“Why’s that?” Alex sips her drink with a frown.
“We’re at the beach. If I’m near the ocean, I want to actually see it.”
“Brooklyn is near the ocean,” Alex says under her breath.
Even though Rebecca is edging away from us, she’s still heard the comment. “You know, I passed the fourth grade, too. But my desk doesn’t overlook the Far Rockaways.” She carries her soda glass a couple of yards away, to the line where the hotel’s perfect lawn becomes beach sand. “Ah, that’s it.” She shimmies in the sand.
I walk over to join her, scanning the dark horizon. I see a ship at sea in the distance, its lights all aglow.
Becca digs a trough with her toe. The sun has set, but I can still tell that her toenails are painted a shiny purple color. I want so badly to run my hand up her smooth ankle and explore the texture of her skin.
Fuck. Do I have it bad, or what?
“This is the best bar I’ve ever been to,” Becca says with a smile. The wind whips up, lifting her dress a couple of inches, showing off her knees. A few more of my brain cells jump ship in sympathy. In the breeze, Rebecca clasps her hands over her bare arms.
“Are you cold?” I can’t help but ask. I sound like my mother.
“Not cold enough to ruin the line of this dress with a wrap.”
Alex snorts. “It’s great to be out of the office, I suppose.”
“Actually, it would be great to be in the office.” Rebecca’s smile fades. “I am on sick leave right now. It’s the pits. Nate invited me to this shindig because I have a bad case of cabin fever.”
“Right.” Alex eyes Becca, then her glance darts to me again. I can see her wheels turning. “How long have you been working in Brooklyn now?”
“Two years,” Rebecca says, watching the waves at the edge of the dark ocean.
“Is it that long already?” Alex asks, and I sort of brace myself. I don’t like the calculating look in my friend’s eye. “Do you like Brooklyn?”
“Love it,” Becca says quickly. “The hockey team is a lot of fun. And our setup in DUMBO is pretty great. Everyone lives nearby, and I’ve really gotten to know all the vendors we work with. It’s like a small town in the middle of the city.”
“That does sound nice,” Alex agrees. “Someone is waving at you, honey. I guess they’re letting people in now. Time to hustle for charity.”
We all look toward the ropes, where my winger Castro is beckoning to Rebecca. “Look who’s here!” he calls.
“No way!” another player shouts. “Becca! We missed you!”
Rebecca hesitates. “Do you mind if I say hello?”
“Go,” I tell her. Stay, my heart whines.
“I’m not going to pick his pocket on the router division in the next two minutes,” Alex says with a grumble. “Even I can’t work that fast.”
Becca gives me a glance of amusement and then hurries off to greet her friends. I watch her walk away, her smooth heels against the grass…
“Hey,” Alex says, snapping her fingers. “Romeo.”
This startles me out of my stupor. “What?”
Alex smirks at me. Then she takes my drink out of my hand and takes a tiny sip. “I swear to God, Nate. Does that girl know how you feel?”
Shit.
Alex snickers at my expression. “Seriously? I hope you weren’t actually trying to keep it a secret. Your poker face sucks.”
“I don’t often lose at poker.” World’s lamest comeback.
My oldest friend rolls her eyes. “Don’t play when she’s at the table, then. I don’t think you could even see your own cards.”
I stare into my whisky glass. My infatuation with Rebecca needs to remain a secret. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. Nothing is going to happen there.”
“Why not?”
Ugh. I can’t discuss this with Alex of all people. “She’s an employee. It would be completely improper.” Worse yet, if I scare Becca off I’ve lost not only an employee but a good friend.
“I see.” Alex considers me. Then she puts her hand on my shoulders and squeezes. It feels good, because nobody ever touches me. Not really. “But how can you live like this? I’ve met puppies more subtle than you are. That’s why you sent her to Brooklyn, right? To try to get her out of your head.”
“Whatever,” I say simply, watching Rebecca hug my backup goalie. “It didn’t work.”
Alex sighs. “You’re a really smart man, Nate. But you don’t know everything. Especially about women.”
