“Would you like to have dinner with me Friday night?”
A zing of excitement lights my veins right before I remember that Vince and I have plans that night. We’re supposed to watch Predator and eat sushi. I can’t decide if he’d be upset if I blew off our movie night to go on the date he prodded me to go on, but it seems rude to bail. He is my friend.
“I have plans with a friend, but I’d love to have dinner with you another night?” My tone slips into questioning, and I hope I don’t appear too vulnerable—or worse, desperate.
“No can do.” J.T. shakes his head and my heart sinks. “I’m out of town this weekend and the building project I’m working on keeps me late most nights.”
He’s an architect designing a huge shopping center downtown.
“What about a late dinner that night? Any chance your plans will be over by nine o’clock?” J.T. asks.
I hadn’t considered that option. I do a quick calculation. If we’re off work by five, and Vince arrives at my place with sushi by six thirty, then we can watch the movie, eat, and wrap up by eight thirty. Which would give me thirty minutes to get ready for my date.
“Yes, they will.” I brighten. It’s going to work! And J.T. wants to see me again. It’s nice to feel wanted. Even better, it’s by a guy I want.
“Pick you up at your place. Which is fairly close to my place, so the commute will be easy enough.”
“That’s true.” Today we met at McGreevy’s after work rather than do the whole pickup thing. I wonder if J.T. has had some bad dates and has been forced to bail. I sure have. No way was I letting him pick me up for drinks, then drive me home—which was across the street from his place—and drop me off. Now, though, I’ve changed my mind. Him picking me up for dinner sounds lovely.
“I’ve never been here before.” J.T. leans in. “Do I pay the bartender or…?”
“It’s on me.”
I turn my head to see Vince, beer in hand. Unlike my date, who is wearing a polo and pressed khakis, Vince wears the stylish combo of a vest over an open-collar button-down, jeans, and lace-up boots. I flick my eyes down to the tassels on J.T.’s loafers and bite my lip in indecision.
“Vince Carson.” Vince shoots an arm out. “Butler and I work together.”
“Jack Taylor,” J.T. says, shaking hands with Vince.
Vince’s smile turns puckish as he considers claiming a victory for guessing the “Taylor” part. I give him a subtle head shake and, blessedly, he lets it go. I swear I’ll never hear the end of it.
“That’s nice of you to offer,” J.T. tells Vince, “but I prefer to pay.”
Vince shrugs. “Be my guest.”
Before J.T. goes to the bar, he rounds the table and leans to whisper in my ear. “See you soon, Jacqueline.”
A kiss feathers over my temple and my blood warms at the pleasantness and newness of that simple contact. J.T. is unfamiliar, which makes him exciting. I watch him strut to the bar and unknowingly stand close to Davis, who sizes him up but keeps his big mouth shut. Once my date is out the door, I take a moment to admire his confident, broad-shouldered stride. He looks as good walking as running.
“Drinks only.” Vince clucks his tongue and collapses into the chair nearest me. “Better luck next time, Butler.”
“He asked me to dinner too.”
“When?” Vince’s face scrunches.
I don’t want him to know it’s Friday, our movie night, so I tell a little white lie. “We didn’t get into specifics.”
“That means it’s over, sweets.” Davis takes the chair next to me.
“Why do I keep finding myself flanked by you two?”
Davis opens his mouth to offer what is likely a sexual explanation, and I hold up a finger to shush him. He grins, charming and boyish with his hair rumpled and his supremely pressed suit. He’s a walking conundrum.
“I’ll bite, Jackie-O. How’d it go?” Davis leans his elbows on the table and eyes me sincerely.
“It went well. He was nice.”
Davis makes a face like he just tasted sour milk. “ ‘Well’ and ‘nice.’ ” He pegs Vince with a look. “Your girl didn’t seal the deal. Maybe she needs a new teacher.”
“You know what?” I stand, snatching my purse. “I don’t have to explain my date to either of you knuckleheads. I had one, and I have another one. And you two are hopelessly single.”
