FLIRTING WITH 40

by K. Bromberg

  And with perfect timing, Blakely overcomes her utter surprise and stirs to life. “Hi. Yes.” She gives a subtle shake of her hand as her arm slides around my waist and she turns her body more into mine. “I was on my way to meet you when I ran into Paul here and his girl—”

  “Fiancée,” the doppelganger says, her eyes roaming up and down the length of me. The look tells me that the ring on her finger wouldn’t stop her if I offered. She holds her fingers out to me in that debutante handshake—hand cupped as if she expects me to kiss the top of her hand instead of shake it.

  I don’t kiss knuckles, sweetheart.

  “I’m Barbie soon-to-be Foxx.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I say.

  I can see it more clearly now. The similarities in the two women. The smugness on his face. How he thought the grass on the other side would be so much greener, and yet Barbie’s so damn young she probably has no clue how to keep it alive.

  And for fuck’s sake. Barbie? After being married to a Blakely? Isn’t he afraid he’s going to say the wrong name when he’s groaning a name mid-orgasm?

  “Barbie,” Blakely says, her face pulling tight as I gently squeeze her waist, “was telling me about how she and Paul just came back from a trip of a lifetime in Fiji.”

  “Fiji.” I lift my brows. “How trendy.”

  “We got engaged there,” Barbie gushes as Paul shifts his feet, definitely uncomfortable now that I’m in the mix.

  “I assumed with the fiancée part.” I wink at her, and she smiles coyly.

  “And now we’re busy planning the wedding and figuring how soon we want to have kids. I say wait a year, but Paul thinks we should start right away.” Her voice squeaks as Blakely’s body tenses. Clearly, that is news to her.

  “Look at you, Paul, trying to get her all fat and happy so no one else snags her away from you.” The dig hits its mark, and Paul winces, but my smile is all warmth like a practiced politician’s. I’m not sure if Barbie is too preoccupied with making her diamond sparkle, but she sure as hell doesn’t get my gist. “Good for you. They’re a little more ambitious than the plans Blakely and I have made.”

  “Like what?” Paul asks, more than willing to get in a pissing match with me.

  “When you’re as in love as the two of us are, all you want to do is spend every waking minute together. In bed. Out of bed. Then back in bed.”

  “Oh, so this thing between you is new?” Paul asks, because of course, he’s so arrogant that he can’t fathom Blakely could possibly move past him like he did her.

  “New?” I chuckle in disbelief because the prick deserves it. “What’s it been? Four months? Or we already on five?” I meet Blakely’s eyes and let her take the lead as Paul’s stuttered breath tells me he’s fucking livid.

  Serves the fucker right.

  “Almost five,” Blakely says and smiles so sweetly at me that I almost believe the lie.

  I pause to let it sink in before looking from Blakely to him and love that, when I do, the sudden redness to his cheeks tells me he’s buying it too. Buying it and not liking it because he just realized that Blakely isn’t sitting at home pining for his arrogant ass and that she moved on way before he ever assumed she did.

  “Oh.” He clears his throat. “I wasn’t aware that—”

  “No one was.” I smirk. “When something is this good, sometimes you don’t want any outside influences to spoil just how fucking great it is.” Paul starts to talk, but I continue right over him and lay it on thick—just like Barbie and her goddamn blinding diamond ring. “But I finally explained to Blakely the other night that I’m so damn proud to have her beside me that I can’t wait for the world to know. So, you may have had Fiji, and from the sound of it, you will soon have sleepless nights, diapers to change, and no social life, but we’ll have The Hamptons next month for a family wedding,” I say, nuzzling Blakely’s neck in the least creepy way I can considering we don’t really know each other. “The mountain retreat next week. Then after that—”

  “Mountains? You, Blakely?” Paul laughs, grabbing on to something, anything, to stop me from rubbing salt in the wound. “You’d never step those heels of yours off a city sidewalk.”

  “Those heels,” I say with a whistle and lift of my eyebrows in that boys-will-be-boys type of way, “are fantastic in so many more places than just a sidewalk.” I slide my hand ever so subtly against her rib cage, mirroring his stance with Barbie, to let the insinuation hit home.

