by Beth Ciotta
Yikes.
Anxious to redirect my thoughts, I ask, “Why are you tending bar?”
“Making some extra cash.”
I think about how insanely gifted this man is. “Don’t be insulted,” I say, “but I don’t understand why you’re wasting your talent.”
“How so?”
“Playing here at Joey Mac’s, exclusively.”
He shrugs. “I like it here. The area. The people.”
“Yes, but it’s such a tiny venue. Small audiences. Modest salary.”
“Intimate venue. Steady salary.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re as proficient on guitar as you are at the keys and you have a sultry singing voice that reduces women to sighing, clingy idiots. On top of that, you’re blessed with good looks and sizzling charisma.”
He braces his forearms on the bar and leans in with laser focus. “I had no idea you were such a fan, Meg. If I sing to you now, will you sigh and cling?”
“I’m serious, Nick.”
“So am I.”
His words are pure cheese, but his tone and expression are sincere. I don’t know how to respond, so I don’t. Instead I home in on his lack of ambition. At his age, I was shooting for the stars. Hell, I still dream big. “You should be recording, Nick. Performing on concert stages and earning big bucks.”
“There’s more to life than fame and fortune.” He angles his head and studies me in a way that makes me squirm. “Don’t be insulted,” he says while flipping the focus to me, “but don’t you want more?”
I tense because it sounds uncomfortably close to Ben’s get-a-damn-life suggestion from last night. The insinuation that my life is somehow lacking because I’m over forty, single, and childless is irritating. Not to mention clichéd.
I try not to take offense and fail, but at least I keep my tone light. “If you’re talking about a family, I’ll get around to that when the time is right. Meanwhile, if you’re still in need, I’ll be your wife this weekend.”
Chapter 8
I BRACE FOR a sexual innuendo. I mean, I just set myself up for a crack about wifely duties. Not intentionally, but still.
“How fast can you pack?” he asks.
It’s not the response I expected. Then again, he’s been surprising me since last night. Where’s the shameless seducer I thought I knew? “The last time someone asked me that question I was in imminent danger of a volcanic eruption in Indonesia. You’re looking at a souped-up version of a minuteman, Nick.”
“Great. So this weekend then.”
I blink. This weekend is staring us in the face. “You want to fly out tomorrow?”
“Or tonight. The sooner I address my idiocy, the sooner I can ease my grandmother’s mind and put this mess to rest. That’s not a problem, right?” he asks as he takes out his smartphone. “The short notice?”
“Not for me,” I say as my pulse revs. “Obviously. Free as a freaking bird. But what about you? You’re a weekend fixture here at Mac’s.”
“I’ll arrange coverage,” he says while texting someone.
“But—”
“My grandmother didn’t give specifics regarding her illness, so I’m anxious to get there before it’s too late.”
A moment ago he was borderline charming. Now he’s seriously intense. I’m intrigued. “Lucky you,” I say as I whip out my own phone. “I have a butt-load of travel contacts. You cover your performances and finish out your shift. I’ll make the flight arrangements.”
“I’ll take you up on that. Charge both tickets to this,” he says while passing me a credit card.
“I can’t—”
“My problem. My treat.” He walks away, distracted by a customer at the bar.
I pocket his card, keeping it safe until he returns. I appreciate his generous offer, but I’m not charging my airfare to his account. This trip is as much for me as for Nick and his grandmother. And besides, if the man needs to moonlight for extra cash, he can’t afford to pay my way.
With that issue decided, I sip coffee and focus on my phone, cringing as I see five new messages. I quickly skim four texts. All of them are from my former crew. All of them express shock and disappointment regarding our retired show and my terminated contract. Two of them invite me for a “drink and bitch” session. Two of them make snarky comments about Missy-social-media-whore-Delecorte.
I respond to all four because if I don’t, they’ll worry. Also, I know them and I know at least three of them are wrestling with guilt because they retained their jobs—albeit with a different host and show—while I was cast away like an old shoe.
