Smart Girl

by Rachel Hollis

  “Can you believe that ending?” she squeals. “When he gets the Purple Heart and he gets up out of his wheelchair to walk to the stage?”

  Her eyes are filled with tears of joy, a usual reaction to reading one of our favorite authors.

  “I, uh, didn’t get the chance to start it yet.”

  She gasps. “What? I did spoil it for you!” She covers her face with both hands. “I’m so sorry, Miko! You look forward to a new release for weeks and weeks; it never occurred to me you might not have read it.”

  It truthfully never occurred to me either. Not only that I might not have read it but that I wouldn’t even notice the absence. I wave her away and promise to do a full-on book-club coffee date with her about it as soon as I’ve finished. After she walks out of my office, I open the app on my iPad and realize that the book is there, exactly where it should be.

  Maybe trying to live out your own love story means that you have less time to read about other people’s.

  Chapter TEN

  I’m a night owl, which means I tend to do a lot of my sketching and design planning in the evening. That means that a lot of the time I’ve been spending with Liam is time when I should be working. To try to make up the difference, I spend the rest of the afternoon hunkered down at my desk, working on a proposal for an upcoming bridal shower. When Landon leaves for the day, I’m just starting the second one. It feels good to focus on the design instead of worry about my personal life, and I’m so absorbed in the process that I don’t even know what time it is when I hear my phone vibrate.

  My heart kicks into rapid staccato when I see that it’s a text from Liam.

  You should come over and hang out with me.

  I can just imagine the sly charm he would have delivered that line with if he’d been here in front of me. I can’t help but smile as I type back.

  Oh really? And why should I?

  Because I want to see you.

  My heart lurches, thrilled that he wants to see me. I want to see him too, but even I can recognize the problem with this situation. In the last six days I’ve spent four nights at his place. The only reason he couldn’t convince me to stay the other two were because my parents were in town. The time we spend together is wonderful, but it’s always at his place, under the cover of night, and it’s always at his request. As much as I’d love to see him, I really do have a mountain of work to get through. I also need to make sure he understands I’m not just going to come running every time he calls. I fire off a response before I can change my mind.

  I can’t tonight. I have gobs of work to do.

  When I reread it and realize how terse it sounds, I add, But I want to see you too. Maybe tomorrow?

  I have an early morning flight to NYC, won’t be back until Friday. I have a ton of work too. We can both work from here. Order in dinner? Wear as few clothes as possible while doing both??

  I didn’t realize he had a business trip this week. Should he have told me that? Gods! I don’t even know the rules of this stupid nonrelationship and whether or not I’m allowed to be annoyed by the lack of information. It also sucks that he’s going to be gone all week, and it makes me feel a little panicky. What if he gets some time and space and talks himself out of whatever we’ve started? What if it really is exactly what Landon said it was, and I just make for a sure bet? The thought makes me feel sick to my stomach.

  No, I need to look at the evidence. He asked me to come over tonight fully admitting we’re going to hang out and work and order food. That’s a totally couple-like thing to do. You don’t order Chinese food with your booty call.

  Do you?

  I slam my laptop closed since no one else is here to take my frustrations out on. The trappings of design cover every flat surface of my office: linen samples and squares of tile, a box filled with tape measures, a vase filled with extra scale rulers. If Cas didn’t come in here and organize me once a week, I’d probably drown under a pile of brocade fabric. I push a stack of magazines out of the way and prop my feet up on the desk. I go around and around in my head, trying to figure out the right thing to do. Another text from him pops up on my phone.

  I can bribe if necessary . . .

  His playfulness eases some of the worry in my head. I drop my feet back onto solid ground to properly text him back.

  Oh yeah, what you got boo?

  The other night we got into a long debate over which movie candy was the best. His vote was for Reese’s Pieces. I made a long soliloquy on the merits of the Junior Mint, which he rebutted rather forcefully. I ended up laughing through most of his speech, because yet again, I’d gotten him to engage in a ridiculous conversation with me. I laugh even harder when he sends a picture as a response. I’m still grinning when I type out my response.

  Poor Stella! Did you make her buy out the store?

  His answer is immediate.

  I’ll have you know that I personally bought all eight of these boxes!

  Really?

  Well, no. But I did supervise Stella while she obtained them.

  Really??

  No to that too. But I did ask her to pick up Junior Mints because I know they make you happy. That counts for something, right?

  Gods, he’s so cute I can’t even handle it.

  Yes, they make me very happy.

  Happy enough to come hang out with me?

  I grin like an idiot. I am an idiot. This time I don’t even pause to consider not going over there. I look around quickly, making sure I have everything I need for this evening. Computer? Check. Drawing pad? Yes. Total disregard for propriety and lack of restraint where this man is concerned? Absolutely. I send one more quick text and hurry out of the room.

  Leaving the office now. I’ll be there in a little while.

