A picture swims into my head of a guy standing in an elevator with a box of Tide in his arms.
“And he’s pudgy.” She gives a little shudder. “I was up for a weekend at the start of the summer. Mom had just sold the house and she was moving into a condo…Never mind all that. The point is, Mom gave this Goodbye House, Hello Condo barbecue. Lots of people were there, including, of course, Violet and Chester.”
“Chester?”
Can a cat curl its lip while it decides what to do with a mouse?
“Chester. Not even ‘Chet.’ Everyone calls him Chester.” Another shudder. “He walked around shirtless. “
I am getting confused. The woman seated next to me is not a woman I know.
“Shirtless?”
“Yes. At Mom’s barbecue. Shirtless. Wearing Bermuda shorts. And lace-up black shoes. With socks.”
“Not good,” I say carefully.
“I came this close,” she says, holding up her hand, thumb and forefinger a hair apart, “this close to begging him to put his shirt back on.” This time, the shudder is huge. “He’s flabby. Like a dead fish. And he’s the color of toilet paper.”
A dead fish, wrapped in toilet paper. Wearing elevator shoes, and don’t forget that box of Tide
Charming.
“So, yes,” she says.” I accept your offer. You can be my date for the weekend.”
I nod. “Thank you,” I say. I mean, what else can I say? Somewhere along the line, we’ve gone from me offering my help to me being grateful she’s willing to accept it.
“Seven o’clock,” she says.
“Seven o’clock what?”
“I’ll meet you back here tonight. At seven. So we can make plans. I have to go home first and feed my cat.”
“You have a cat?”
Two parallel lines appear between her eyebrows. I can tell that all that determination is suddenly wavering.
“See? There’s so much for you to learn about me—”
“I only meant that I’ll have to go home first, too. I have a dog.”
“Of course you have a dog. A mastiff. His name is Walter. He’s three years old, his birthday is January 16, and he’s up to date on all his shots.”
I stare at her. Then it hits me. Bailey has Walter on her schedule. She makes his veterinarian appointments. Heck, she made the arrangements for me to buy him in the first place.
“You’re right,” I say slowly. “You know everything about me and I don’t know a damn thing about you.”
She nods. The parallel lines return. Her shoulders slump.
“And I was right about this never working,” she says. “We could never pull this—”
“Seven o’clock,” I say firmly. “Not here. At your apartment.”
“What?”
“We only have three days, Bailey. If we go at this as if we’re cramming for finals, it won’t work.”
“I never crammed for finals.”
“I’m sure you didn’t, so you’ll have to trust me here. Cramming works for facts. What year was the Treaty of Paris signed? How many lanterns were hung in the belfry of the old North church on the night of Paul Revere’s ride? What’s the meaning of life?”
“Seventeen eighty-three. Two. And there is no specific answer to the last—”
“My point exactly. Some questions can’t be dealt with by memorizing facts. If we’re going to find out stuff about each other, real stuff, we have to do it by spending time with each other. In suitable settings, so we can really see what we’re like away from the office.”
She’s looking at me as if I’m certifiable. Maybe I am, but I’m pretty sure what I’m saying makes sense. I want it to make sense, anyway, and I’m not about to try and delve into that. Not right now.
“Okay,” I say briskly. I reach across and open her door. My arm brushes lightly over her breasts. Her breath catches. So does mine. Dammit. It’s all those fumes from the centuries-old teak. “I’m going to head home. You do the same.”
Bailey glances at her watch. “It’s only one-thirty.”
“Right. Right. Fine. I’ll, ah, I’ll take a look at that property.”
“Which property?”
An excellent question because I came up with that on the spot, but the last thing I want to do right now is spend the next couple of hours in my office.
“The hilly one. The one that couple is thinking of buying so they can put up a colonial.”
“It’s the wrong house for the site.”
I smile. For some crazy reason, I like that she thinks that. “Yeah. I agree.” I clear my throat. “Anyway, I’ll see you at seven.”
“Do you know my address?”
“Of course I know your address.”
She looks doubtful. She’s right to look doubtful. I don’t know her address, but there’s always Google.
“Don’t cook,” I add. “I’ll bring dinner.”
“I never cook,” she says. “I believe in Lean Cuisine.”
“And I believe in take-out. See? We’ve learned something new about each other already.”
She gives me a look filled with doubt. Then she sighs, climbs down from the truck and stands there looking at me through the open door.
“Are you sure you want to do this, sir?”
“Matthew.”
I can see her swallow. “Are you sure you want to do this…Matthew?”
A million billion people have said my name in my lifetime. Well, not exactly. I always introduce myself as Matt. I have no idea why I just told Bailey to call me Matthew. I also have no idea why the sound of her saying it made the hair rise on the back of my neck.
“Absolutely,” I say.
She nods and shuts the door. I wave. She steps back and I roar off in the traditional cloud of dust, except I don’t feel like the Lone Ranger.
I feel like a dude in desperate need of a shrink.
6
I drive around for a while. I take a look at the hilly four acres. I walk it and I know that I was right. It’s waiting for a builder who isn’t me. I’m into open-plan contemporaries, not colonials. That’s why my clients come to me.