I keep my responses brief and pithy—ONWARD AND UPWARD!—even though I’m mentally venting a hundred gripes.
Truth is, I’m thrilled about splitting town pronto. I can’t wait to distance myself from the welling humiliation of being replaced by a millennial sexpot. If the media learns the studio’s reasons for letting me go, there’s potential for sensationalism. Hell, they might post side-by-side photos of me (looking inept or wrung out, no doubt) and Missy (looking fit and fabulous, of course), playing up the fact that I’m almost twenty years her senior.
No matter what photos they use there’ll be no missing I’m a tomboyish brunette and she’s a curvy, cleavage-flaunting blonde. They’ll exploit the ageism and sexism angle, putting me in the hot seat. Do I rail against the industry? Champion mature women? Risk alienating younger fans or pissing off studio execs?
My head hurts just thinking about it.
So don’t. Book the flight to Italy and focus on yourself.
Right. Like diverting the press’s attention by moving on and up with an exciting new venture. If only that fabulous something would drop into my lap. Preferably before I return to the States.
After sending the fourth text, I listen to the last message. It’s a voice mail from Ben, asking if I’m okay.
My stomach knots at the sound of his voice. Does he miss me already? Is he secretly cursing the higher-ups for sticking him with a high-maintenance host?
Or is he merely anxious to rid himself of any lingering guilt regarding my termination? Maybe he’s secretly pumped at the prospect of working with a beautiful young woman who fascinated the nation with her melodramatic sexcapades?
The unusual and fierce pang of insecurity that’s dogged me ever since Ben revealed the identity of my replacement is a royal pain. I hate that I’m self-conscious about my looks, my age. It’s new for me and it majorly sucks.
I glance at Nick, who’s talking on his phone while pouring new drafts for the old barflies.
As if sensing I need a boost, he looks over his shoulder and gives me a wink.
Not a smarmy wink or a playful wink, but a wink that says: You’ve got this.
My fingers drip with sarcasm as I respond to Ben via text:
EVERYTHING’S PEACHY.
Chapter 9
BOOKING A LAST-MINUTE trip to Italy isn’t cheap, but it’s doable.
After supplying Nick with the flight time, a checklist of necessities (such as his passport) and tips on what kind of clothing to pack (Tuscany’s tricky in May), I zip back to the brownstone to tend to my own rushed departure.
I’ve spent the last six years traveling the world. Granted, usually I have more than four hours to prepare for a trip, but I have a routine, so mostly I’m on automatic.
Naturally, where I’m going, what I’m doing, and how long I’m staying influences my choice of luggage and attire. Packing for a leisurely three-day weekend on a Tuscan olive farm is vastly different than gearing up for a fourteen-day adventure in the Australian Outback.
In this instance, I pack everything I need in a carry-on and a backpack. Electronic devices, umbrella, and toiletries. Pants, skirts, and tops in neutral colors. A sweater. Minimal items. Maximum mixing and matching. Given the warm days and cool nights, layering’s essential. As are comfortable shoes for cobblestone streets and fashionable flats for evening affairs. Toss in two scarves as accessories, sunglasses, and a hat,
and I’m good.
The only thing I debate is sleepwear. I’ll be sharing a room with Nick. Do I play it cool and maintain my normal? Boxer shorts, oversized tees, and fuzzy socks? Or do I indulge my yearning and slide in a lace and satin chemise?
The chemise I decide, plus boxers and two flirty camis. I nix the fuzzy socks.
As a precaution (and perhaps a talisman), I toss in birth control.
Chapter 10
BY THE TIME Nick knocks on my door, I’ve packed my bags, carted my bonsai across the hall to Mrs. Clinger (my primary tree sitter), booked transportation from Rome to Tuscany, researched the town of Cetona, and fielded three calls from work associates regarding the cancellation of Epic Adventures with Megan Rooney. Dodging the truth behind my dismissal was depressing. Putting up a cheery front was draining.
The news is spreading fast. I really should call my parents but the last thing I need right now is a lecture on the instability and unreliability of a career in show biz. I’ve endured that dirge for years. Ever since I bucked college to join an acting troupe on the Ren Faire circuit.
