by Liza Palmer
“Imma pause it so it won’t count against my prize,” Sasha says with a wink, trying to close down the game.
“Sounds like a plan,” I say. She nods, closes out the game, and thinking she’s sliding her phone into her purse, drops it on the floor next to the couch. She looks from me to Josh and then back at me. I pick up her phone and put it in her purse. Sasha stands, wobbles over to me, and in an impossibly loud whisper asks: “So how do you know Superman?” She looks over at Josh and then back at me with raised eyebrows. And then a knowing nod. “He thinks we don’t know who it is.”
“I get that a lot,” Josh says.
“Pfffflt,” Sasha says, pushing him away.
“Okay, hold on,” he says, sweeping Sasha up into his arms, and it’s all I can do not to swoon myself. In his arms, she seems as light as a feather. Sasha’s face is hilarious—like she’s a little kid on a Ferris wheel . . . well, a drunken kid on a Ferris wheel. She wraps her arms around him and kicks up her feet.
Josh walks her out of the anteroom and through the kitchen, exiting through a back door right out into the back lot where we parked. I follow closely behind. Josh has done his best to answer Sasha’s litany of questions regarding his time on Krypton and whether or not he’s ever thought about cheating on Lois Lane. By the time Sasha is loaded up into the passenger seat of our rental, she’s almost asleep, her head lolling against Josh’s chest. He pulls the seat belt across her and clicks it into place.
“That was a good prize, Anna Wyatt,” Sasha slurs, nuzzling the headrest. I’m just about to ask her which prize as she points at Josh. “Felt like a carnival ride.” Josh can only smile as she tries to applaud him. Is it clapping when one arm is trapped under her body and she can’t figure out how to get it loose? She gives up after a while.
“Get some rest,” I say.
“You get some rest,” she says.
“Is she going to be okay?” Josh asks.
“She’ll be fine. Hungover, but fine,” I say, finally starting toward the driver’s-side door.
“How are you going to get her from the car to the hotel room?” Josh asks, turning back.
“You’re right,” I say.
“Come on,” Josh says, hopping in the backseat.
We drive the few minutes back to the Biltmore and I plead with the valets to let us keep the rental there while we run Sasha up to her hotel room. We try to make excuses for her, but everyone knows what drunk looks like. Her slurring, angry proclamations followed by snickering giggles, elaborate pointing, and unintelligible noises that insinuate that everyone is in on a very tawdry inside joke aren’t helping Sasha in the least.
The elevator ride and the long walk down the hallway are painless as Sasha fights to stay awake. I dig through her purse for her hotel room key, for which I get called “Thiefy Barnaby,” which is hilarious, and when I laugh, Sasha begins cradling my face again as she becomes overjoyed that she made me laugh.
Josh lays Sasha down on the bed, and she immediately kicks off all the covers, turns over on her stomach, and puts the pillow over her head.
“She’ll be fine,” Josh says, trying not to look as Sasha’s little dress that has ridden up once again. He clears his throat and walks toward the door. I find a bottle of aspirin in the bathroom and fill up a glass of water. I put both things by her bedside along with a garbage can. I leave a note telling her to text when she’s awake.
As we’re leaving, I hear her saying something, muffled and still under the pillow. I tell Josh to hang on, and I walk back over, pulling the covers up over her as I ask her what she was saying.
“Thank you,” she says, pulling the pillow up so she’s looking right at me.
“You’re welcome,” I say, letting her moment of clarity warm the cockles of my heart.
“Don’t tell Josh I just farted,” she says at full volume. Josh barks out a laugh and Sasha joins in.
“I won’t,” I say. I tuck the blanket around her. “Get some sleep.” She nods. Josh and I walk out of Sasha’s hotel room and can only laugh. “Can you hold on another second while I switch out of these heels real fast? This is mine.” I motion to my hotel room just across the hall.
“You mean stay in air-conditioning a bit longer and not stand out in that heat listening to Blaise tell me about his workout routine?” He motions for me to continue on into my room and I laugh, sliding my key into the door. I flip off my heels and switch over to my flats. Sighhhhh, so much better.
