by Max Monroe
“Come on.” I step toward her to take the bucket of flowers she’s visibly forgotten about from her hands. “It’ll be nice to catch up.”
She doesn’t say anything as I set the container on the counter, but her stunned silence is in no way a deterrent.
“We can catch up and talk about some publishing contacts I think you’d be interested in.”
“Look, I really appreciate your effort to help me out and everything, but—”
Bruce takes it upon himself to chime in again.
“Stop being so stubborn, Maybe,” he says. “Let the man help you get wet.”
My eyes go wide automatically, and Maybe freaks.
“Oh my God! Dad!”
“What?” Bruce questions with a shrug—like he didn’t just say something insanely inappropriate. “Everyone needs a little help getting their feet wet in a new career. These days, it pays to know people, if you know what I’m sayin’.”
Apparently, Evan’s dad is still in the business of putting his comically wrong spin on popular sayings, and since he’s not my dad, I don’t think it’ll ever get old.
When we were sixteen and headed to prom, right in front of Evan’s date, he said, “Now, don’t go too hard on her, son. Treat her like the virgin she is, okay?”
Mind you, he was talking about his car, not Evan’s sixteen-year-old date—who, ironically, was actually a virgin. I still laugh to this day when I think about it.
But I know it’s not ever as funny when it’s your parent. “You sure have a way with words, Bruce.”
“Betty and Maybe call them Bruce-isms.”
“Trust me,” Maybe interjects. “That’s not a compliment.”
I smile. Evan would say the exact same thing.
Bruce, however, is completely unfazed. “Meh.” He is quite literally the definition of zero fucks given.
“So, to lunch?” I slide my hands into the pockets of my jeans and meet Maybe’s now-narrowed eyes.
“Apparently, I don’t have a choice…”
“Nope. Not really.” I smirk, shake my head, and shrug good-naturedly. “But I’ll let you choose where we eat.”
“Wow,” she mutters and grabs her purse from behind the counter. “So generous.”
She doesn’t slow as she heads for the door, so I quickly tell Bruce to send whatever he thinks is best to my mom and Emory, ask that he give my hello to Betty, and follow after Maybe dutifully.
It takes almost a block to catch up with her—the speedwalk she’s employed completely unrelated to getting away from me, I’m sure—and we walk the final three silently, shoulder-to-shoulder.
I smile to myself when we stop in front of Ruth’s, her choice that just so happens to be one of my favorite lunch spots in the city. I wrap my knuckles around the handle of the shiny chrome-embellished door and hold it open for Maybe to step inside first. A young hostess with a blond ponytail and pink-painted lips greets her, asking how many people will be dining today, and that’s when the silent treatment she’s giving me becomes acutely noticeable. Sure, we’ve been keeping to ourselves, but not even answering the hostess? A line has been drawn.
Before, I figured it was smart not to push or pry and just give her some space. No need to poke the already annoyed bear cub before at least feeding her lunch first. But that’s changed now. Now, I intend to push. Hard. For as long as it takes to get a reaction.
“A table for two,” I step up to say with an almost obnoxious level of assertion.
Maybe may think she can avoid this encounter, but she’s wrong. I’ve got years of experience in the snake pit that is the business world on my side.
Without delay, the young girl makes quick work of grabbing menus from her stand and taking us to a table.
Maybe sits down in the seat across from mine, fidgets with the napkin-wrapped cutlery, and then opens her menu on a sigh.
She stares at the lists of dishes and kitschy pictures like they hold the key to promptly removing herself from this situation.
I can’t stop myself from being amused by her. And I thought the awkward bumbling of the other day was cute; her irritation is a whole other level.
My menu still prone on the table where the hostess placed it, I cross my arms over my chest and lay it all out there. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you the other day. I can’t imagine that made you feel great.”
She purses her lips and scoffs under her breath, but for the most part, stays silent.
I push onward. “Is that why you sent those text messages? A prank to get back at me?”
Her eyes skitter upward so quickly, they almost seem out of control. But for the first time since leaving Bruce & Sons, she’s making direct eye contact.
A rosy smear of color deepens on both cheeks, and she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear nervously. “Oh. Those. I guess you got them.”
I smirk. “I did, indeed.”
Her head quirks to the side just slightly, and then her shoulders square. “You know what? Yeah. I sent them as a prank to get back at you.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me it was you?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs and has to avert her eyes from mine for the briefest of moments. “I guess I was too surprised to see you there looking grown and successful and not remembering me.”
I cringe. “Shit, I feel like a real asshole.”
“Because you were,” she teases with a little grin. “You were all,” she says and drops her voice to mimic mine, “‘I know the Willis family. They’re good people.’”
I can’t help but laugh at her ridiculous impression. “And all the while, you were just standing there like, hey, you idiot, I am a Willis?”
She shrugs and offers up a cheeky grin. “Pretty much.”
My chest blooms. Finally, she’s starting to let her guard down.
“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. You look…” I pause, steeling my voice against making my next word sound as depraved as it is in my head. “Different.”