She’s got me there. Women are a mystery to me. Even Alex, who I know pretty well.
“We’re not all Juliet, you know,” Alex says flatly.
“Gosh, really?” Even I wasn’t clueless enough to equate the issues I had with my ex to the Rebecca Situation. “I know that, Al.”
“I’m not sure you do,” she says quietly, her big brown eyes studying me. “Juliet did a number on you. She basically convinced you that no woman would find you attractive if it weren’t for your money.”
“That’s not true,” I insist. “It’s just that the ones I like don’t seem to notice me.” Fuck. I shouldn’t really say things like that anymore to Alex. When did everything get so complicated? “Alex,” I try. “Is there something you needed to talk about? I’ll listen.”
She gives me an appraising glance. “Too late. Another time, I guess.”
I’ve fucked everything up, apparently.
“Our donors are arriving,” she points out. “Time to hustle some cash out of Florida’s glitterati.” She straightens her spine. “You’d better hustle some dollars, too, Kattenberger. Just because I lost our bet doesn’t mean you get to loaf around drinking Scotch on my dime.”
“I can raise more than you in the first hour.”
She lifts her chin. “No, you can’t.”
I’ll bet you a dinner at Nobu… Before I can get the words out, she glides off toward an elderly man in a tux, whose eyes light up at her approach.
This will be the last quiet moment of the evening, so I ask the bartender to freshen my drink before I hurl myself into the breach. Lauren glides up in a sleek blue dress.
“You look stunning,” I tell her, hoping my goalie will notice. Those two need to work out their differences before the conclusion of the playoffs separates them again.
“Thank you,” she says. “You’re looking dapper yourself. Do you need anything?”
“Just the usual. If somebody is monopolizing me, think up a reason to drag me away. I think I just challenged Alex to a duel—who can raise the most cash in the next hour.”
“Of course you did. Hey—that guy over there with the silver tie? He’s a Florida senator, right?”
I glance over Lauren’s shoulder. “Good eye, buddy. I should talk to him about net neutrality.”
“Get in there.” She smacks me on the butt with her handbag. “I’ll get a drink and follow you in a minute. Just do me a favor?”
“Yeah?” My gaze wanders to the hockey players in the corner. One of them is trying to convince Becca to dance.
“Don’t stare at Rebecca’s cleavage the whole time you’re chatting with the senator. He’ll notice.”
“Jesus,” I curse, looking away. I don’t know who I’m more pissed at—Alex and Lauren for butting in, or myself for being so fucking obvious.
“Jesus yourself,” Lauren says grumpily. “Why do you think it’s okay to stage an intervention in my life, yet I have to pretend not to notice all the things wrong in yours? Ignoring all your bullshit gets old.” Her face changes before I can even reply. “Senator! What can we get you to drink?”
I paste on a smile and greet the man, while Lauren shoots me one last dirty look.
The women in my life exist to put me in my place. It’s a goddamn fact.
12
Rebecca
Nate’s party offers terrific people-watching. There are basketball players in custom-fitted tuxes that span their lanky frames, and diamond-clad women in designer gowns. I’ve nev
er even heard of most of the labels these women are comparing. Florida’s glitterati, in all its finery, has come out to tonight’s spectacle.
Oddly, the fancy people at this party aren’t nearly as interested in the passed hors d’oeuvres as Georgia and I are. “If you see the spring roll guy again, wave me down,” my best friend insists. “I have to go chase that journalist away from Castro, who’s looking tipsy.”
“Will do,” I promise her. “You want another glass of bubbly? I think I’ll get a drink.”
“Sure!” she calls over her shoulder. “Back in a jif!”
I survey the scene, trying to decide which bar line is the shortest. This is a great party, made even greater by the fact that I’m the only one here without an agenda. Georgia isn’t working too hard, thankfully. But the players are tasked with mingling for a couple of hours, charming the guests who paid a thousand smackers to meet them.
Meanwhile, Nate and Alex work the room for charitable contributions. Separately, I notice. Even Lauren is on the job, steering important people toward Nate, while also ducking her ex.
