The Man Plan

by Tracy Anne Warren

  He scoffed. “She thinks she does, at any rate.”

  “You mean she’s told you?”

  “Yes, she’s told me.”

  “And you don’t believe her?”

  “What I believe is that she’s concocted some elaborate romantic fantasy about me over the years, a fantasy that isn’t any more real or lasting than a dream. She’s infatuated, nothing more, nothing less. It’ll wear off soon enough.”

  “And will it wear off for you too?”

  His gut clenched at her question.

  Is she right? Do I love Ivy? Even if he did, what difference would it make?

  He drained the rest of his coffee in a single gulp, uncaring that it had gone cold.

  Their waiter chose that moment to arrive with their meals, food James no longer had any desire to eat. He and Madelyn sat in silence as they were served, his coffee refilled with fresh, her water replenished with a second effervescing bottle.

  Madelyn’s hand lingered hesitantly over her fork. “I’ve said too much and you’re angry. Perhaps I should leave?”

  “I’m not angry.” More like shocked. “Eat your meal.”

  He jabbed a fork into the poached salmon fillet on his plate and chewed a bite without really tasting it. He drank some coffee, nearly scalding his tongue.

  He hissed and put out the burn with a drink of ice water. “So does that husband of yours know we’re having lunch together?”

  Madelyn swallowed a forkful of pasta, then patted her lips with her napkin. “Yes. He knows. We don’t keep things from each other. He trusts me.”

  “The way I did. Once.”

  Her face fell. “After your call, after today, I’d hoped you might be ready to put the past behind us. James, I can’t ever make up for what I did to you. I can’t ever be sorry enough for the pain and humiliation I caused. But what I did was for the best, for us both.”

  He shot her a look. “You think so?”

  “Yes. And you’d see that too if you’d only let yourself. It was never right. We were never right together, not as a couple.”

  “Weren’t we?”

  She set her utensil aside. “Remember when I first moved to New York?”

  He frowned. “Of course. What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I didn’t live in the best neighborhood, and my roommates always had men over. I even dated a few of them, as I recall. You never went ballistic and told me to move out.”

  “The situation with Ivy is not the same. She’s young and inexperienced.”

  “So was I, then.”

  “She’s different,” he defended.

  Madelyn reached out and briefly laid a hand on his sleeve. “Yes, she is. And your feelings for her are different from the ones you had for me. I was your friend first before I was anything else. I was your buddy. But Ivy’s not your buddy. She’s the girl you protected as she grew up. She’s the woman you still feel compelled to shield, the woman you can’t let go.”

  “She was never mine to keep or to let go.”

  “Wasn’t she? You’ve asked me to help you convince her to come back. But I don’t think I’m the right person for the job. You’re the only one whose opinion really matters to Ivy.”

  He sighed. “I told you she won’t listen to me.”

  “Then perhaps you aren’t saying the right words. Think about it, James. Do what your heart tells you, not what’s in your head.”

  “Like you did with Douglas?” he said, looking into her eyes again.

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “Like I did with Zack.”

  He waited for it, the familiar bitter ache that always tore through him like a knife when Madelyn was near. The memories of what they’d been to each other. The memories of what they’d lost.

  What he’d lost.

  But even as he waited, the feelings didn’t come.

  He stared across at her, traced the shape of her lovely face, imagined kissing her soft, red lips, touching her ripe figure and felt . . . nothing, at least nothing remotely akin to desire.

  His passion for her was gone.

  All that remained was a pleasant warmth and a curious comforting peace along with the lingering remnants of their friendship—a bond that apparently was too strong to die.

  Wasn’t that why he called her here today, because of that friendship?

  She peered at him, a worried expression on her face.

  Can it be? Am I really over her? he asked himself.

  Yes, he realized, it would seem that I am.

  “Thanks, Madelyn.”

  She looked startled. “For what?”

  “For being there. For being a friend.”

