Bigger Rock

by Lauren Blakely

  “My girls don’t get involved in business affairs,” he says, knocking back some of his scotch before signaling to the waiter for another.

  “I’m not involved in my father’s business, though, and you invited me,” I say, pointing out the flaw in his logic.

  “True, but I’m sure your opinion is more vital than, say, your—”

  His remark is cut off when the reporter taps me on the shoulder. “Picture of you and Charlotte by the bar? Our society page would love one of the happy couple.”

  My gut twists as I stand, knowing this photo is a sham. It’ll either run online tomorrow and then be out of date when we split up in a few more days as planned. Or it will never run because…well, because we won’t be the “happy couple” much longer.

  As we step away from the table, Charlotte shoots me a look that says she’s thinking the same thing. That we’re skirting the line. Our charade seemed fine at first—a plausible enough way to ensure my romantic entanglements didn’t derail Dad’s business deal—even though I was lying to my family. Now, it borders on bald-faced manipulation as I lie to, well, everyone, leaving a pit in my stomach.

  But the end justifies the means, I remind myself as we head to the bar. When I talked to my dad this morning, he said he expected to sign the deal by the weekend, once the final bank paperwork is completed. I hate the thought that Mr. Offerman might have walked had I not fit the mold he wanted. Still, I’m starting to see myself as more of a snake oil salesman, and I don’t care for this side of me.

  The good part is I’ll only have to lie for another few days.

  The bad part is I only get a few more days of pretending.

  “Smile for the camera,” Abe says as we reach the bar, the sketches of Tom Hanks and Ed Asner in the background.

  I wrap my arm around Charlotte and flash a grin, then steal a quick sniff of her neck. She smells like peaches. I dust a quick kiss on her cheek, and her breath catches. She inches closer, and yup, what was fake is real again, and that nagging feeling drifts away. There’s heat between us. Sizzle even. The camera’s got to be picking up on the sparks.

  When I let go of her, I shoot a sheepish grin at the reporter. “Sorry. Can’t help myself. She’s too lovely.”

  “It’s obvious you like her,” he says, then lowers his camera and retrieves a notebook from his pocket. “But I can’t help but wonder, when did it become exclusive?”

  “Sorry?” I ask, knitting my brow.

  “It’s new, right? The exclusivity in your relationship?”

  “Of course we’re exclusive. We’re engaged,” Charlotte says possessively, wrapping a hand around my arm as she deflects his question.

  “I can tell,” the reporter says, pointing at Charlotte’s rock. “I was asking, though, when it became exclusive.”

  A hint of red blazes across Charlotte’s cheeks, and I chime in. “The engagement is relatively new, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Well, it must be new,” Abe says, like a dog grabbing a bone, refusing to let go. “You were in last month’s South Beach Life magazine with a Miami chef, and just a few weeks ago I believe you were seen with a celebrity trainer.”

  Fuck me and my playboy ways. I tense, my muscles tightening, and here it comes—the situation my father desperately wanted to avoid.

  “That was just chatter,” I say, as I maintain my grin. “You know how it goes.”

  “You mean with Cassidy? It was casual with Cassidy Winters?” he asks, inserting the adjective of his choice—casual—as if he can get me to agree to use it.

  “No, I wasn’t saying that it was casual. I was saying it was chatter. Meaning there was nothing going on,” I say crisply, correcting the bold little bastard.

  He nods and strokes his chin. “Got it. But that’s not the case with the chef. Because in Miami last month, you were tagged in a Facebook photo that has you giving her a kiss on the cheek.”

  He reaches for his phone, slides his fat thumb across the screen, and shows me the photo. He had it ready and waiting. He’d called it up in advance, preparing to pounce. I shrug, my mind quickly playing out scenarios. Then I go for it. I pucker up and give Abe a quick air kiss on the cheek. I fight every instinct to cringe as my lips come within millimeters of his baby face, but I’ve got to pull this off. “See? I’m just an affectionate guy.”

  He wipes his palm across his cheek. “So it was nothing with the chef?”

