“And we’re called Boomerang. That’s already sporty. How about, ‘play hard, throw it back?’ ”
“Okay, that’s even worse.” I try to contain my hair so I can give him a solid glare, but it’s no use. “And what exactly is the ‘it’ in that little slogan?”
He grins. “You know.”
“No, sir, I do not. Because it sounds like you’re talking about lady parts. Like, ‘use them up and throw them away, boys.’ ”
“That’s crazy,” he protests. “It’s lady and gentleman parts. You’re free to throw it back, too.”
I laugh. “So, that’s the image we’re unveiling for our investors? Sex organs whipping through the air?”
“It’s genius. Give it time. You’ll warm up to it. Seriously, though, why not something sports related?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “It feels shallow or . . . I don’t know. Not everyone thinks of it as a game.”
“But that’s what Blackwood’s selling, isn’t it? Recreation? It’s about having fun and then shaking it off at the end of the night, right? Live to score another day.”
A sudden coolness creeps into his tone, and I wonder if he’s thinking of that girl, whoever she was. The one who put him through two years of hell.
We pull off the highway and cruise along a few narrow residential roads. We’re quiet now as we pass through mottled opaque shadows cast by lacy tree canopies.
“What’s your idea for a theme?” he asks quietly.
“Well, of course I’d love to do a movie theme. Something funny, maybe. Like if Annie Wilkes had just used Boomerang, maybe things wouldn’t have gotten so intense in Misery.”
“Right,” he says. “Or maybe Captain Ahab could have chased, um, a whale and a dolphin. Spread the love around.”
I laugh. “And you act like you only know about sports.”
“So, if I’m hearing you, Curls, you’re saying that it’s healthy to date a lot and that monogamy makes you dangerous. At least to writers and whales?”
I feel an itch of something—melancholy, maybe—but I give him a smile. “Something like that.”
The GPS guides us down a row of squat warehouse buildings to a sign in the shape of a thumbs-up with “INNING DISPLAYS” in 1970s bubble type. I stop a few feet from the door, which is coated with a peeling layer of UV tinting.
“See,” Ethan says, springing out before I’d taken the key—the valet key—from the ignition. “Inning Displays. It’s a sign. Sports theme, for the win.”
“It’s a sign that Cookie’s crazier than we thought.”
I get out and do my best to smooth the snarled cloud of my hair, then dab on a quick coat of lipstick and make sure everything else is more or less in place. I wonder if Ethan feels like I do sometimes. Like I’m playing at adulthood. At being confident in totally strange situations.
Inside the building, row after row of display vignettes stretch before us, each with a different type of booth and elaborate signage. A slouchy dude with ear gauges and bushy sideburns sits behind a circular reception desk and mumbles a greeting in our general vicinity.
“Candy will be right with you,” he tells us and gestures us to a plush leather sofa, which promptly swallows me whole. I struggle to sit up and hover at the edge.
After a few minutes, a towering blond woman comes clipping toward us, barking threats to others as she passes.
Ethan watches her, eyes wide. “No way. That . . . can’t be . . . ?”
“You don’t think—” But I can’t even make myself process the sight.
She reaches us, and we leap to our feet like soldiers caught sleeping on watch.
“So you’re from Boomerang?” She pumps my hand with mechanical precision and then moves on to Ethan.
“Yes, we’re—” he begins.
“You’re late,” she barks. “My sister told me you’d be here at eleven.” She executes a marching-band pivot and sprints away from us.
“Oh, God,” I whisper. “Cookie and Candy.” Never in the history of procreation have two less apt names been bestowed upon a set of human beings.
“You do realize you’re supposed to be following me, don’t you?” Candy fires over her shoulder. “I didn’t realize I needed to spell that out.”
“Sorry,” I say. “We’re coming.”
We hurry to catch up with her, drawing close enough to hear her mutter “dumbasses” under her breath.
Chapter 14
Ethan
Q: Cotton sheets or satin?