  Irritation feathers in Paul’s jaw while Barbie continues to smile cluelessly as he pushes back at me. “She’d never risk ruining them. Believe me. I know.”

  Another claim made on the woman he walked away from.

  “I don’t think you do. It’s amazing the things a fresh perspective can do. You know, out with the old, in with the new. It just brings out sides of you that you never knew you had.” I say the words to Blakely, but they’re a pure fuck you to her ex.

  “And what is it you do?” Paul asks, his head angling to the side, the alpha male trying to thump his chest, ready to let me know how much money he makes or some shit like that.

  Asshole.

  “I’m a cardiothoracic surgeon.” Blakely stills beside me as I meet his eyes. I challenge the question in his, the warring, the proverbial measuring stick that just slipped from his fingers. Yeah, I save lives. If I told him I’m also a Big Brother at the Y and that I love puppies, then his new fiancée would be walking toward me within seconds. “And you?” I ask.

  “Investment banking. Mergers and acquisitions. I just made partner.”

  The way he says that last part, like he’s staking a flag in some uncharted territory so that I’ll praise him for his accomplishments, is more than pathetic.

  “Mmm.” It’s all I say. Enough to let his big prick ego wonder what it means and why I’m not congratulating him. “It isn’t saving lives”—I exhale audibly as he grits his teeth—“but then again, money does seem to make the world go ‘round these days.”

  “Is that how you met? At the hospital?” Paul asks. The five-month thing must be fucking with his head.

  “Nah. I was at a bar when I looked over and saw Blakely. Talk about being sucker punched. Especially after I realized I was going to have to compete with the three other men who were trying to get her attention—”

  “Blakely doesn’t go to bars,” he says in dismissal.

  “Seems you don’t know Blakely very well then—or chose not to take the time to. First high heels. Now bars. Seems you missed a lot.”

  He’s like a voodoo doll I keep sticking pins in. Each one chipping away at that smug expression bit by bit.

  And by the slight shake of his head and self-deprecating smile he gives, I can only assume he’s about to say something that’s going to piss me off—hell, if I were in his shoes I would—and there’s no need for this to get nasty. For Blakely’s sake anyway.

  I’ve more than made my point that she moved on to bigger and better and isn’t sitting at home pining away for him while he should be nailing down that new prenup. To mitigate any trouble, I turn my attention away from Paul and Barbie, who is still rubbing her hand up and down Paul’s arm, and smile at Blakely. Shock still paints her expression but amusement shines in her eyes.

  “Were you just coming from work?” I ask and throw a thumb over my shoulder in a random direction.

  “You work?” Barbie asks as if it’s a crime.

  “Yep. My baby’s a big wig over at Glam.”

  “Oh my god,” Barbie says, each word overemphasized. “Paul didn’t tell me you worked for Glam! My best friend, the one I tell all my secrets to”—she nudges Paul as if he has a clue who she’s talking about—”she works for Glam too!” She claps like a little kid, almost giddy with excitement as she all but bounces on her toes.

  “What a small world. You probably know her,” I say to Blakely.

  “I’m sure you do. I think she’s a big deal there too . . . but probably not any bigger than you,” Barbie rea
ches out and pats Blakely’s arm as if they are best friends. “Her name is Heather. Heather Mendell.”

  And I see every part of Blakely’s face fall. Every muscle freezes one by one.

  “Oh.” The way she chokes over the single syllable tells me Heather Mendell is the person Blakely was bitching about in the bar. Her boss.

  “Heather?” I let my brow furrow and play the part. I press a kiss to Blakely’s bare shoulder, my own way of falsely marking my territory to Paul, and look at her. “This wouldn’t happen to be the same Heather who”—her eyes widen in fear—“is your new boss? The one you’re so excited about?”

  Relief flickers in those green eyes of hers, but her smile is so fragile it might break. “Yes.” She clears her throat. “That’s her.”