  I nod and gesture to his face. “Just like that was nothing,” I say, wishing I could give him the brush off he deserves. But if I walk away, or say ‘no comment,’ it will just fuel him. Answering coolly gives me the greatest chance of diffusing this bomb.

  Abe anchors his attention to Charlotte. “Does it bother you that up until a few weeks ago, Spencer Holiday was in the papers as a noted New York City playboy?”

  She shakes her head and smiles sweetly. “No. I know who he comes home to at night.”

  “Not every night,” the reporter mumbles.

  Anger lashes through me. That’s the end of Mr. Nice Guy. “Excuse me? What did you say, Abe?” I ask pointedly, because it’s one thing to be pushy. It’s entirely another to be an asshole.

  He raises his chin. “I said, so every night you’ll be running The Lucky Spot as husband and wife?”

  Liar.

  But the liar makes a good point, and his remark reminds me that Charlotte and I are going to need a game plan for managing this fake engagement at work during the next few days. Or maybe not, since it’ll be over soon.

  Once again, that thought churns my stomach.

  Before I can answer Abe’s inquiry about how we’ll run our business, Mrs. Offerman joins us, inserting herself into the impromptu interview. “Everything okay?”

  I never thought I’d think this, but, boy, am I glad to see her.

  “Just catching up on how quickly Charlotte and Spencer became exclusive,” the reporter says to Mrs. Offerman. “Very quickly.”

  She arches an eyebrow, and her curiosity seems to set in. “Is that so? I knew it was fast, but wasn’t aware it was quite so recent.”

  Turns out I’m actually not happy to see her. Not at all. Especially since she says those words like they’re poisonous.

  Charlotte clears her throat, pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, and meets Mrs. Offerman’s gaze, then Abe’s. “It is recent, as we’ve said many times. Everything happened quickly. But that’s sometimes how it goes when you fall in love, isn’t it?” Charlotte says as she runs her fingertips along the sleeve of my shirt. There’s a layer of cotton between us, but I swear her touch ignites my skin, leaving a trail of sparks in its wake. She tilts her face and meets my gaze. My breath catches when she locks eyes with me, and briefly the rest of the restaurant ceases to exist.

  I nod, swallowing dryly as I do. I’m not sure who my answer is meant for—her, them, or us.

  But my yes feels honest at the very least, and that matters to me.

  Charlotte rises on tiptoes and brushes a soft kiss to my lips. When she pulls away, she hooks her arm through mine and stares at the reporter. “It’s not a problem that he was seen with someone else a few weeks ago. Doesn’t change a thing. It doesn’t change how I feel for him.”

  Abe has no more questions. At least for tonight, she’s managed to throw him off the scent of our charade.

  I flash back to our playful revenge on Bradley at her building gym the other night. Sure, Charlotte got a kick out of the show we staged for her ex, but that kiss on the treadmill to make him jealous was nothing compared to what she just finessed for me. She keeps saving me, again and again.

  My heart trips over itself in a race to get closer to her.

  Something is happening. Something strange and completely foreign. My heart is speaking a language I don’t understand as it tries to fling itself at Charlotte.

  Great. Now, that’s two organs I have to do battle with every day.

  When it’s time for the show, my father commandeers my attention on the brief
walk across Forty-fourth Street to the Shubert Theater entrance.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Absolutely fine,” I reply, because the last thing I want is for him to worry. A cab screeches by, spewing out exhaust, then slams on its brakes at the red light. “The reporter was annoying, but nothing I haven’t heard before.”

  My dad shakes his head. “I meant with Charlotte. Everything okay with her?”

  “She’s fine,” I answer with a smile, glad that my dad cares more about the woman than the story.

  He points to Charlotte, walking several feet ahead of us with the others. “You two are perfect for each other. Don’t know why I didn’t see it before, but now as I see you together, it’s like it was right in front of me all along.”

  Like a hawk swooping down from the sky, the guilt returns. This time it plants claws in my chest, settling in for a long stay. I shove my hand through my dark hair. My father is going to be so disappointed when Charlotte and I break up. “You’re such a hopeless romantic,” I say.