Mia and I follow Candy past the lower budget booths to the primo setups in the back. We pass a booth for a suntan lotion company with a waterslide that lands in a clear-walled pool, a booth where the sides are made of rock wall, and then one with a fully stocked chef’s kitchen.
When we reach a bedroom set complete with shiny satin sheets and fake flowers on the bedside tables, I lean toward Mia and whisper in her ear, “What do you think? Our competition?”
“Mattress distributor, asswipe,” Candy says over her shoulder, then she stops and gestures to the booth on our right. “This is what Blackwood did last year.”
I take in the white furniture and recessed lighting. The long white counter with a bank of computer screens, where I’m guessing people tried out the Boomerang website and member interface. Above the counter, there’s a big purple Boomerang logo that’s backlit.
“Wow. It’s very . . .” It reminds me of a Virgin America airport terminal—style that’s been watered down to accommodate the masses—but I’m not sure how much I should say with Candy standing right here.
Mia’s mouth pulls into a grimace. “Blech? Uninspired?”
I nod. “Yeah. And predictable.”
“And generic. It’s almost corporate.” Mia says the words like they’re blasphemous, and I remember learning yesterday that her mother is an artist. A photographer. “And forgettable.”
“Yep,” I agree. “I can’t even remember what we’re looking at.”
Mia shakes her head, getting more and more worked up. “I mean, what’s the message of this?” She faces me. “Does anything about this make you want to have fun? Does it even remotely put you in a sexy mood?”
“No, but that bed does.”
Mia’s head whips to the mattress booth, her hair spilling over one shoulder. “Really? Even the cheesy satin sheets?”
“Hell, yeah. They look like a slippery good time to me.” The fact that we’re in a booth warehouse does nothing to deter my sexual imagination. I could seriously get down to some business on that bed with her. “What do you say, Curls? Should we throw some sex organs around?”
She breaks into a smile. “Well, when you make it sound so appealing.”
Candy’s hand snaps to her hip, the movement as sharp as a military salute. “What a lovely surprise,” she says. “I thought neither of you would understand a single thing about booth design. Turns out you’re both geniuses!”
She swivels on a heel and marches off, just like Cookie.
“Nice going, genius,” Mia mouths accusingly as we follow. She gives me a playful shove on the shoulder, so I push her back.
And so it begins again.
We did this earlier in the parking lot and my arms ended up around her. I’m not sure what the deal is exactly, but my body seems to jump at any opportunity to touch her. When she pushes me the next time, I make a quick move, lifting her easily over my shoulder.
Mia gives the tiniest squeak, her body tensing, and I freeze, waiting for Candy to turn around, but she doesn’t.
At this point a few things fire off in my head.
First and foremost is the fact that my hand is on Mia’s ass. She’s soft and curved in all the right places, and her weight feels amazing. Holding her feels amazing. I’m extremely tempted to make a break for the mattress booth and lay her out on all that satin.
Second is the concept of me flirting with the girl who could potentially take my job from me, which is a bit of a buzzkill.
And third is the security camera
that hangs down from the ceiling. Whoever’s watching on the other end, Mia and I are making their day.
I take a few steps like I’m carrying her off to bed until she gives me a solid jab to the ribs. Then I set her down reluctantly.
Through the thin silk of her dress, I feel her shape slip through my fingers as she slides down the length of me—the curve of her waist, and the groove of her spine, the angles of her shoulder blades—before she finds her feet.
For a long moment, we’re pressed against each other and there’s no hiding the truth, the physical truth of how I react to her. I am hard as steel for her, but the expression on her face isn’t surprise. Mia knows she turns me on. What I see in her eyes is uncertainty. A kind of shadow pain.
We draw apart awkwardly, looking everywhere except at each other. Silently, Mia catches up with Candy, but I need a few seconds. Not only to get my dick to calm down, but because I need to get my anger under control, too.
What did I do wrong? I definitely just crossed some kind of line. Did this internship get into her head? The fact that we’re competing? Or is it something with her ex? But that can’t be it. She’s been single for a whole year.