On my parting zinger, I swivel on one stiletto and march out of McGreevy’s, head held high. I shake off their comments on the trip to my car, arriving feeling downright victorious. I have another date with my sexy fantasy man.
I freaking did it.
—
Vince is cheering on my sofa because Arnold just Hasta la vista, baby’d the Predator. The movie is finally, finally about to end and I’m on pins and needles for a few reasons. First, I never told Vince that Jack was picking me up here. I know, I know. Cowardly of me. Second, I failed at talking him into relocating our movie night to his place because he argued that the sushi joint was closer to mine. It is. That’s fair. And third—
“That’s how it’s done. There are no real men anymore. Arnold is an original,” Vince says, sock-clad feet on my coffee table (no shoes per my request), then downs the contents of his beer bottle.
“What about Jason Momoa?” I cross the room to collect the remnants of our dinner. “He’s a man’s man.”
“He’s a caveman. Hey, wait. You’re not throwing out that dragon roll, are you?”
I offer the plastic container and he snags the last piece of sushi and pops it into his mouth. Then he frowns while chewing and licks his thumb as I scuttle to the kitchen.
“Butler.”
“Yeah?” I pause in the doorway.
Vince narrows his eyes at my wardrobe. “You weren’t wearing that earlier.”
I wasn’t. I changed from my work clothes—a skirt and blouse—into a pair of black pants, a sparkly top, and sandals. Wedge ones. Definitely not loungewear.
The clock by my front door reads 8:55. I texted J.T. to tell him I needed five extra minutes, but that doesn’t give me much time to hustle. I should have told Vince before now.
“I—”
A knock comes at the door and Vince’s eyebrows crash down as my head swivels to the front window. Through the sheer curtains, I can see my date standing on my stoop, flowers in hand.
Vince is off the couch and I chase after him, empty sushi container in hand. But not before the door pops open and my coworker and my date face each other over a bouquet of pink roses.
“Jack!” I say over Vince’s shoulder. “Hi! You’re a few minutes early. Give me a second.”
He frowns at me, frowns at Vince, and then frowns at his flowers. I hightail it to the kitchen, toss the container in the trash, and return to the living room.
“She doesn’t like roses,” Vince is saying.
“Vince!” I snag my purse from the closet and give J.T. an apologetic smile. “He’s kidding. They’re beautiful.”
“Generic,” Vince mutters.
“Let me put these in some water. Vince was just leaving.”
“I have to put my shoes on,” he argues.
“Excuse us.” I grab Vince’s arm and for a second he doesn’t move. I widen my eyes and finally he allows me to drag him to the kitchen. In hushed tones under the sound of the Predator DVD rebooting and playing the title-screen music again, I let my friend have it in the harshest whisper I can manage. “What is wrong with you?”
Vince crosses his arms like a petulant child. I thrust the roses at him. “Put these in a vase and lock up for me. I’ll see you Monday.”
He takes the flowers but utters a protesting “Jackie.”
“I mean it, Vince.” I don’t wait for his reply. I dart to the living room and greet Jack Taylor with a big smile. Jack and Jackie.
Hmm.
I didn’t realize how odd our names sound side by side until now.
“If you’re busy…” J.T. flicks a glance over my h
ead, where I hope Vince isn’t making lewd gestures.
“I’ll explain at dinner.” I loop my arm in his and we leave, but not before I shoot daggers over my shoulder at Vince. He’s not making lewd gestures. He’s standing forlornly in my kitchen, shoulders sagging, a dozen pink roses in his hands.
Chapter 7
Vince
I don’t leave right away. It isn’t totally by choice. By the time I sit down to tie my shoes, Predator restarts. It feels wrong to leave before my favorite part, where Arnie says “If it bleeds, we can kill it.”
So I linger. Get hungry again and raid Butler’s fridge. By then it’s after eleven, and I admit to myself I’m waiting around like a jealous boyfriend. I decide to leave and salvage what’s left of my self-respect.