  He laughs as we slow our pace when we near the crowds milling outside the brightly lit marquee. “That’s why I run a jewelry store.”

  “Not much longer, though,” I point out playfully. “You’re a free man soon.”

  “I know.” He sighs, a wistful note in the sound. “I’ll miss it.”

  “You’ll be happy to be retired, though.”

  He nods several times, as if he’s bucking himself up. “I’ll be happy to spend more time with your mom. She’s the center of my world. Like Charlotte is for you,” he says, clapping me on the back.

  Yeah, weirdness. It’s happening now for sure.

  20

  The usher seats us.

  Charlotte crosses her arms, and heaves a sigh.

  “You doing okay?”

  She nods. Her lips form a straight line.

  “You sure? Because if I were a betting man I’d say you’re pissed.”

  “I’m fine.”

  I arch an eyebrow skeptically. “Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.” She uncrosses her arms, grabs my shirt sleeve, and shifts gears instantly. “When are we going to make a voodoo doll for that reporter?”

  I pretend to stare thoughtfully in the distance. “Let’s see. I’ve got that on the calendar for tomorrow at three. That still work?”

  She nods vigorously. “You bring the pins; I’ll get the cloth.”

  “Excellent. I’ll find an instructional video on YouTube so we can do it up right.”

  She beams, then whispers to me as the overture begins, “I hated those questions.”

  “He was trying to play hardball, and it’s such a pointless topic. You did great though.”

  “They were embarrassing,” she says, then beckons me closer as fiddle notes carry across the audience. “Do you think he’s onto us?”

  “It felt that way, but I think he was just lobbing questions to see which stuck.”

  “Did you like my final answer, though?”

  Like it? I loved what she said about things happening quickly. More than I should. “It was fantastic.”

  “I did good with that one, didn’t I?” she says, blowing on her fingers like she’s too hot to handle.

  My heart plummets, then craters to the floor. That sinking feeling comes with the recognition that I wanted some truth to what she said. I wanted something in it to be real.

  “It was thoroughly believable,” I say, managing a smile that is fake, and her answer is a reminder that even though for some unknown reason I don’t want this to end, Charlotte is over and out in four more days.

  She’ll be done, but I’ll want to keep this up.

  The first number begins, and I think—no, I’m sure—that this is officially my least favorite time at a musical, ever. Watching it hurts.

  Charlotte is quiet as we wander through Times Square, having said good night to my parents and the Offermans. We thread our way through the crazy crowds in the glitzy neon of Manhattan’s famous sardine tin, sort of a mosh pit meets a zoo of people in a city of millions. A man painted as a silver robot makes jerky gestures next to a top hat collecting a few coins. A guy peddling Statue of Liberty key chains bumps into Charlotte and knocks her with his elbow.

  “Ow,” she mutters.

  “You okay?” I ask, and reach my hand to rub. Instinct, I suppose—to take care of her. But I pull my hand back. She doesn’t want it, or need it. She can take care of herself.

  “Yeah, I’ll be fine,” she says, shrugging it off. “And hey, we survived another performance.”

  “Of Fiddler?”

  She shakes her head. “No.” She adopts the tone of a radio announcer. “And tonight at eight p.m., we have another rendition of Happily Engaged Couple.”

  I wince. “Right. That one.”

  This is when I should make a joke. When I should reassure her. When I should tell her thanks once again.

  I say nothing. I have nothing to say. A bald man with two gold teeth barks out offers to a half-nude comedy act. “Half nude, half off.”

  Someone shouts back, “All nude, all off?”

  We pass a theater, then a T-shirt shop, and sidestep a couple in khaki shorts, white sneakers, and FDNY T-shirts. I have no idea where we’re going. Honestly, I’m not even sure why we were walking on Broadway in the first place. I think we just went in a U. What is wrong with me? I can’t even navigate my own city anymore.