Why the hell am I spinning on this anyway? I should be glad she has some kind of hang-up about being with me. I should be fucking thrilled about it.
Candy is waiting for us at a larger booth around the corner, her arms crossed, her foot tapping. She looks from me to Mia. Probably, she’s sensed the shift in the mood between us, but I don’t give a shit.
“This is the layout we’re using for this year’s show,” Candy says, gesturing to a large booth that’s shaped like a T. “Blackwood is paying for an end location—that means he’ll have 180 degrees of coverage. We’ll use the same color palette and furnishings, the same look as last year, but we’ll divide the booth with a wall, keeping the lounge to one side, and the computer terminals to the other. That way the people who feel more inclined to linger and mingle can, while the ones who just want to see the website can log on, check it out, and move on. Any questions?”
Mia and I look at each other.
“Wait,” she says, “you mean the booth for the conference is already planned? It’s done?”
“No. It’s not paid for yet. You did bring the company credit card?”
I’ve got nothing. It’s all I can do not to start breaking booth shit right now.
Mia is quiet at my side.
Candy’s face splits into a smile. “You didn’t actually think my sister was going to let you two make a decision, did you?”
I still can’t think of a single thing to say, and apparently Mia can’t either.
“Oh, you did.” Candy shakes her head. “That is so cute.”
Chapter 15
Mia
Q: Are you a pouter or a problem-solver?
We stop at a park to split a sandwich before heading back to the Boomerang offices. I watch as Ethan brushes leaves off a picnic bench for me, his dress shirt coming loose from his belt to expose a narrow swatch of tanned flesh.
Oh, Mia, I think. You are so screwed.
Because of his body, sure: the sleek solidity of it, the feel of him, pressed against me. Hard. The sensation of being exactly right, molecule-to-molecule, as he set me down in the display showroom.
But I can resist a body. I’m screwed because of his smile, because of that dimple that deepens when he laughs, his straight, even teeth, perfect except for one slightly turned incisor. I’m screwed because of his thick, serious brows, his perfect angular nose, and his eyes like a lake in the rain. I’m screwed, most of all, because of his kindness, which radiates from every pore. His passion, when he lets himself talk about things he loves. Because he insisted on paying me back for the cab and on paying for our sandwich. I’m screwed because of him, all of him. My body and my brain are conspiring against me here, but I can’t let myself give in to them.
“What are we going to do about this Cookie situation?” I ask, swatting away a fly that’s settled on the wax paper spread open between us. I move my half of the turkey and avocado sandwich toward me and pop open my diet Coke. It bubbles onto my hand, and I lick my finger then catch him watching me, which threatens to send me down another path of truly unproductive thinking.
“Situation?” he murmurs, raising his eyes slowly to mine like he’s coming out of a dream.
“Yeah. Cookie. She’s going to keep making it tough for either of us to get this job. Though I don’t know why.”
“Maybe an intern killed her mother.”
I laugh. “Or her missing triplet, Cupcake.”
Ethan takes a bite, chews thoughtfully. His strong jaw flexes, and I have to say, the boy even makes eating look good.
“I guess we can keep working on her, try to thaw her out a bit. But we probably need to get around her and go for Adam.”
“And say what? His booth design sucks?”
He grins. “Something like that.” Finishing his sandwich in two more bites, he adds, “Maybe I should do the talking, Curls. I’ve noticed you have some issues with diplomacy.”
“Yeah, because your chocolate chip cookie gambit was so impressive.” A seedpod spirals down between us, and I finger-punt it off the table. Even though I brought it up, suddenly I resent talking about work. “Maybe you can work on Adam during your soccer game this weekend.”
As Skyler likes to point out, I sometimes have tone-modulation issues, and the statement comes out sounding more sarcastic than I intend.
“Hey,” says Ethan, sitting back. “Adam invited himself along. I didn’t want him there.”