“Okay, thank you so much. I just couldn’t stand in those heels anymore,” I say.
“I changed out of mine earlier,” he says, and I laugh.
We step out into the hallway and come face to face with Lincoln.
10
“Hey,” I say, overwhelmed and immediately happy upon seeing his face.
And then I follow his gaze to the gorgeous man coming out of my hotel room with me.
Oh. Noooooo.
“Lincoln Mallory, this is Josh. Josh . . .” I trail off, realizing I don’t know Josh’s last name. An arched eyebrow from Lincoln and he extends his hand.
“Lincoln Mallory.”
“Josh Fox,” he says, and I can’t even look at Lincoln right now. Of course Josh’s last name is Fox.
“Cheers, mate,” Lincoln says.
“Nice to meet you,” Josh says. A moment as the three of us stand in the hallway. Quiet. A cleared throat here. An elevator ding there. A housekeeping cart trundles down a distant hallway. “I’ll meet you in the lobby then?”
“Yes, I’ll be down in five minutes,” I say, and Josh says his good-byes to the world’s most awkward situation ever.
“One of the cover models, I assume,” Lincoln says, crossing his arms across his chest.
“Sasha got drunk at this meet and greet. We had to bring her back to the hotel room before Audrey and Preeti saw her,” I say.
“I don’t know who any of those people are,” Lincoln says, checking his watch.
“Preeti is the VP in charge of the Lumineux campaign and Audrey is my boss who’s flown in from D.C. trying to steal the account,” I say, watching him. He reacts to my rattled-off information, popping out of his momentary icy chill.
“Oh,” he says, flustered.
“Are you . . . do you have to be somewhere?” I ask, my eyes flicking to his watch.
“What? No, I . . .”
A breath. I would be reacting the exact same way if I found him coming out of his hotel room with some model. I step closer to him. A smile. I missed his face. Too much, if you ask me. Another step closer and I can see him thinking. He lets his arms fall and finally I see his face softening.
“Is it time to go to your room yet?” I ask.
“Not quite,” he says. I let my head fall onto his chest and allow myself to breathe him in. Just . . . stop the spinning of the day for a moment. I close my eyes as he wraps his arms around me, bringing me closer. “How did your seven A.M. meeting go?” His voice rumbles in his chest, and it pains me to speak. I don’t want to break the silence of listening to his breath. I turn my head to the side—splitting the difference—and speak.
“Helen Brubaker wanted nothing to do with me and rightfully so. I had to come clean with why I’d insulted romance novels and—”
“This was a business meeting?”
“I know.” I lift my head up and pull back from him just a bit. The dark blue eyes are waiting for me. We don’t know each other well enough to navigate the Josh thing. Or something. But I feel myself backing away from whatever openness I had just seconds ago. “It worked out in the end.”
“Good . . . Good.” That something inside of me takes root and I take another step back from Lincoln, hating that I was so naively familiar with him.
“Okay, I’m off then.” I manage a smile as I dig my phone out of my purse, desperate for something to do other than panic and wish my time in Phoenix were over, and could I just go home now, please? Another smile and I press the call button for the elevators. The elevator dings ope
n and I force myself to walk in.
“Anna,” Lincoln says, throwing his arm between the closing elevator doors. He walks inside and the doors close once more. I push the button for the lobby. I can’t look at him. “I hadn’t heard from you. I didn’t know if we were still on for tonight.”
“Oh, well then, the way to confirm those plans would certainly be to not contact me all day and then be distant and off-putting when I do finally see you.” The elevator opens and we step out into the lobby. I find Josh by the front doors and give him a wave.
“Finally see you and you’re coming out of your hotel room with a man that looks like that,” he says.
“I don’t care about him, Lincoln. At all,” I say, my voice exhausted. Lincoln purses his lips and just nods. “I have to go,” I say, walking away without turning back around. Josh and I drive back to the Irish Cultural Center making terribly forced small talk. How hot it is. How he got into modeling. His daughter. I am in full denial. Luckily, the hellish turn with Lincoln made me forget, however briefly, that Audrey has had ample time all alone with Preeti. So, yay.