These people need a different builder even though I’d love to put a house here. The view is forever, and there’s wildlife. Deer. Foxes. Fishers. Birds. The land has everything I’d want if I were buying and building. Which I am not.
I get back into my truck, take out my phone, and send myself a note.
Normally, I’d have texted Bailey. For some reason, the idea of contacting her now makes me, I don’t know, uncomfortable. Have I done the right thing? Can we make enough progress to pull off this charade?
More than that, how will it be to spend a long weekend pretending she and I have something going?
What happens the following Monday, when we see each other in the office? Will it be back to Mr. O’Malley and sir? How will that feel? How will it feel to discuss blueprints and kitchens after I know what she feels like in my arms? What she tastes like? Because, son of a gun, though I made a couple of lame jokes about sex, how come it didn’t occur to me that I can’t spend the weekend standing stiffly beside her? Do that, and we won’t convince Cousin Violet of anything. I’m surely going to have to touch Bailey. Her hand. Her waist. I’ll have to kiss her. Okay, maybe not on the mouth but on the temple. The cheek. And—who am I kidding? Of course, on the mouth! Boyfriend. Girlfriend. One generally shows affection for the other.
I remember the feel of Bailey’s hair curling around my finger. The feel of her lips under mine. The whisper of her breath, the slightness of her body hidden inside those overalls, the sudden realization that she has all the right female parts…
Crap.
She has the right female parts. And I have the right male parts. One inside my pants, for sure. The one that’s just come to immediate attention.
I have a hard-on. A massive one. And that’s saying something because among my other attributes, I am what you would call well-hung. No, I’m not boasting. I’m the guy who buy
s those extra-large size condoms not to impress the drugstore clerk who rings them up but because I need them. And sometimes, at urinals…I know you’ve probably got this vision of an endless line of dudes taking peeks while they take leaks, but we do not look. Never. Except sometimes a guy’s eyes stray, only by accident, and when they stray to me, well, I know what that little start of surprise means.
So this hard-on cannot be ignored.
Nor can the fact that thinking about my PA caused it.
Hell.
She’s my PA. My assistant. I’m going away with her for the weekend to get even with Cousin Violet Who Once Killed A Doll Named Suzy, not because I have the hots for Bailey. I mean, Bailey’s good people. She’s sweet, she’s smart, and she’s efficient. What she isn’t, is hot.
I close my eyes. I think of her in one of her suits, her hair yanked back, and I carefully rearrange myself.
There you go. No more hard-on. No more worries. Time to head home and get ready for our date. Our appointment. Because that’s all it is.
* * *
Traffic is fairly light and I’m in the city in no time. One of the reasons I bought the place in the West Village is that it has a garage big enough for my Harley as well as the ’Vette. No ’Vette this time. The truck tightens things up a little, but I manage.
The other reason I bought the place is that it has a garden. It’s pretty private—high brick walls, a couple of tall sycamores. I like spending time there and so does Walter, my mastiff, who greets me the way he always does, all little woofs of happiness and head-butts and, for a grand finale, he puts those huge paws on my chest and gives me a sloppy kiss.
I let him into the garden. Normally I’d walk him, but I’m in kind of a hurry so I let him do his thing beside one of the sycamores while I wait, plastic baggie in hand.
We go back inside and I give him fresh water and his dinner—dry kibbles that have pictures of chickens and fish on the bag. Only the best for my boy. Last winter, I asked Bailey to do some research and find out which was the most nutritious brand of dog chow and…
And, damn, what else does she know about me?
I have a lot of catching up to do if we’re gonna make this work.
“Woof!”
It’s Walter, standing next to me with his front paws on the counter. Taking him to obedience school was a success because at the beginning of our relationship, he thought the way to do this was to stretch out one of his paws and drag his bowl off the counter’s edge.
Now he simply observes.
“Woof,” he says again, reminding me that I didn’t do takeout last night. I went out to dinner, to one of my favorite places a few blocks away where the staff knows me, knows Walter, and always boxes up my leftovers and a few scraps of sirloin or chicken or whatever’s on the menu for me to…
“Shit!”
Walter cocks his head and gives me an inquiring look.
“Not you, boy,” I say as I get last night’s leftovers from the fridge and take a look. “Looks like prime rib,” I say.
Walter wags his entire body as I mix up the kibble and the beef and put the bowl down in front of him.
Last night’s dinner.
With last night’s date.
We’d gone out for the first time—I met her at a party a couple of weeks ago—and last night was fine. In fact, I’m supposed to be seeing her this Friday evening. And, if things went well, Saturday morning…
But I’ll be in Schenectady. Or Troy. Or wherever it is that Cousin Violet and Elevator Boy with the box of laundry detergent lurk.
I take out my phone. Check my contacts. Make the call.
“Hey,” I say brightly, “it’s Matt. Yeah. Yes. I’m glad. I had a great time too. Uh, listen. About Friday…”
She’s not happy. I can tell. But I don’t lie. I tell her the Boy-Scout-Three-Fingers-Raised-in-Salute truth.
I tell her something’s come up, a family thing, and I have to cancel our date.