  “What a small world.” Barbie clasps her hands in front of her mouth. That behemoth diamond sparkling. “Isn’t this crazy, Paul? It’s, like, fate that we all know each other. Some kind of cosmic intervention pulling us together.”

  “Something like that,” Blakely mutters just as Barbie lets out a cry that startles us all.

  “The mountains! I just put it together now. You two are going on the retreat then with Glam. Heather’s retreat. It’s all she’s been talking about. So many fun things planned. How exciting.” She squeals again in excitement. “I can’t wait to tell her I met you and to hear about all of the bestie bonding you guys do on that trip.”

  “Kumbaya,” Blakely says with sarcasm dripping from her words.

  I smile, but I can tell Blakely has met her bandwidth in this conversation. “It was a pleasure meeting you, but we have reservations over at Metta’s”—I glance at my watch—“five minutes ago.”

  “Get out!” Barbie holds her hand out. “That’s where we were heading too!”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Blakely mutters as I slide my hand down to fit in hers and squeeze.

  “Then we’ll see you over there,” I say and nod to Paul before directing Blakely toward the restaurant. “Just walk,” I murmur. “I bet you twenty bucks they’re watching us.”

  And we do. We walk hand in hand like a loving couple that is excited for a night out, but I can feel her finally realizing what just happened. It’s the clamminess of her hands. The hitch of her breath. The million questions she probably wants to ask but is trying to figure out the answers to first.

  The minute we turn the corner out of their sights, she yanks her hand from mine and whirls to face me.

  “What the hell was that?” she demands, those emerald eyes of hers are wide and glimmer in the shade of the building.

  “That was me being out running a couple of errands before heading to meet up with my cousin for drinks when, lo and behold, I looked up and there you were—the woman from the bar, who slipped me someone else’s card instead of telling me she wasn’t interested.”

  “I never said that.”

  Ha. Good to know.

  “Your actions spoke louder. You left.”

  “It’s a long story.” The words stutter out.

  “We have time.” I lift my eyebrows and lean against the wall at my back.

  “That isn’t what I’m talking—this—right there—back there—that’s what I mean.” She stumbles over the words as her cheeks flush red. At least I know I wasn’t crazy. The interest was mutual. Why can’t she just admit to it?

  “What about it?” I ask as casual as can be. I thought she was sexy when she was calm and collected the other night, but hell, she’s even sexier when she’s flustered and pissed.

  Blakely looks back toward where we just came from and then to me. “Are you insane? You just walked up and kissed me and acted as if—”

  “I think the words you’re looking for are, ‘Thank you for saving my ass, Slade.’”

  “Saving my ass?” she sputters.

  Definitely sexy.

  “Yeah. From Replacement Barbie and your ex.” I glance toward the small crowd that is starting to gather outside of Metta’s and lift my chin toward them. “We should go so we can get a table before they do. They don’t take reservations, not even for tables at the bar.”

  “You just told them that we had one.”

  “Had to think on my feet.” My smile deepens. “A quick drink? We can cement your relationship status since we’ll be in such close quarters with them.”

  “Wh-wh-what are you talking about?” she asks, her voice as scattered as her eyes moving back and forth between Metta’s, me, and the direction we just came from. A woman used to being in control who can’t take that she isn’t.

  “I mean, we can play off the fact that you didn’t kiss me back as you being in shock from seeing them together for the first time . . . but I don’t think Paul will buy it a second time. So, we need to get to Metta’s before they do. If we aren’t there, they’re going to know that whole thing back there was a sham.”

  She just blinks. “And what exactly was it then?”

  “I thought we already went over this. That was me saving your ass and letting your ex know he isn’t the only one who’s moved on to better.”

  Her smile is incredulous, but she slowly shakes her head as if she’s still trying to comprehend the last ten minutes. “I don’t understand. Why?”

  There is so much confusion laced in that last word that I just stare at her and wonder when was the last time she’d been treated right.

  “Because there are nice guys out there, Blakely. Guys who step in and do the right thing. Ones who treat the woman right even when she isn’t theirs. Apparently, you haven’t met them before, but I know for a fact they do exist.”