If her blush is any indication, though, I’m pretty sure I fail.
“So…uh…do you know what you’re getting to eat?” she asks, changing the subject to something innocuous—thank God—while looking up at me from beneath the long curves of her full, feminine lashes.
“You can never go wrong with their Reuben on rye.”
A small smile quirks up the corner of her soft pink mouth. “So, I take it you’ve eaten here before?”
“Only once a month for the past two or so years.”
She giggles, and I kind of hate how much I enjoy that sound coming from her lips.
I feel like a bit of a bastard for being so…observant when it comes to her.
Observant? More like enamored.
Fuck. This is my best friend’s little sister.
The one who had permanently red lips in the summer from eating her favorite cherry popsicles and had posters of Joan Jett in her bedroom.
Needless to say, I shouldn’t be thinking about her in any way besides friendly. Neutral. Unaffected.
Yeah, but what you should be doing and what you’re actually doing are two different things, you bastard.
I’m so curious about her that I find myself lifting up my glass of water and taking a drink just to distract myself from my thoughts.
I can’t remember the last time I was this intrigued by a woman.
It’s probably just nostalgia, I tell myself. That’s all this is.
Yeah. This is just nostalgia. It has to be.
A waitress named Karen stops by our table and takes our order—Reuben on rye with fries for both of us—and when she leaves, I lean forward and turn faux serious. “I have a question for you.”
She licks her full lips nervously but doesn’t let our eye contact flounder. It seems, now that we’re getting the initial awkwardness out of the way, she’s finding a little more confidence. “And what’s that?”
“Do you still listen to Kate Bush?”
She nearly chokes on the dri
nk of water in her mouth. “What?”
“When we were kids, you always used to sing ‘Wuthering Heights’ in the morning…”
At the top of her lungs, every single morning when she was getting ready for school, and it was miserable for everyone inside the house. Maybe never quite grasped that she couldn’t hit those falsettos like Kate.
Her brown eyes pop wide open. “You heard that?”
I grin. “I’m pretty sure everyone in the whole neighborhood heard it.”
“Jesus Christ.” The apples of her cheeks flush red, and amusement fills up my chest like a balloon. “I was what, like, twelve? And, apparently, believed I had a budding music career ahead of me.”
My grin grows wider. “So, I take it that’s a no?”
“Uh…definitely a no, and I’d like to make a rule for this lunch.”
I quirk a brow. “A rule?”
“Yeah.” Her nod is firm, and her eyes turn serious. “No talk of memories that include me being an awkward and embarrassing teenager.”
“You weren’t awkward and embarrassing.”
Honestly, she kind of was, but wasn’t everyone? If you don’t have an awkward phase of adolescence, you must have some kind of contract with the devil. And considering I already have some strikes against me, agreeing with her on this one is not the way to go.
“Uh…yeah, I was.”
“I thought you were pretty cute.”
She rolls her eyes. “Because I was Evan’s little sister.”
A smile crests my lips. “Speaking of Evan, he’s really confident in your ability to do big things in publishing. That’s why he reached out to me to work some of my connections.”
“Right. Publishing,” she says, her voice seeming the barest hint disappointed. I search her eyes to try to figure out why, but she shakes her head quickly and picks up the corners of her lips into a genuine smile. “Thank you, Milo. I could definitely use the help. I’ve sent out more than a hundred resumes, but not a single one has called me for an interview.”
I wave my hand. “That’s because there are a lot of stodgy snobs working in the publishing industry.” I laugh, and she barks a startled bout of the same. “Luckily, I’m friendly with a few of them.”
She smiles.
“I’ll work on getting a few options together and reach out to them.”
She nods. “Thanks. I know this is probably inconvenient for you. I mean, you’re a really busy guy. I’m sure you don’t just have tons of spare hours lying around to help your friend’s sister.”
I frown a little at her insinuation that I’m only here because of Evan. Sure, it was the catalyst, but I genuinely want to be here. With her.
I shake my head and reach out to touch her hand. Unfortunately, at the searing burn of awareness the simple contact sends up my arm, I realize touching her may not have been the best idea. I move slowly to undo my mistake, so she doesn’t take it the wrong way. “I’m glad to be having lunch with you, Maybe. Happy to help and happy to see you.”
Before anything else can be said, Karen brings our food, and Maybe and I spend a few silent minutes devouring our sandwiches. There really isn’t anything better in Chelsea than a Reuben on rye from Ruth’s.
But I can’t in good conscience let the entire meal go on without bringing up the thing that’s been plaguing me about those messages of hers ever since I got them.
“So, about those text messages…”
She glances up from her plate, the width of her eyes eating away at the other features of her face. A blush once again stains the apples of her cheeks, and I hate to admit, it looks really good on her.
Dangerously, treacherously good. Which, of course, is all the more reason I have to have this discussion.
“Which ones?”
Which ones? Funny, kid.
“You know which ones.”
Maybe doesn’t respond. Instead, she takes what has to be the biggest bite of Reuben she can fit inside her mouth and holds it there.