  We reach the corner of Forty-third and stop on the concrete. A bus crawls up Eighth Avenue. Tourists circle us as we stand awkwardly, facing each other. My whole life I’ve known what to do, how to move forward, how to meet life at every curve and bend. Tonight, I’m thrown, and I barely understand how to put one foot in front of the other.

  I scratch my head.

  “Um, where are we going, Spencer?”

  I shrug. “Hadn’t thought about it.”

  “What do you want to do?” she asks, clasping her hands together as if she’s looking for something to do with them.

  “Whatever works for you,” I say, jamming my thumbs into the pockets of my jeans.

  “Do you want to go somewhere?”

  “If you do.”

  She sighs. “Should I just get a cab home?”

  “Do you want to get a cab?” I ask, and I’d like to kick myself. I can’t stand me right now, this indecisive, uncertain dude in a funk who is trying to take over my body. I don’t know him. I don’t care for him. And I didn’t give him squatter’s rights in my body. I’m going to have to muscle him out of the way. I hold up a hand. “Scratch that,” I say with drummed-up confidence. This fake affair might be ending in a few more days, but I’m not going to mope my way through the best sex of my life. I’m going to rise to the occasion.

  “Scratch what? Getting a cab?”

  I shake my head and park my hands on her shoulders. “This is what I want to do right now. I want to take you back to my place. Strip you naked. Run my tongue across every inch of your skin, and then do that thing I told you I would do to you when we were in Katharine’s.”

  Her eyes sparkle, then shine with desire. She nods eagerly. “Yes.”

  There. Beautiful. I grab my phone from my back pocket to order up an Uber, since catching a cab here is impossible. As I tap my details into the app, she places her hand on my arm.

  “But, um, there’s something I wanted to tell you first.”

  Oh shit. My heart pounds. She’s going to end this. She’s had enough. She’s gotten her fill. She’s saddling up for one last ride tonight, and then she’s putting me to pasture.

  “What is it?” I ask, and my heart feels like it’s in my throat.

  “Remember when we said no lying?”

  “Yes.” I swallow, bracing myself. The tension ties itself into knots in my chest, and I don’t like this feeling. I don’t want to ever feel this way. It feels like need and dependency. Like something I barely know. “Are you going to?” I spit out.

  “Going to
what?”

  “End this?” I ask, because I can’t take it anymore.

  She laughs.

  “It’s not funny,” I insist.

  “It is funny.”

  “Why?”

  She shakes her head. “You idiot.” She grabs my shirt and brings me closer to her. My heart throws itself against my ribs. “This is what I wanted to tell you. When you asked me what was wrong before the show started, and I said nothing? That was a lie. I was jealous. Terribly jealous.”

  I rewind to Charlotte crossing her arms, to her making jokes about the reporter, to her being proud of pulling off the act. “You were jealous?”

  “I was trying desperately not to be. That’s why I let it go and made the joke about the voodoo doll.”

  “Why were you jealous?”

  She rolls her eyes. “All those women the reporter was naming. Hearing about them made me jealous.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t you get it?”

  “No. But we’ve already established you need to use the ABCs with me. So go ahead. Spell it out,” I say, tapping my temple and mouthing dense.

  She blushes, then speaks softly. Her voice is barely audible above the noise of the street, the sound of the crowds, the roar of traffic. But every word is music. “Because they were with you.”

  My lips quirk up. “Like how I felt about Bradley when you were with him,” I admit, and it feels freeing to say that. More so, to give voice to something I’d felt but barely understood at the time.

  “You felt that way when I was with him?”

  “Sometimes I did,” I say, flashing back to those days when she was with the supreme douche. There were nights when she left The Lucky Spot early and went home with him, and my mind wandered to her. Sure, I had women to keep me busy, but now and then the green-eyed monster paid me a visit. I’d be a sap, though, to tell her all of that. I’ve got to protect some of my secrets. I hold up my hands. “Go figure.”

  “Spencer?” she whispers.

  “Yes?”

  “I think we broke another rule tonight.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “Which one? Lying?”

  “Yes, but also—”