  When I get to Liam’s house, he greets me at the door wearing track pants and a T-shirt so old and thin I can see the indentation of his abs through the material. I can’t help but notice that his eyes light up at the sight of the red leather pants I wore to the office. I’m wearing them with black Converse, a slouchy T-shirt, and a jean jacket, so they’re super dressed down. But at the end of the day, they’re still tight red leather pants.

  “No,” I tell both myself and that look in his eye. “I have so much work to do right now. I don’t have time to do anything else. This is due tomorrow.”

  He shakes his head back and forth with mock sadness. “You shouldn’t have worn those pants then.”

  “Liam, I’m serious.” I try to sound firm, but it’s lost in a squeal when he picks me up and throws me over his shoulder.

  Being carried caveman-style back to someone’s bedroom is not as graceful as they describe it in the books. But it is just as thrilling as I hoped it would be, and even if it’s not the most comfortable way to travel, I’m laughing too hard to care.

  Later on that night we’re both spread out on the ridiculously comfortable sectional in his living room, working on our laptops next to the fire. The remnants of our Thai food are still in the Styrofoam containers on the countertop in the kitchen. He’s busy typing out emails, and I’ve spent the last hour feverishly trying to make up for the time that I’ve lost. Landon and I have a meeting tomorrow with one of our biggest clients to go over their holiday party coming up in a couple of weeks. I’m supposed to be presenting three design options, and I haven’t even started the last one yet.

  I finish typing the final details of the party elements into the Google doc that we keep for every proposal and then pull out my sketchpad and pencils. If I’d had time, I would have laid this out in a CAD for them, but I can get just as much detail into a drawing and it will take me half the time. I glance at my computer to see the specs of the space we’re producing the event in and then start to sketch.

  I make long, fluid lines to give myself the parameters of the room. I use short curving strokes to add dimension. My fingers
fly over the white page, transforming it into something else, something special. I use my black pencil for shading and red to fill in the deep drape of the linens; a dapper cobalt blue highlights the detail in the centerpieces. I get lost in the project, shading and smudging it with my fingertips as I go. I set the first page aside and start to work on a layout of the long bar with a leather front façade. The client is a purveyor of high-end liquor, so the bottles themselves are a major focal point in the design. I design the shelving behind the main bar so that pinspot backlights shine up through the gradient of glass bottles, making them glow against the dimly lit room.

  At some point I become aware of his gaze on me, and I look up into blue-gray eyes. He’s propped his arm up on the back of the sofa, his head leaning into his hand. I can’t imagine how long he’s been watching me. The room is quiet; only the sounds of the wood popping and hissing as it burns fill the space. When I raise my eyebrows in question he finally speaks.

  “You’re so focused.” His voice is quiet. “You always put every single part of yourself into anything you do. Don’t you?”

  I fight the urge to frown. It doesn’t feel like he’s talking about just my work. I nod self-consciously. “I don’t know any other way to be.”

  He rubs a hand through his hair, and his response is so quiet I almost miss it.

  “Me neither.”

  Before I can figure out what that means or how to respond, he stands up.

  “I better start packing.”

  The mention of his trip reminds me that he didn’t tell me about it until today, which brings up a whole storm of questions in me. I set my notepad to the side.

  “Are you—while you’re gone. I mean . . .”

  He cocks his head to one side, studying me again.

  “Are you trying to ask a question?”

  Am I? Am I really going to ask this? I shake my head in response to both of us. Even if I’m still a foot shorter than him when I stand up, I do it anyway. It feels weird to be the only one sitting down.

  “No, not a question. I have a statement to make.”

  His lip twitches and he sits back down. “By all means.” He waves a hand at me magnanimously.

  I open my mouth and then feel awkward. I want to pop my knuckles, which is terrible and not even a little attractive. I’ll pace instead. Pacing is a much better use of my energy, even if it’s only marginally prettier than cracking my finger joints.

  “I don’t know what we’re doing here exactly.” I glance at him quickly to see if by chance he’s going to enlighten me at this point. He keeps staring at me expectantly. I resume pacing. “I don’t know what this is called or what we’re doing, but I just want to make sure . . .” Jeez, how does one explain this tactfully? “Er, I don’t . . . um, usually do this . . . whatever this is.”

  He swings a finger back and forth between us.

  “Not usually? So sometimes, then? So you have done whatever this is before?”

  I stop pacing, face him, and roll my eyes at his attempts to antagonize me.

  “Dude. You know I’ve never done this kind of thing before.”

  He grins. Either at my admission or at the fact that he’s succeeded in annoying me—I have no idea.

  “And?”

  “And.” I put my hands on my hips. “And I don’t know what the rules are or what I’m supposed to say or how any of this works.”

  “OK, I understand.”

  If he weren’t so pretty, I might actually consider punching him in his stupid smirking mouth. He’s purposely making this harder on me than he needs to. I take a step towards him and then another until I’m standing in between his legs, staring him down.

  “OK, well, understand this.” I pause for dramatic effect and try to channel someone strong and confident, like Cat from the Night Huntress books. “I don’t share.”

  Oh snap! I’ve always wanted to deliver a line like that, and I’m pretty sure I totally pulled it off!