I have to bite my lip to fight my laughter.
“I take it you don’t want to talk about them?”
She shakes her head. Her mouth is conveniently still too full to form words.
“Can I just say one thing?” I ask and, hesitantly, she nods.
“I know they were in good fun, but I think it’s important for you to understand the New York dating scene is a little different from what you’re probably used to,” I state. “Text messages like that could get a pretty woman like you into a hell of a lot of trouble.”
Her eyes narrow, and mouth still precariously full of food or not, she finds her voice. “What is that supposed to mean?”
It’s one thing for her to send me a “deflower me, please?” text message.
But it’s a whole other fucking thing for her to send that same message to some random douche she met in a bar. There’s no telling what might happen to her.
“Look, I’m not trying to offend you,” I say softly. “A lot of the men in this city are bastards, Maybe. I don’t want to see anything bad happen to you.”
She searches my eyes for a long moment, and then she spits the remainder of her gargantuan bite into a napkin and glares. “You do realize I’m not a child, right?”
Uh oh. Where exactly did I go wrong here?
Maybe
Is he really sitting here lecturing me on the New York dating scene? Like I’m an actual child?
Like he’s my father or something?
God. Not even Bruce would be so condescending, and he’s an emotionally underdeveloped gorilla!
Before I know it, I’m glaring, spitting my food into a napkin like an honest-to-God heathen and giving Milo a piece of my mind.
“You think I’m just out there sending offers for my virginity to every Tom, Dick, and Harry?”
He sits back in his chair, obviously surprised at my ire, but I don’t let up. Now that I’ve channeled all of my embarrassment into anger, I couldn’t stop if I tried. “What? You think I’m trying to sell it on the corner like some X-rated lemonade stand?”
His hands go up in a defensive posture, but I keep on rolling.
“Like a black-market auction to give my most delicate flower to the highest bidder?”
My voice is a little too loud now, I can tell by the way he’s shaking his head and looking at the people around us at the same time, though I have no choice but to see it through.
“Well, I’m not! I’d never be so cavalier. I sent those text messages while I was all hopped up on anesthesia and thought I was heading to the other side. I thought I was dead, for Pete’s sake!”
“Maybe, calm down,” he says softly, doing his best to wrangle the beast I’ve become. “I…I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not my place.”
“You’re damn right, it’s not your place!”
“Maybe,” he says calmly, reaching out to grab both of my hands with his own. At the contact, every raging brain cell in my mind shuts down. I am immediately, frighteningly, at peace. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah…well…good.”
I look down at our hands—hands that are still gloriously touching—and take a deep breath to steady myself. I’d need a hell of a lot more than ten fingers to count how many times I’ve imagined what it would feel like to have Milo Ives’s hands on me. Now, I find myself wondering what he would taste like, what he would sound like when he comes. What those hands would feel like when they’re touching other places.
All of my teenage fantasies come rushing back in a tsunami-like wave, and I almost laugh. Just like Milo himself, my delusional daydreams about him have grown up.
I snap my eyes away from our hands, and they land right on his mouth.
His stupid, sexy mouth.
I move my gaze again, but this time end up lost in his insanely beautiful blue eyes.
I’m starting to wonder why God decided to give Milo Ives all the good stuff. It feels like some sort of sick joke.
“So…what exactly did my brother ask
you to do?” I use the brief pause to redirect the conversation to something other than those damn text messages. “Just use your rich people contacts to connect me with publishing houses in the city?”
He smirks. “Rich people contacts?”
“Oh, come on, Billionaireman,” I retort. “I’m surprised you can even walk in the city without men and women falling at your feet and financial advisors picketing for your investment money.”
He rolls his eyes but chuckles. “Does the role of Billionaireman come with a cape? I’ve always wanted a cape.”
I snort. “If you want a cape, clearly, you can afford to buy a cape.”
“You don’t think that’ll get me funny looks?”
“In this city? With your money? It’ll be the next big fashion trend. You’ll see capes on every blessed corner.”
He shakes his head. “Better stick to suits, then.”
I smile—a big, dreamy smile that could easily cross over into creepy if I don’t monitor it closely. Unfortunately, we’ve gotten off topic enough that I have to go out on a limb again. “So, besides the rich people contacts, what else did he ask of you?”
His beautiful blue eyes narrow slightly. “What else do you think he asked me?”
“I don’t know…” I pause, and a thousand different scenarios play out in my head. “Ev is fucking nosy sometimes. I wouldn’t be surprised if he asked you to help me make friends or date or something insane like that.”
“Help you date?” His eyes go wide. “I can assure you that was not requested of me.”
“Well, I’m shit at dating.” The words just kind of fall out of my mouth before I can stop them. “So, it wouldn’t exactly be unwarranted.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because I am,” I answer honestly, and before I know it, I’m pouring my heart out like this is a goddamn Jackie Collins novel.
It’s annoying as hell. But not anything new.
Even as a kid, Milo could pretty much get me to tell him anything.