“See you in there,” Josh says, as we park the car. I nod and give him a weary wave. I shut the car off and take a second, the blistering heat sitting on the top of my head like I’m under a heat lamp. I am walking toward the meet and greet when the phone rings.
“Anna Wyatt,” I say, knowing exactly who it is without even looking at the screen.
“This is my formal apology,” Lincoln says.
“Go ahead then,” I say.
“I’m sorry.” I like that Lincoln doesn’t elaborate or get lost in a maze of buts and excuses for why what he did was actually okay. A simple I’m sorry is the most beautiful thing in the world.
“Thank you,” I say.
We are quiet.
“As I plan on kissing you first thing tomorrow morning, please do bring what you’ll need to stay the night this time?”
“I can do that,” I say, my face flushing red at the prospect of another night with him.
“I should be back from the gala at around nine thirty. Does that work for you?” he asks.
“Gala?”
“My clients are putting it on for charity and requested I attend,” he says.
“Does your gala involve getting wet down under at a mermaid bash?” I ask.
“Sadly no.”
“Pity.” I hear the Irish music and the murmur of a bustling party.
“I’ll call when I return,” he says.
“Okay.” We are quiet.
“I’m going to hang up now, Anna.”
“Yep . . . got it,” I say. Waiting.
“It’s just never not funny. Cheers,” he says, and this time I hang up the phone first.
I walk back into the barn and see Josh immediately. He smiles and walks over.
“By the time I got back, I’d convinced myself that the RomanceCon authorities would be waiting to kick me out of the competition,” Josh says.
“Then you got back . . . ,” I lead.
“And Blaise picked right back up at his biceps like I’d never left,” he says, smiling.
“I think we’re going to be okay. Thank you again for . . . Sasha,” I say.
“No worries,” he says, putting a hand on my upper arm.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Audrey asks, sauntering up behind us. Josh lets his hand fall from my arm, but it’s too late. Audrey saw it.
“Sure. Audrey Holloway, this is Josh Fox, one of the men vying for Mr. RomanceCon.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Josh says, extending his hand. Audrey takes it as if she’s the queen of England herself.
“I’d be willing to break a few rules for you, too,” Audrey says, giving me a sly wink. A beat as we weather her lazy insinuations.
“Yes, ma’am,” Josh says. Audrey is just about to start speaking when he says, “I’d better get back to it. Nice meeting you, Mrs. Holloway.” Josh smiles, excusing himself and folding into the ever-growing crowd at the bar.
“I know he’s a lot younger than you or me, but he doesn’t have to treat me like I’m his friend’s mom,” Audrey says.
“He’s a nice enough kid,” I say, asking the bartender for a club soda with lime.
“White wine,” Audrey orders when the bartender looks to her. We get our drinks and turn around to take in the festivities.
“So, you going to tell me why you’re here, or . . .”
“I’m here to support you and the Lumineux campaign,” Audrey says.
“Uh-huh,” I say.
“What?” I just look at her. I wait. “Fine. I just want to make sure you’re staying focused—” I follow her gaze toward Josh. “And that Holloway/Greene is going to be well represented when we go back in for the final pitch.”
“What happened to you?” I ask.
“What do you mean, what happened to me?”
“Audrey. Please think about what you’re doing.” She is quiet. Takes a sip of her white wine as I wait. And wait. Do I say something else? Do I remind her of her championing of me just a few years ago? That we may have never been friends, but I thought we were at the very least in the trenches together. An exasperated breath and then—
“And it’s Ms. Holloway,” she says, and I can actually see whole parts of her ice over.
“Yes, I imagine it is.”
We are quiet. I take a sip of my club soda as she starts and stops what is no doubt a legion of new insults directed at me for my effrontery. In the end, she just sounds like an old car sputtering down the street.
“Amazing news about Chuck,” I finally say. Audrey’s entire body stiffens. I sigh. A bored little sigh and continue, “The king is dead. Long live the king.” Audrey whips her head around and lasers in on me. I turn, looking her straight in the eye. “Take your shot, Ms. Holloway. I dare you.” And then I smile as easy as I can, finally ending with clinking my glass into hers. “Lovely seeing you.”