  A wide smile lit her features. “I am. Always. I’ve missed having you in my life.”

  “Same here, though you know it won’t be like it was before.”

  “No. Maybe it’ll be better.”

  * * *

  Ivy had had a lousy day, a hot, sweaty, frustrating day, which got exponentially lousier the moment she walked through the apartment door.

  There on the kitchen table, staring at her like an evil eye, lay a sorrowfully familiar package. Its canceled postage and raggedy manila edges a testament to its less-than-tender treatment at the hands of the U.S. Postal Service. The address label she’d attached so hopefully to its front weeks ago smirked back at her.

  She didn’t need to open the envelope to know what it would say inside.

  Thank you for your submission. Unfortunately, your work isn’t right for our gallery at this time, blah, blah, blah.

  Yeah, right. Why didn’t they just write what they really thought?

  Get lost, loser.

  Deliberately turning her back on the package, Ivy went into her bedroom to change out of her work clothes. In disgust, she tossed her expensive leather shoes—the ones with the broken heel that had caused her so much grief today—into the trash.

  Minutes later, clad in faded jeans, a pale peach cotton T-shirt, and socks, she made her way back to the kitchen. She inspected the contents of the refrigerator, settled on a tall glass of grape juice.

  She set the untouched drink on the counter next to the sink and gave the envelope another long look. Unable to control the self-defeating impulse, she reached out and tore open the package, needing to know which gallery had sent her submission back.

  A CD of her artwork tumbled out along with a piece of white stationery. Turning it over, she read the name embossed at the top and enough of the canned reply below to make her throat squeeze tight. Tears she’d told herself she wouldn’t shed welled in her eyes, streamed down her cheeks, warm and wet.

  She collapsed onto one of the kitchen chairs and blubbered.

  She was sniffing into a crumpled wad of tissues, her face swollen and miserable, when Neil found her twenty minutes later.

  He rushed to set aside the sack of groceries in his arms. “Hey, cupcake, what’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  She saw his eyes land on the scattered contents of the envelope on the table, watched his instant recognition.

  “Oh, sweetie. I’m sorry,” he said.

  She buried her nose in the tissues, squeezed out a few more tears.

  “Here.” He reached out, gathered her in his long arms. “Give me a great big hug.”

  She did, taking comfort.

  “Better?”

  “Not much, but thanks anyway.” She pulled back, wiped at her reddened eyes.

  He took the chair beside her. “Well, they’re idiots and you should be glad they didn’t want you. Obviously, they can’t see talent when it’s staring them right in the face. They must be cousins of the casting directors who keep giving my parts to other people. How else can you explain overlooking a pair of artistic geniuses like you and me?”

  The remark earned a tiny smile. “Thanks. You know just what to say.”

  “Hey, I’ve had loads of practice. Now, let’s see that great smile of yours.”

  She forced her lips to curve upward to mockingly show hi
m her teeth.

  He laughed; then she did too, her spirits lifting fractionally.

  “Now, that’s more like it,” he said. “You have a shining gift, Ivy. The whole world will see it for themselves one of these days. Until then, your mission is to keep painting and not give up.”

  “You either. You’re a fabulous actor.”

  “Damn straight. No way am I going to wait tables the rest of my life.”

  He stood, crossed to unload groceries from the brown paper bag he’d abandoned when he’d first arrived. “In the meantime, how about one of my famous mile-high hoagies? Hot ham, salami, and provolone cheese with spicy peppers and onions on an Italian roll. Sound good?”

  “Sounds great. Want help?”

  He shooed her back into her chair. “No, no. The master must work alone.” He picked up the glass of grape juice she’d forgotten on the counter and handed it to her. “Yours, I believe.”

  She sipped her juice while Neil assembled the sandwich.

  He rolled the hoagie inside a cocoon of aluminum foil then popped it into the hot oven. After rinsing his hands in the sink, he tossed her a probing look. “All right. Out with it.”