“Why not?” I strip the top piece of bread off my sandwich and sling it at a couple of squirrels darting around in the shade. “It’s a good strategy.”
“I don’t give a damn about that,” Ethan says, and his brittle tone matches mine. “I’m not trying to strategize. I just want to play some soccer. That’s all I want.”
“Clearly, you want more than that.”
“Meaning what?”
“The job. You want the job.” I fold the bottom half of the sandwich over and take a bite. Suddenly, I’m ravenous.
“And you don’t?”
I swallow, and the sandwich wends a slow, painful path down my esophagus. Chew, Mia. For God’s sake.
“No, I do,” I say. “And I think it’s okay to want it. So you don’t have to act like every move you make is unintentional. You got Rhett and Adam to come play soccer. That’s great for you. So just—it’s okay to just want things.”
Which makes me wonder if I need to be less squeamish about using my mom as bait. If it helps me get this job, what will it hurt?
He looks at me, and we’re quiet for a long moment. I pick up my sandwich, just to do something. A breeze riffles the sandwich wrapper, and it skids across the table and onto the ground. I bend to retrieve it, aware that things have taken a really strange turn—and that I’m the one steering. Holy hell. What is wrong with me?
I march off toward a garbage can, failing to avoid the image rising in my mind. Kyle on our last night. The oceanfront cantina, where moonlight gave everything a magical glow, and his words almost disappeared beneath the insistent rush of the ocean. “I just don’t know what I want, Mia.”
None of which is poor Ethan’s fault, of course. I take a few deep breaths—stupid to do over a garbage can—and return to the table.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m being unfair.”
“It’s okay,” he tells me and gets to his feet.
He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. What’s there—curiosity, concern—makes me want to tuck myself into his pocket and just live there. Kyle would give me this panicked, checking-for-exits look any time I had even the slightest blip in my emotional baseline.
“Want to drive back?” I ask, and hold up the valet key.
“Sure.”
We get in, and he starts the engine. “We’ll figure it out.”
“What?”
“The booth thing. Let�
��s talk to Adam about it when we get back. We’ll go in together.”
“Okay.”
He looks at me for a long moment and then takes off his tie and hands it to me with a smile.
“What’s this for?”
“I thought you could tie it around your hair,” he tells me. “Should have thought of it sooner.”
I draw the silken fabric through my fingers, wishing he didn’t make it so easy to like him. “That’s really thoughtful.” I pull my hair back and cinch it with the tie. The edges tickle the back of my neck, raising goose bumps.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 16
Ethan
Q: Blind dates: a chance for fun or failure?
Isis raps on the bathroom door. “We’re leaving, E! Have a nice dinner with your new boyfriend!”
“Go easy on him, Spicy,” Jason says. “The man is in crisis.” His voice grows muffled and louder, like he’s right on the other side of the door. “Ethan, sorry about that. Hey, almost forgot. I left your corsage for Blackwood on the kitchen table.”
He can barely finish the sentence. No one’s funnier to Jason than Jason. I listen to his laugh grow quieter until the front door shuts, and the apartment’s quiet.
I swipe a stray drop of shaving cream off my ear, considering my reflection in the mirror. I look like I’m about to start a fight or hold up a bank—instead of join Adam for dinner.
It’s Saturday night. I should be heading to The Reel Inn for fish tacos and beer with Jason, Isis, and the rest of the crew. Especially considering that Blackwood and Rhett came to soccer this morning. The pickup game was a success. Adam hung in there like a champ, and Rhett didn’t die from heat exhaustion. I showed them both a great time. Shouldn’t that be enough?
I jam the towel onto the rack and head to my bedroom. On a surge of hope, I grab my cell phone off my dresser to see if Adam canceled, but all I find is his message from an hour ago.
Adam: I need you to come to a dinner tonight. I’ll pick you up at 7.
What could I say except okay?
I check the time, seeing that I have ten minutes to kill before he gets here. I debate straightening up my room for half a second, then sit on the end of my bed and squeeze my hands into fists.
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