I just don’t tell her that the family thing has nothing to do with my family.
* * *
I Google Bailey.
I don’t find her.
The good news is that it’s not safe for a woman’s address to be public.
The bad is that now I have no idea how to locate her. I know she lives in Manhattan. It’s where singles seem to gather. I don’t want to phone her and admit that I just flunked the first test about how much knowledge I have of her.
Wait.
I own O’Malley Design and Construction. I am its CEO. We have a website, sure, but we also have data stored in the Cloud. I log in, type in my password, hunt through files…
Bailey Abrams. And—it figures—she lives on the Upper West Side, which is where you live if you’re into art, serious books and museums. Culture with a Capital C.
I shower. Change into fresh jeans, a black T, my old Roper boots. I check the mirror. How do I look…
Jesus H. Christ.
I’m not going to be spending the evening with a woman.
I’m spending it with my PA.
Walter knows I’m going out. I don’t know how he knows, but he always does. He’s sulking on the sofa in the den. Another benefit of obedience school. He learned to stretch out on the sofa instead of trying to stuff his one hundred fifty pounds into my favorite chair.
I rub his head, scratch him behind his ears, grab my old leather bomber jacket and my keys, and I’m gone.
Two seconds later, I’m back.
I said I’d bring dinner. On the Harley? Not the best plan considering that I’m gonna have to get lots of different kinds of stuff since I don’t know what Bailey likes.
Better take the truck.
And—man, I am not thinking straight—better phone for food first.
Forty-five minutes later, I arrive at Bailey’s place. She lives in what was probably once a townhouse that’s been cut up into apartments. Four steps up to the front door, then I’m in a small vestibule with a directory on the left hand wall.
B. Abrams. Apt. 4C.
I press the button under her name.
“Yes?” Bailey’s electronic voice says.
“It’s me.”
“Who?”
I roll my eyes, but she’s just being cautious. “Matthew.”
She buzzes me in. I enter a tiny lobby, if you can call it that. Wonderful. There’s no elevator. I have two enormous shopping bags; she lives on the fourth floor.
And I am—
“Late,” she says when she opens the door.
“I know. Sorry. There’s no place to park on this…” I look at her and I guess I frown. “What are you wearing?”
She looks at me like I’m nuts. “What do you mean, what am I wearing?”
It was a redundant question. I can see what she’s wearing. One of those suits of hers. Not black. That was the suit du jour. This one is navy. She’s tamed her hair into submission.
She looks as if she’s ready for an evening with a roomful of tax accountants.
“Is that what you’d wear for a date?”
“This isn’t a date. You said so yourself. It’s a study session.”
“It is. Yes. But it’s also a date dry run. Please change into something you’d wear to spend a quiet evening at home with a boyfriend.”
She opens her mouth, starts to speak…and turns on her heel, marches through the narrow hall, through what appears to be a living room, down another hall.
A door slams.
She’s going to change into something suitable for a quiet evening with a boyfriend.
I let my thoughts run wild over the possibilities: Silk pj’s. A silk caftan. A slinky silk T and silk pants. Yes, I like silk. The way it feels, the way it clings…
Then I remember that this is Bailey and I roll my eyes, find the kitchen, and unload a dozen containers of food on the counter.
There’s a noise behind me.
I turn around.
It’s Bailey. And, goddammit, my jeans are suddenly tight.
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No silk. Certainly not. She’s wearing what I think women call yoga pants. Gray ones. And a T-shirt. It’s gray too and it says—it’s really washed out so it’s hard to read, but I think it says Unions. The People Who Brought You Weekends. It’s also small—must be all those washings—so it’s a little snug across what I am now absolutely, positively certain are breasts and when she inhales, the bottom of the T rises a little, just enough so I can see that she has, oh man, she has a little innie of a belly button.
Her feet are bare. She has pale pink polish on her toes.
And her hair is loose.
It’s a long cloud of soft, dark curls.
She doesn’t look sexy; she looks adorable. She looks like a woman you want to scoop into your arms. What I’m trying to say is that, yeah, she looks sexy, sexy as hell in her own way, and…
Fuck.
It’s hard-on time again.
I swing away from her. Fast. “We need plates,” I say briskly. “And silverware.”
Drawers open and shut. Cabinet doors do the same. I hear things being put on a little table behind me. Uh oh. Maybe put is the wrong word. Slammed is more accurate.
I take a deep breath, think about icy fjords and snow, and then I turn around.
“Something wrong?” I ask, very carefully.
“Why would anything be wrong?”
The better question is, why would a woman try to form words through her teeth?
“Bailey. I should have said you look fine.”
Her back is to me. Her spine is a rigid line. So are her shoulders.
“I told you this wouldn’t work!”
“Of course it will—”
I wince as a handful of forks and knives hit the table with the force of a tornado.
“Put on what you’d wear for an evening at home, you said.”
“Right. A quiet evening with a boyfriend.”
She spins towards me. Her eyes are flashing. I never knew my PA’s eyes could flash and now that I do, I see that I was right the first time. Her irises are brown, not black, but it's such a dark brown, an espresso brown…
The F-Word: A Sexy Romantic Comedy Page 5