  “Out with what?”

  “Whatever it is that still has you looking so gloomy.”

  She glanced away. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

  “Don’t lie to the gay man, dear heart. We’re intuitive, you know, like dogs before an impending earthquake. Our senses are finely honed.”

  “Is that so? Then why don’t you work your magic and tell me what’s wrong?”

  He studied her for a long, hard moment. “I’d say you’ve got man trouble. Old man trouble, if I don’t miss my guess.”

  She scowled at his accuracy. “James is not old.”

  “Well, now, that’s a matter of opinion. My oldest brother’s younger than him, and I’m the baby in a family of seven kids.” He met her expression. “Okay, okay, I’ll quit teasing you. What’s Mr. Sunshine up to these days?”

  “Nothing. And that’s the problem. I haven’t heard from him in days.”

  “Maybe that’s because you’ve been refusing to take his phone calls.”

  “Well, all he ever does is scold me and I—” She paused, taking a deep, shaky breath. “Oh, Neil, I think I’ve made a terrible mistake. I have a job. I’m proving myself, but it isn’t making a bit of difference. James is farther out of my reach than ever. He was supposed to realize by now how much he misses me, needs me. But all he wants is for me to move back to my old apartment and go on the way things were before, before . . .”

  “The night,” he inserted.

  Neil knew all about her messed-up romance with James. She’d confided in him only days after the event, needing a sympathetic ear and a sturdy shoulder to cry on.

  “Yes, the night.” She spun her empty juice glass between her thumb and forefinger. “Perhaps I ought to give in, go back. At least I’d see him every once in a while. At least I wouldn’t be shut out of his life completely.”

  “And what good would that do?” Neil folded his arms, leaned back against the counter. “You want him to love you and respect you. He isn’t going to do either if you go crawling back on his terms. He treats you like a child. If you do as you’re told now, it’ll only prove to him he’s right, that you are too young, too inexperienced, too immature, especially for him. Call him up. See him if you want to. But don’t go back, not like this.”

  Her shoulders drooped. “If only I didn’t love him so much. If only it didn’t hurt so much.”

  “I wish it didn’t, sweetie. Personally, I think you could do a whole lot better than Mr. Arrogant Richie-Rich, but there’s no explaining the ways of the heart. Give it time. Give him time. If it’s meant to be, he’ll realize what an asshat he is and come to your door to sweep you off your feet.”

  “What if he never does? And he isn’t an asshat,” she defended.

  He shrugged as if agreeing to disagree. “Look, worst-case scenario, you’ll have your work and your pride and, eventually, you’ll find someone else to love. If I were you, though, I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”

  “Oh? Why not?”

  “Because from what I’ve seen of the guy, he’s got a real case on you. Jealous, possessive. He practically snarls anytime another man so much as glances your way. Hell, he even tried to scare me off, and we all know I’m no threat in that department. And he hates Fred. Do the boy a favor and give him a heads-up if your billionaire boyfriend decides to drop by. Otherwise I fear Fred’s dancing days may be numbered.”

  “If you’re implying James would hurt him, you’re wrong. James isn’t the violent sort.”

  “Baby cakes, we’re all the violent sort given the right provocation.”

  “Well, he’s not. And the whole issue’s neither here nor there. I’m not interested in Fred, and James knows that. I’ve told him Fred and I are friends, nothing more.”

  He quirked an eyebrow. “I’d love to have heard how that went down. He’s got to know Fred would be all over you if you’d just crook your little finger in his direction. A man in lust never entirely gives up hope, my dear. And neither should you.”

  “No, I suppose not. You’re right, and I’m going to try to cheer up, starting now.”

  “That’s the ticket. With that in mind, I suggest you go out and start having some fun.”

  “I have fun,” she protested.

  “No, you work. Either you’re up at that dress shop selling clothes or here at the apartment locked away in your room, painting.”