As luck would have it, the sky splits open the second I set foot outside Jackie’s apartment. I hoof it to my Volvo across the parking lot, slide inside, and shake water from my hair like a dog. I dig my keys from my pocket and start my car, flipping on the wipers, and that’s when I see J.T. and Jackie running for her front door. They must’ve pulled in shortly after I left.
They’re dripping from the rain and lingering under her porch light. She smiles.
The rain-soaked windshield blots out my view. Aggravated, I hit the lever. When the rain is swiped away this time, I watch as she inches up on her toes and presses her lips to his.
“Shit,” I mutter to the interior of my car. I can’t watch any more of this. The next time the wipers clean the windshield, J.T. hugs her lower back and pulls her close. I figure she’ll invite him in. Then he’ll be sitting on my spot on her sofa and I’ll officially be the biggest idiot alive. I should have confessed how I felt rather than drive her into the arms of another dude.
“Get it together, Carson,” I mumble, pulling out of the lot and not looking back. I’m being dramatic, which is unlike me, but it’s been a frustrating couple of days.
I turn the corner so I can’t glance in the rearview and watch her invite him in.
I hope she doesn’t invite him in.
—
My sour mood from Friday hasn’t improved come Monday morning, mainly because I invited Jackie over to my place last night, and she shot me down. She texted me, saying, Rain check! I’ll make it up to you.
Which made me think of the rain and the kiss I’d need eye bleach to forget.
My guess is she threw me over for Jaundice, and yeah, that’s what I’m calling him in my head. Sue me. It’s sexist and immature and unfair to behave like I am, so by the time I’ve had a third cup of coffee and go to the break room for a fourth, I forcibly pull my head out of my ass.
Jackie’s wearing red today and the short dress shows off her legs. Her smile is bright and fresh and she looks happy. So damn happy. My heart crushes like an aluminum can but I send her a casual smile anyway.
“Hey, Butler.” I grab the coffeepot and glance at the clock. “Holy shit, it’s almost lunchtime?”
“Yeah, you may want to hold off on the caffeine drip until after you eat.” She rinses her mug and dries it with a paper towel.
“Why are you not in your office with your nose pressed to the glass?” It’s 11:44, so Jaundice should be running by any second.
“Oh. I feel weird about it now.”
“Why?” I snap.
Her slender brows meet over a pert nose. “Because I’m dating him. I don’t have to ogle him from my office. I can ogle him from anywhere. Freely. While touching him.”
“Sorry I asked.” I leave the break room, aware of her calling my name as she chases after me.
“Vince. Vince.”
In my office she doesn’t bother stopping at the threshold. Mine is bigger than hers—but it always has been, because Wilson moved me in here shortly after I started. When my VP title was secured, I simply stayed in the larger office and Jackie moved into the only one available. What I don’t have is an outside window. Or an inside window. She has both, so it’s fair, in a way.
“What is your problem?” she asks after shutting my door to give us some privacy. I saw a few heads turn, but they quickly went back to their work. We didn’t make that big of a commotion on our way in here.
Now, though, that I’m looking at those red lips and that red dress and remembering the way Jaundice had his hands on her Friday night—
“You bailed on me on Sunday,” I grumble.
“I know. My sister came into town at the last minute.”
Sure. Whatever. I tilt my head to one side in disbelief.
“I promised to make it up to you and I will. What’s your schedule like this week?”
“What’s yours like?” Do you have another date or three with Jaundice the Hut?
“How about I treat you to lunch today?” she offers. Sweetly.
I shake my head. “Can’t. I have a meeting with Wilson in a few.”
“Oh. Tomorrow night?”
“Busy,” I lie. I have nothing planned, but I could. She doesn’t know that. “Taco Tuesday with Davis.”
“Taco Tuesday?” Her face scrunches. She knows I have a special brand of disdain for themed gatherings.
“It’s my new thing.”
“Okay. What about drinks at McGreevy’s?”
“I’ll get back to you.” I reach for my door and open it, and the sad look on her face almost makes me apologize. Almost. If she hadn’t bailed on me last night, I might feel more magnanimous. As things stand, she’s going to have to accept my nonanswer.