Mood worsening by the second, I wrench open my door, thankful to see Nick with his own bags in tow. Instead of hello, I say, “Get me the hell out of Dodge,” then scramble ahead of him. When we hit the first floor, Nick takes charge and hails us a cab. Normally I take the Septa train to the airport. It’s convenient and economical. But a cab is quicker. It only takes us fifteen minutes to arrive at Philadelphia International Airport.
Nick pays the fair and then opens doors for me. He helps with my luggage, even though I don’t need help. I only have a backpack and a lightweight, rolling carry-on. I’m used to schlepping more. Does he think I’m accustomed to being pampered? Is he assuming I usually travel with a personal assistant or a doting entourage?
I’m not and I don’t.
When I toured with my tech team, we didn’t have the luxury of a company jet. We flew commercial. I’ve been separated from Ben and the crew on more than one occasion, but when we’re together, I’m one of the boys. I’m self-sufficient and more than capable of wheeling a measly suitcase.
“I’ve got this,” I say, partially out of pride, partially out of fluster. It’s been a long time since a man rattled me in such a visceral way.
“There’s still time to pull out,” Nick says.
I stop on the curb and face him. “Why would I want to pull out?”
“You’ve been wound tight ever since I knocked on your door.”
“You mean I’ve been a bitch.”
He goes to speak and I wave off whatever diplomatic thing he’s about to say.
“I snapped at you instead of greeting you and then I gave you the silent treatment on the ride here. I’m sorry, Nick. It’s not you, it’s me. Well, it’s sort of you, but it’s not your fault. Mostly I’m bent out of shape about work-related stuff. I’ll be fine. Let’s just get through security.”
I roll tense shoulders and force a jovial smile. “I don’t know about you but I’m looking forward to a cocktail.”
He glances at his watch. “I don’t know that we’ll have time for that.”
“Lucky you, you’re with me and that involves some perks.”
“I’m intrigued.”
Ignoring his knee-buckling smile, I hurry ahead. Once inside the terminal, I shift into Meg-the-intrepid-traveler mode.
I know this facility well. I know the routine and various personnel and a few handy tricks. Because I’m a frequent flier of our airline, I have expedited security checks and early boarding. I’m also privy to a special lounge with access to unlimited coffee and a few complimentary drinks.
Like me, Nick has a backpack slung over his shoulders and he’s pulling a rolling duffel.
His free hand rests at the small of my back as we ascend the escalator and veer toward security. I feel a tingle of awareness at his touch and the way he speaks close to my ear, even though he’s only commenting on the throng of travelers jamming the corridor.
I’m uncomfortably conscious of random stares from fellow female travelers. Not the curious kind—Aren’t you Megan what’s-her-name from that travel show? But the judgmental kind—Check out the cougar with the hot, young stud.
Easy to assume we’re lovers considering Nick’s affectionate manner. When he’s on a date, is he always this attentive? Or is he merely practicing intimacy now so it will seem natural when we’re with his grandmother?
My mind zings with an array of questions about his upbringing and influences. I’m hungry for details about his grandmother and her farm, and anxious about the romantic back story Nick and I have yet to create. Given the long flight, we’ll have plenty of time to chat, but as Nick saves me from tripping over a rogue garment bag, I have to ask, “Are you always so protective of women, so…old-fashioned? Insisting on paying my way, holding open doors.”
“Are you accusing me of being sexist?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m curious. With some guys it’s benevolent sexism masquerading as gallantry. I read somewhere that’s even more insidious than hostile sexism. And then there are men whose intentions are truly honorable. Either they were raised to be respectful or it’s just ingrained.” I think about the way Nick rushed to my apartment last night when he thought I was in trouble. His concern had been genuine. “I’m thinking you’re the chivalrous sort.”
“It’s common courtesy, Meg. Plain and simple.”
“I don’t know about simple. Common courtesy is becoming a lost art.”
“I never took you as the cynical sort.”