And I walk away. Into the throng. And I don’t look back.
The meet and greet continues. I endure an entire conversation about aliens and alien abduction with Tristan, ending the evening’s festivities with Blaise, who is actually quite business-minded. He has a website and plans on starting a modeling agency just for cover models after he ages out. He’s married and has three kids, one more on the way. His wife is a costume designer and she’s made all the outfits he’s worn throughout the pageant. The golden codpiece was apparently Mrs. Blaise’s idea. Audrey slinked off about an hour after our little run-in. I’m half waiting for a strongly worded e-mail dismissing me from Holloway/Greene. But luckily—or unluckily—since Chuck has been on his little roll, Audrey just doesn’t have the power to fire me. Now, if she manages to steal Lumineux and lands Quincy, I’m screwed.
The crowd waves good-bye to the models so they can get ready for tonight’s Mermaid Bash. As the Irish Cultural Center empties out, Preeti makes her way over to me and we fall into easy conversation. We are in agreement about the contestants: Josh is the definite front-runner. We both agree that while Billy is clearly in second place, his personality is so gross that it takes away from everything else.
“Being our spokesman is more than just being a pretty face,” she says.
“That’s what Sasha said.”
“Sasha is right,” Preeti says, smiling.
“Did you know that Blaise’s wife is the one kitting him out in all those outfits?” I ask, my voice dipping to a whisper.
“No. That is not true,” she says.
“Yes. The golden codpiece? Her idea,” I say.
“No.”
“Yes. Because it highlights his—”
“Don’t say it.”
“His best asset,” I finish. Preeti laughs. “I mean, was there a sketching process? Fittings? Is it papier-mâché?? I want answers, Preeti.” She can only laugh as I continue on with the obvious questions about the Blaise marriage. Before I know it we’re caravanning to the conference hotel and straight back i
nto the Silver Ballroom for the Mermaid Bash.
Once again, Preeti and I set up shop by the food in the back of the ballroom. We’re “underwater” tonight, and all the women are sporting red wigs and shells over their breasts. The men are bare-chested (again) and draped in netting, while some have gone the extra mile and are spending tonight’s celebration constantly posing with a trident. How they got those through airport security, I’ll never know. Josh stops by on his way toward the dance floor.
“Another one of your daughter’s favorites?” I ask. He stands before us dressed as a perfect replica of Prince Eric from The Little Mermaid—with his jet black hair and blue eyes, a loose-fitting white shirt, a red cummerbund, and blue pants are all he needs to complete the look.
“She gave me her doll,” he says.
“Although Prince Eric walking around with a doll replica of his beloved is—”
“A little disturbing, yes. I’ll give you that,” Josh says, laughing. He excuses himself and is absorbed into the throng.
“He’s a sweet kid,” I say, once he leaves.
“Sweet kid? That’s an oddly asexual comment for such an attractive young man,” Preeti says, eyeing me. I laugh. I didn’t even realize.
“I feel weird ogling him. I feel weird ogling all of them,” I say, honestly.
“No, I know,” Preeti says.
“So, I devolve into saying weirdly genderless comments about them, apparently.” Preeti laughs. The flush is back and I’m trying to hide that Judy Blume book under my bed again. Trying to shove my sexuality anywhere but where people can see it. Stay professional.
“I found myself telling another woman that that one?”—Preeti points to Lantz and his ridiculous broad shoulders—“Had real appeal and would, quote unquote, ‘make women want to get lost in his ginger curls.’ No, I don’t know what it means, either.” Preeti blushes and I laugh.
“Maybe it’s a good sign that we’re having trouble,” I say.
“I think you’re right.”
Preeti excuses herself for another glass of wine, asking if I’d like another club soda. I jump at the chance, and as she walks over to the bar I can’t help but feel hopeful. Marpling Audrey is going well. She’s back at the Biltmore seething about Chuck, and I’m making Preeti laugh as she gets me another drink. Whatever Audrey thinks is going to happen with this account, bottom line is it’s all about what the client wants. And right now, the client wants to know if I’d like another drink.