  He grins. “Wow, that was actually really well delivered.”

  I drop any pretense of cool.

  “Really?” I preen. “I thought I was pulling off the whole alpha nobody-touches-what’s-mine thing, but I wasn’t sure.”

  “No, it’s totally believable. The body language, the tone.” I startle when his fingertips start to slide up along my calf. “I think you should consider this new-found persona in other areas of your life.”

  For a second I almost cave. I almost just follow him down this road and forget the point I’ve been trying to make. But this conversation is important and one we have to have before he leaves on his trip. I take a single step back and force myself to be serious.

  “I can’t do this with you if you’re still dating around.”

  The shadows created by a flicker of fire in the grate make his face look ominous. He opens his mouth to respond, but I cut him off.

  “I’m not asking you for anything. I just want you to understand where I’m coming from.” I want to tell him that my new persona, which he thinks is an act, isn’t actually that far from the truth. I’m pretty sure I’d go full saber-toothed tiger on any woman who even looks at him funny. I want to tell him that just the idea of him leaving for three days makes me feel sad. I want to tell him he’s made me feel more beautiful things in a week than I have in my entire adult life. But I don’t, because I’m supposed to be mature and worldly and this is supposed to be casual. So instead I say, “I really like spending time with you, but I can’t keep doing this if you’re still seeing other people.”

  His brow furrows in annoyance.

  “We agreed that this was casual.”

  I’m actually amazed that I don’t flinch.

  Did I agree that this was casual? I never said the words, but I guess I sort of implied it by coming to his house in the first place. Maybe I had agreed by not saying anything at all. I somehow manage to make myself sound firm.

  “I can do casual. But I won’t do competition; I won’t play seconds, Liam.” My anger grows with each word. “And frankly, if you’d even want me to, then you’re not the person I thought you were at all.”

  “I—”

  My anger feels righteous. I hold up my hand to cut him off.

  “Everything else aside, if we seriously are friends, then I will tell you that that mentality is seriously screwed up. You can’t sleep with more than one woman at time. It makes the entire thing cheap!” The idea breaks my heart, breaks it enough to loosen my tongue. I finally say the thing I’ve wanted to say to him for a year. “Actually, it makes you cheap,” I whisper. “You are so special. Don’t you get that? You’ve got to value yourself more than that.”

  Neither of us speaks for so long that I look down at my toes. Running headlong through every emotion I have in the last quarter hour on top of night upon night without sleep has made me exhausted. I have no idea how he’s going to receive any of the things I just told him.

  It shouldn’t surprise me when he handles it with irreverence like always.

  He reaches for my hands, pulling them off my hips and dragging me closer to him in the process.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you’re hot when you’re angry?” he asks playfully.

  My breath comes out in one big gust.

  “Liam, I’m being serious.”

  He wraps my arms around the back of his neck and kisses my biceps. “So am I. I’m totally turned on.”

  He kisses my other biceps and then my shoulder and my neck. I can barely find my voice to reply.

  “You’re always turned on.”

  “Only around you, beautiful.”

  These words are better. So much better than all of the things I just said. I let myself focus on his words instead of my own; I let his words wash away the others. They fill up the space around us until there is no more room for questions. There’s only room for us.


  We fall onto the sofa in one feverish heap, the notepad all but forgotten on the floor beside us.

  “Crap and crap and crappy crap!” I scramble around my messy desk, trying to find my notes on the presentation I’m supposed to give.

  Casidee hurries into my office, carrying the coffee I begged her to get me when I ran into the building twenty minutes ago.

  “They’re in your filing cabinet.”

  I come to a full stop. “I have a filing cabinet?”

  She rolls her eyes and walks across the room to the piece of white furniture in the corner. I’d brought it in because it went perfectly with the aesthetic in my office and balanced out the space against my white glass desk. It never occurred to me that Cas would actually use it for its real purpose. I’ve never even opened the thing up to look inside. She slides open a middle drawer and pulls out a blue-green file.

  “They’re color coded by client. The teal files are all Riverton.”

  I slam back my coffee and grab the file out of her hands. “Thanks! Do I have time to use the restroom before I go in there?”

  She grabs a stack of paperwork off my desk and places it quickly into my hands.

  “Landon has been making small talk with them for the last five minutes; you barely have time to walk down to the conference room.”

  I nod quickly and rush out of my office in a near sprint. Halfway there I realize I left the presentation packets on the printer and shout out for Casidee to grab them and bring them in once they’re stapled. Then I turn back around and run-walk as fast as I can. The second I get close enough that they can see me through the glass door, I slow to a more casual pace. One of the few things I ever actually learned from my old boss in the event industry was Never let the clients see you run. She meant this both literally and figuratively, but in this instance I don’t want Diego and his team to think I’m as frazzled as I actually am. I pull open the oversize glass doors, and the four clients at the table stand up to greet me. When I first met this group it was handshakes and formality, but we’ve done several events together now and they’re all Latin, so we’ve moved up to double besos.