  She opens her mouth and closes it. Her cheeks flush, and her eyes well with tears that she blinks away just as quickly as they appear.

  There’s a moment—the briefest of seconds—when that wall of hers slips and her vulnerability surfaces. It’s beautiful and fleeting and makes me want to get that smile back on her lips.

  I point to the awning of the restaurant and shrug. “Go with me or leave. It’s your choice. Either way, I’m going to Metta’s because one, the appetizers are killer, and two, I don’t know what the circumstances are between the two of you, but he’s an asshole and deserves nothing less than the jealousy he’ll feel when he sees you laughing despite him.”

  Blakely

  Our drinks are served, and I’m still trying to process how in the hell I went from a shitty meeting with Heather to an unexpected run-in with Paul and his new plaything to sitting across from Slade, the man I ghosted the other night at the bar.

  The man who took it upon himself to save me from that awkward conversation I probably would have walked away from, no doubt feeling shitty about myself. Instead, Paul is probably wondering what in the hell happened to his wife and who in the hell this Slade guy is.

  I’m kind of wondering the same things myself.

  I glance over to where Paul and Barbie are sitting across the small dining room, engrossed in their overt public display of affection, before looking back.

  “She’ll never stay with him if it’s any consolation.” Slade’s words are as blunt as his stare is inquisitive.

  “Why do you say that?” I ask, still trying to comprehend that our connection at the bar wasn’t one-sided or made up by a hard-up older woman (me) desperate for attention.

  “Because I know her type. She would have jumped me on the sidewalk if I’d given her an inkling I was interested.”

  “Such arrogance,” I say teasingly because there’s an ease with Slade that I can’t put my finger on. A way that makes me feel comfortable when I should be mortified by everything he knows about me thus far, none of which casts me in a favorable light.

  “Ah, but is it arrogance if it’s true?” He takes a sip of his beer. “What’s the story between the two of you anyway?”

  “We met in college. Dated and got engaged. He moved out here for a job, and I followed.” I shrug. “We had what I thought was a normal marriage until we didn’t. He told me he was unhappy and wanted out . . . that
out was sleeping with his receptionist. Apparently Barbie’s job description entailed a whole lot more than just filing papers and answering phones.”

  “Were you devastated?”

  I purse my lips in thought. “Yes and no. I thought what we had was how it was supposed to be . . . but when I was forced to sit back and look at it, I realized we were just going through the motions, too scared to admit it was over long before then.”

  “That doesn’t make it any easier to swallow,” he murmurs.

  “It still hurt. I still felt like a failure. And seeing them today was like a punch in the gut.” I stare at my drink, a bittersweet smile on my lips. “I had always wanted kids, but he always pushed them off . . . so to hear that he wants them now after I gave them up for him was a bit jarring.”

  “No one likes to see something they’ve put so much effort into fail.”

  “True, but I will say that maybe it was for the best. I lost a part of myself, and now, it’s my job to find her again.” I laugh softly. “Hell, I’m not sure if it’s worse knowing my husband is about to marry a woman who I don’t think will stick around or if I should take slight joy in the fact that, in time, Karma will most likely do her thing and return the favor.”

  He looks at me above the rim of his glass and holds my gaze. “Maybe a bit of both.”

  I shake my head, not liking that I’m sitting in a nice restaurant with a handsome man, who unexpectedly helped me have a little tit for tat moment with my ex, and all we’re talking about is me and Paul and Barbie.

  “I appreciate you humoring me with all of this,” I say, “but what about you? I know nothing about the man who just rescued me from making an idiot out of myself.” I angle my head to the side and stare at him.

  “Yes, you do. You know I like the mountains, have a mom who I love madly but who needs to end her trip out here soon because she’s a busybody, and . . . and I believe in second chances for women who leave bars after giving me a fake number.” The lightning-quick grin he flashes me does things to my insides I haven’t felt in what feels like forever. But I welcome the flutter, the spark, the whatever you want to call it.