I’m the only one who’s here just for fun and finger foods. And eye candy. I’m admiring the two-dozen basketball players in attendance. They’re easy to spot—they tower over everyone else. Seriously, their tailors must have to order their tuxedo pants from a special supplier.
I chat up a few of these giants, but they make me feel even shorter than usual. And it’s hard to deny that I’m getting pretty tired as the night wears on.
This head injury thing really sucks.
Across the space an empty barstool beckons, and I slide onto it, then wait for the bartender’s attention. But he’s a busy man, and I have all night.
So I’m completely surprised when Nate’s friend Alex plops down next to me. “Hi, Becca,” she says in a friendly tone. “Party going all right?”
For a moment I just blink at her. “Of course. You planned a beautiful event.” If she’s going to pretend like she wasn’t Bitch Number One to me a couple of hours ago, then I’m happy to play along. Though I do sneak a glance at the bartender, hoping he’ll notice me eventually. He’s still working his tail off on an order of five margaritas, and I watch him shake them up, wishing I could have one.
“Let me ask you a question,” Alex says. “Why do you suppose Nate moved you to Brooklyn from his Manhattan office two years ago?”
This question startles me, and my head whips around to find Alex smirking at me. “I have no idea,” I blurt out. But then I catch myself. “Well, what I mean is…” Gulp. “There were several reasons. Nate wanted someone he trusted to look after the new office in Brooklyn. And I’m not as…Manhattan as Lauren.”
“Lauren is from Long Island, isn’t she?” Alex asks, waving down the busy bartender. “Not Manhattan at all.”
Dear lord, what is the woman’s point? I’m this close to grabbing a straw off the bar and stabbing her with it. Before tonight, I never took Alex for the mean-girl type. But here she goes, identifying my sore spot and poking me in it!
“What’s your point?” I ask her, and I’m not cautious with my tone. “If you’re trying to point out that Nate upgraded to a smarter, more fashionable, more ambitious assistant than I’ll ever be, believe me, I already know.”
Alex’s only reply to this little rant of mine is, “Chardonnay.” And she’s not even talking to me. The bartender has leapt at the chance to help her, even though I’ve been waiting a nice long time.
“My point, hon,” she says eventually, “is only that maybe you should ask Nate. Make him tell you why he moved you to Brooklyn.”
“Uh…” That makes no sense at all. “Okay?”
Alex takes her wine glass from the bartender and departs without sparing me another glance. Her parting shot is to shove a twenty in the tip jar. No wonder she gets excellent service.
“May I help you?” the bartender finally asks. He’s helped about ten people ahead of me. Bartenders are like cash beagles—they can sniff out who’s used to quick service, and who will wait.
“Could I please have two glasses of champagne?”
“Of course, miss.”
I watch him pour them down the sidewall of the glass, so the bubbly doesn’t foam up. I wasn’t intending to order a glass for myself. I’m still not supposed to drink alcohol. But Alex made me crazy and it’s one glass.
“Thank you,” I tell him. Then I put two singles into the tip jar, like a normal person.
I take a sip of champagne—my first drink in weeks. And it’s wonderful. Like sunshine and butter. I fucking love Florida, and Alex can go to hell.
Besides, I’ve always had the tolerance of a heavyweight, for which I tend to thank my Irish ancestors. A single glass of champagne won’t even make a dent in me.
* * *
Crap, it does make a small dent.
All right. A medium-sized one.
Only ten minutes later I feel as though my eyes aren’t tracking in the normal way. The world around me seems to be zigging when it’s supposed to be zagging.
I have the goddamn spins. From a single glass of champagne! How humiliating.
Extracting myself from a conversation with two hockey players and a cute point guard, I move away carefully. I hand my empty champagne flute to a waiter and walk very slowly toward the hotel lobby. My equilibrium is totally off, and I find myself gripping a potted palm tree in order to climb the two steps up to the lobby.
Not cool. Anyone watching me will think I’m wasted.
