, well, a few.”

  “Impressive.” I nod.

  “I don’t know if it’s impressive, but it certainly opened doors that otherwise would have been closed shut. I was grateful for the help.”

  “When I first read your manuscript, I expected to see a lot about the World Series games. They were presented so well in your writing. I enjoyed reading about the nicknames some of the groundskeepers gave the players. I haven’t read that anywhere else.”

  “You read books about baseball?”

  “I read books about the Mets. I come from a long line of diehard Mets fans, as I suppose you probably do.”

  “Actually, I’m a Yankees fan.”

  A Yankees fan? It figures…

  “And they still hooked you up with insiders?”

  “Yes, they don’t hold it against me.” He laughs.

  “I might,” I answer sarcastically.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he coos as he pops an olive in his mouth. I really wish he’d stop eating— it’s very distracting, drawing all my attention to his lips, his luscious, perfect lips. How’s a girl supposed to act professionally with a man who looks like this across the table?

  I clear my throat, redirecting my attention from his lips to his eyes. I never noticed the tiny golden flecks in his eyes before. Okay, now I’m lost in his eyes. Damn him. Damn me. Okay, I’m acting like an ass. I’m a professional. I have to behave like one. I straighten up my posture. “Vivian and I feel that your book has terrific technical merit. However, we think that a few chapters need some retooling.”

  “Retooling? You mean a rewrite?” He frowns.

  “Yes, some minor revisions to make a better story. It needs to be playful, you know, a little sexy.”

  “Sexy? It’s a book about baseball.”

  “Baseball can be very sexy. Romantic even.”

  “Can you explain to me what is sexy about a game with nine players on two teams covered in dirt and sweat, adjusting their cups and spitting?” he asks, his finger tapping on the table. He looks a little pissed.