“Me, neither. Funny how getting canned taints your outlook.”
“You’ll get over it,” he says.
“The cynical thing or the canned thing?”
He considers for a moment. “Both.”
Chivalrous and optimistic.
“If it helps,” he adds, “I don’t think you’re defenseless or inept. Just the opposite. I’d like to think I’m respectful of all women, but, no, I’m not always so attentive.”
He’s suggesting I’m special.
I don’t know what to do with that notion or with the varied sensations pummeling my composure.
One of the reasons I found it so easy to ignore my attraction to Nick all these months—aside from the age factor—was because I’d pegged him as shallow. Watching him field the attention of amorous fans at Joey Mac’s, I told myself there wasn’t one genuine bone in his body. In hindsight, I never paid close attention. Not even when he tried to engage me in conversation. I saw what I wanted and heard what I wanted—whatever diminished my interest.
In truth, he’s complicated, and that’s fascinating.
“On second thought,” I say as we bypass the long queue and approach TSA pre-check, “we should probably skip the pre-flight cocktail.”
Considering my sudden and fierce urge to kiss Nick blind, if I lower my inhibitions, we might miss our flight.
Chapter 11
FORTY MINUTES LATER, Nick and I are sitting side-by-side on a massive airliner. Since he’s immersed in texting, I busy myself by arranging my travel booty. Water bottle, e-reader, iPod, eye mask. Stowing my backpack under the seat in front of me, I fixate on the nine-hour overnight flight ahead of us. Space is tight. Given Nick’s considerable height, he has even less room than me.
“I know some yoga moves,” I muse aloud.
“You don’t want to know where my mind just went.”
Shades of the seducer. His barely-there smile steers my own thoughts toward the risqué. Suddenly I’m envisioning me and Nick in bed—naked—in a particularly bendy position.
“Why, Miss Rooney,” he teases while ditching his phone, “you’re blushing.”
“I’m hot. As in overheated,” I clarify, while swigging water. Damn. That flirtatious and chivalrous combo is flat-out deadly.
I cap my bottle and tuck it in the seat pocket. “What I mean is…I can show you how to alleviate the stress and strain of a long flight with a few basic
exercises you can do in your seat. Although, once we’re under way you should get up and walk the aisle, do a few knee bends. It’s good for the circulation and—”
“Believe it or not,” he says as he buckles in, “I’ve flown before, Meg. A few times in fact. Both domestic and international.”
I flash back to the few minutes we spent in the airport snack shop. “We need bottled water for the flight,” I told him. “If you don’t have a neck pillow, you might want to pick one up. Oh, and compression socks. They help to ward off swollen ankles. It’s a long flight and—” Blah, blah, blah.
Good grief. I’m mothering him. Or at least it sounds like I am. Really I’m just offering advice from years of experience.
Another thought occurs. Liza was right. I’d smoke that SBS audition. Just now the wonders of an eye mask and noise-canceling headphones are rolling through my brain. Too bad the thought of hawking products still makes me feel washed up.
“Excuse me,” a soft voice says. “I’m sorry to interrupt. But are you Megan Rooney from Epic Adventures?”
Cheeks burning for a new and fabulous reason, I smile over at the woman half-hunched in the aisle. “Yes, I am.”
“Oh, my God. I knew it! I love your show. Will you…can I have your autograph?”
“Of course,” I say, pulse tripping as she passes me a travel magazine.
“Tuscany,” she says while pointing to the cover story. “My husband and I are going because of the episode you did on the self-drive vintage tour of the Tuscan Hills. We actually booked one.”
“How exciting,” I say. “What wheels did you rent?”
“I wanted the Vespa, but my husband, Kyle—he’s sitting just a few rows ahead of you—he wants to drive the vintage Fiat 500.”
“Nice choice,” Nick says, and I realize suddenly—since I’m seated by the window—I’ve been talking right over him.
“This is…” My friend? My neighbor? My traveling companion soon-to-be pretend husband? “Nick Walker. Nick, this is…”