Also, I’m standing barefoot on the marble floor because hours ago I abandoned my shoes under a barstool. But I can’t worry about that now. I’m dizzy and more than a little worried that I might puke. Luckily there’s a ladies’ room just a few yards away. I toddle toward it.
Inside it’s very posh. I tiptoe past a couple of expensive-looking women freshening up their makeup and make my way into a stall, where I sink down onto the toilet and exhale with relief. I can just hide here for a few minutes until my nausea passes, then make my way upstairs.
I wait. People come and go in the ladies’ room. My heart stops pounding after a while, so I decide I’ve improved. I stand up…
Annnnd the world tries to tilt against my wishes once again. I let out a groan and grab the wall.
“Rebecca? Are you okay?” It’s Lauren’s voice, I think.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
“What’s the matter?”
My next groan is more frustrated than ill. “I wasn’t supposed to drink. But I thought a single glass of champagne would be okay.”
“And it isn’t?” Lauren guesses.
“Not so much, no.”
“Do you feel sick?”
Slowly I open the stall door. Lauren is staring back at me with a worried face, still looking impeccable in her blue gown.
“I thought I might be sick, but my stomach is fine.” I ease my way out of the stall, still feeling unsteady. “My head is all woozy, though. I need to go upstairs.”
“I’ll go with you,” she says quickly.
This sudden kindness makes my eyes feel hot. But there’s one problem. “Don’t tell Nate. He’ll be pissed at me.”
“Oh, screw him,” Lauren says, reaching over to take my hand. “He doesn’t control us.”
“But he’s gone to so much trouble for me, and I’m such an idiot.” I rub the side of my head, where a throbbing headache is shaping up. “The fancy new doctor said not to drink. And I didn’t listen.”
“Lesson learned, then,” Lauren says lightly. “Where are your shoes?”
“I left them under a barstool.”
“Sit here.” Lauren steers me onto an upholstered sofa opposite the mirrors. This is the nicest ladies’ room I’ve ever felt sick in. “I’ll find your shoes.”
“Really? I’m sorry. You’re being so nice to me.”
Lauren sighs, and I realize how that must sound to her. You’re being so nice—as opposed to all those other times when you were a raving bitch. “J
ust don’t go anywhere.”
I close my eyes and try to take a few deep breaths. I don’t feel drunk, exactly. Just off. It’s not the end of the world, but I’m sad anyway. I’d been feeling so well earlier, and so optimistic.
Hello, square one. I’m back.
Lauren returns with my shoes just five minutes later. I clutch them in one hand and hold onto her with my other one. We make it to the elevators without incident.
Outside my hotel room, she waits patiently while I fumble with my key card and finally swipe it. “I’ve got it now,” I mumble. “Thanks for your help.”
“Let me come in for a minute,” she insists. “That way if our overlord interrogates me later, I can tell him for sure that you’re fine.”
“Nate is so bossy,” I agree, pushing inside.
“As are all men,” Lauren grumbles.
She follows me inside, and I’m too tired to care. I yank my nightie out of my suitcase and Lauren whistles. “I’m sorry you’re not getting a hookup with a basketball player. If that was your plan for the evening.”
I glance at the lacy negligee I’m pulling over my head and give a drunken shrug. “This isn’t for special occasions. I always wear lingerie. It’s my way of reminding myself that sex still exists.”
“Huh. I should try that. And Nate would pee himself if he saw you in this.”
“Why?” I ask, and then I burp like a prom-date drunk.
But Lauren doesn’t answer the question. “Do you need any aspirin? Or a glass of water?”
“I guess water is a good idea. I just feel so odd. Like I had ten drinks instead of one.” The bed sinks under my weight and I sigh with relief that I’ve made it this far.
Lauren brings me a glass of water from the bathroom. “Look, do you think we should call your doctor?”
“No! One glass of champagne can’t kill me. I don’t want to make a big deal out of it.”
“Are you sure?” she presses. “Nate won’t be mad.”
“Yes, he will!” I yank the comforter down and climb underneath. “I’m just gonna sleep it off. Don’t tell anyone.”
Brooklynaire Page 11