—
Tuesday night I’m scrolling through my phone regretting that I don’t have more friends. When Leslie and I were married we did lots of couple things. That meant we went out with her girlfriends and their husbands. Out of her eight closest friends (our former bridesmaids), Martin was the husband I liked. Unfortunately, his wife is a ballbuster, so I lost him in the divorce. The other seven husbands completed the set of tools and I was glad to be rid of them, even if it did leave me with a deficit of guy friends.
Davis is busy tonight. He had a date. He didn’t say it was Polly, but he didn’t say it wasn’t her. It’s her. I can sense these things.
When a knock on my door interrupts my deep thoughts, I turn my head and scowl at it, hoping it’s not Riley come to renew her Mrs. Robinson advances. Another knock, this one delicate, and my heart lodges in my throat.
I know that knock.
I pull open the door and there stands Jackie in a mouthwatering red dress, holding a bucket of KFC.
“Apology chicken,” she announces, then holds up another bag. “And mashed potatoes, coleslaw, and green beans. Tonight we feast!”
I step aside and she carries the food to my gargantuan kitchen like she has a dozen times in the past. She turns around and clasps her hands together, pegging me with a look of complete and utter chagrin. Before she opens her mouth, I give her the apology I suspect is coming.
“I’m sorry, Jackie.” I slip my hands into my front pockets and walk toward her.
“No. It was rude of me to bail on you. Bethany wouldn’t have minded you joining us. We went to Chic Winehouse to sample wine and eat cake. It wasn’t a very manly atmosphere.”
So she was telling the truth about her sister being in town.
“I thought you were out with Jaundice,” I admit.
“I was not out with Jack,” she corrects, her lips twisting at my joke. Just when I start to feel better, she adds, “I saw him Friday and Saturday night. I don’t want him to think I’m crazy about him.”
“Are you?” I blurt, scowling at my best friend. I hope not. I haven’t made a single move to let her know I’m in the running. Regret covers me like mud on a nearly defeated Arnold Schwarzenegger at the end of Predator.
Her mouth opens and closes. Then I see it. The flicker of doubt in her eyes when she bites down on her bottom lip. “He’s…sweet.”
Sweet. I nearly cheer. That’s what women say about guys they like but don’t like like. I take another step in her direction and she backs up, her
hip bumping my countertop.
“Did you invite him in Friday night?” I have to know.
“What?” She’s frowning up at me. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no.”
She’s offended enough that I believe her.
“Where did you go Saturday?” I ask.
“His house.”
“His house?” The volume of my voice raises and I pull myself together with both hands. “Did he cook for you or something?”
“Why does that matter?” Her eyes flit away from mine.
I can picture his clean and fancy minimalist apartment. He probably roasted a pheasant he went out and shot himself. Then he poured a glass of hundred-dollar wine and then they spent the evening admiring his first-edition book collection and making out on the settee.
“Vince, are you all right?”
I’m hovering over her, blood boiling, steam pouring out of my head like a kettle. No, I’m not all right.
I lean a hairbreadth closer. “Did you screw him?”
“I beg your pardon!” Her eyebrows slam together in anger, but I press her further.
“Did you?”
“What if I did? You were the one who wanted me to get back out there. You said I deserve nice things. The best.”
I did say that.
“You do. And it’s not J.T.”
“Well…then who is it?” Her voice is small, and for the briefest moment her warm brown eyes flicker to my mouth.
“Answer my question first.” I put a palm on the counter, caging her in on one side. She doesn’t move away from me, which is a good sign.
“He cooked cedar-plank salmon and French green beans. He has a wine cellar, so we opened a bottle of Château Sedacca.”
Worse than I thought. That stuff is get-laid wine. I swallow a groan.
“He baked a homemade chocolate lava cake,” she says with a small smile. “And then we went into his living room and sat on the couch and kissed. A lot.” Her gaze softens when it hits mine. “But to answer your question again, no. It didn’t go any further than that.”
“Why not?” My muscles coil as if that’ll help me absorb the blow if she delivers worse news. Like maybe she’s planning on doing him on the next date.
Eye Candy Page 5