  “I enjoy painting.”

  “Yeah, but even Michelangelo needed a break every now and again. Josh is playing at a new club tomorrow night. Lulu’s in a great off-Broadway musical, and although ballet’s never been my favorite, Fred’s good for matinee seats at his latest event. You’re attending them all.”

  “When will I have time?”

  “We’ll make time. Do you want James, the giant poophead, to think you’re sitting around moping over him?”

  “Neil, behave. James is not a poophead any more than he’s an asshat.”

  He grinned. “Hey, love is blind. So, are you going to fade away in this apartment?”

  She straightened her shoulders in sudden decision. “No, I suppose not.”

  “Then get with it, cupcake. There’re some people I want you to meet at a coffeehouse nearby. I think you’d like them. They’re artists like us.”

  “All right.”

  “Good.” The timer dinged for their sandwich. He crossed to pull it out of the oven. “After we eat, we’ll head over, see who’s around. If we run into a girl named Bianca, don’t let her shock you.”

  “Why would she shock me?”

  “Her hair, for starters. Takes some getting used to.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with her hair?”

  “She wears it à la the Medusa, as she calls it. Little braids that stick out all over her head like a coil of snakes.”

  “Sounds different.”

  “Oh, it’s different, all right, especially since she dyed it green.”

  Ivy laughed.

  He divided the sandwich onto plates and passed one to Ivy. “Eat up, cupcake. The night is young, and so are we.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Do you need me for anything else tonight?”

  James glanced up from the stock reports he was reviewing, shifted his attention to his executive assistant. “No. I’m fine, Tory. Go on home. And thanks for sacrificing your Friday evening to finish up those contracts.”

  “All part of the job.” She moved farther into James’s expansive office. “It’ll be dark soon. Shall I turn on a few lights before I leave?”

  The late-summer sun was beginning to lose its brilliance, rays of mellow gold casting a shimmery haze over the horizon, glinting against the broad glass walls that separated the room from the outside world.

  “No, I won’t be much longer.”

  She seemed relieved by his statement. “Good
. Then I won’t need to worry about you falling asleep here again tonight. Imagine my surprise, walking in and finding you on the couch this morning.”

  He gave her a wry half smile. “Sorry about that. I promise I’ll be good and sleep at home this evening.”

  Instead of saying good night, she lingered, a small frown on her face. “You can tell me to mind my own business, but is everything all right? You’ve seemed a little on edge lately.”

  Edgy. Moody. Taciturn. Gruff.

  He’d been all those things and more.

  Ever since his lunch with Madelyn more than a week ago, he’d been short-tempered and distracted. Just yesterday he’d come down hard on a new employee—a fresh-faced kid barely out of graduate school—for misquoting a series of industry figures in a report.

  Easily caught with no lasting damage, the mistake was the sort he should have let pass. Normally he would have, remembering to put a word in the right ears later on to make certain the error got fixed. Instead he’d made an issue of the matter in the middle of a meeting. His few clipped sentences enough to bring mortified color into the young man’s cheeks and a sheen of moisture to his overeager eyes.

  James thought now of those eyes, a wave of guilt assailing him for taking his personal frustrations out on a young guy just starting out.

  He sighed. “It’s nothing, Tory. A lot on my mind lately, that’s all.”

  “Maybe you should take a vacation,” she suggested. “You haven’t had a real break in months.”

  He picked up his gold fountain pen, turned a page of his report in dismissal. “Yes, but I haven’t got the time right now. I’ll give it some thought though.”

  “All right. Let me know if I can clear any of your calendar.”

  “I will. Have a good weekend.”

  “You too.” She took a few steps toward the door, then turned back. “James.”

  He looked up. “What?”

  “Do something impulsive this weekend, will you? Just for the fun of it.”

  “Impulsive, huh?”

  “Yeah. It’s nice to act like a kid every now and again, even if it’s not always so easy to feel like one.”