Captain

by Lauren Rowe

  “Even more shocking than that. Josh just flat-out said to me, ‘Theresa, I’m gonna ask that woman to marry me.’”

  “What?” Charlotte blurts, sounding as flabbergasted as I feel. “Have aliens captured the real Josh Faraday?”

  Charlotte’s never met my boss, actually, or his perfect (pregnant) girlfriend of mere months, Kat Morgan; but after listening to me babble (and drool) about Josh “The Playboy” Faraday for years (including listening to me throw major shade at the insufferable string of heiresses and supermodels he dated before finally falling in love with regular-girl-from-Seattle Kat), we’ve both just sort of gotten used to chatting about Josh like Charlotte knows him personally.

  “Oh my God, Tessa,” Charlotte sputters. “When’s Josh gonna pop the question?”

  “As soon as he can ‘find a ring worthy of her.’ He’s going ring shopping on the down-low with Kat’s mom tomorrow.”

  “I’m shocked.”

  “You’re shocked? For the past six years, every time one of his friends has gotten engaged or married, Josh has sworn marriage isn’t in the cards for him. And now he’s like, ‘T-Rod, I’m gonna get Kat a rock so damned big, she’s gonna need a crane to carry it around!’”

  “Well, hang on. Just ’cause he’s buying the girl a rock doesn’t mean he’s ready to commit to her for the rest of his damned life. Über-wealthy people get engaged all the time and never actually tie the knot. I’ve seen it a thousand times on TMZ. To a guy like Josh, buying The Hope Diamond for his girlfriend is the equivalent of a normal guy buying his girlfriend a twenty-dollar gift card to Claire’s.”

  I burst out laughing. Thank God for Charlotte.

  “Maybe he’s just feeling pressure to give Kat a ring to keep her parents from hurling an axe into his back?” Charlotte suggests. “You know, for knocking up their precious baby girl?”

  “No, he’s not proposing to Kat because of the pregnancy—that’s what trust funds and support agreements are for (and he’s certainly had plenty of friends who’ve gone that route to show him how). Nope, The Playboy wants to ask The Party Girl to be his wife for no other reason than he’s madly in love with her.”

  “Well, holy shit,” Charlotte says. “I guess their little vacay down south went well, huh?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Thanks to you,” she says. “Did they love all the arrangements you made for them in Buenos Aires?”

  “Of course. I know Josh—and I know my city.”

  Charlotte sighs. “I’m actually kind of sad about all this. What the heck will we talk about if not Josh’s string of horrible women?”

  “Oh, I’m sure we’ll figure out a new topic of conversation.”

  “Why are you being so mature about this? You’re allowed to be a little bit petty and immature—at least with me. Even though you like Kat and you’re genuinely happy for Josh—blah, blah, blah—you can still be a tiny bit bummed that your previously slim chances at bagging your boss are now officially zero.”

  “Sweetie, I’ve never genuinely wanted to ‘bag my boss.’ I had a harmless crush on him for a while, that’s all. That’s what happens when a very sheltered twenty-one-year-old starts working for an outrageously hot guy straight out of college who’s only a few years older than her. Six years later, I like to think I’ve matured and grown well beyond that stupid girl. At this point, I think of Josh more like a big brother than anything.”

  “Mmm hmm—a smokin’ hot big brother.”

  “Okay, a stepbrother.”

  We both giggle.

  “Regardless, I would have had to be delusional to think my boss would ever make a move on his personal assistant. He’s Josh Faraday.”

  “Babe, this isn’t an episode of Downton Abbey. Just because Josh never made a move on his personal assistant doesn’t mean the idea of him doing it was ridiculous. Men lose their shit over you all the freaking time and you know it. You’re the Argentinian Angelina Jolie.”

  I laugh. “That’s a huge stretch, babe—but, thank you. And, no, I don’t know men lose their shit over me ‘all the freaking time.’ Not at all.”

  “That’s because you never go out these days, and, when you do, you’ve got your guard up. I mean, I get it—Stu really did a number on you and your confidence took a hit.” She pauses. “You know what you should do? Go out and find yourself some hottie and have yourself some no-strings, toe-curling sex with a stranger for the first time in your life. That ought to give you a little spring in your step if you’re feeling blue.”

  “I haven’t had a lobotomy, Char—I’m not gonna have a one-night stand.”

  Charlotte sighs. “Okay, fine. Don’t have sex with a stranger, just go out and flirt with one. Whenever I’m feeling kind of blue, you know what I do? I go to a bar in my uniform and flirt with hotties—and, lo and behold, my frown always turns upside-down. You’d be shocked how many men have whopping flight-attendant fantasies.” Charlotte gasps. “Hey, I just had a great idea. Why don’t you hop a flight down here to L.A. and come out with me and my work-friends tonight? I have an extra uniform you can wear. Hotties would swarm you.”

  “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m tempted. I’ve been missing you so much since the move, at this point, I’d probably agree to anything to see you. But, unfortunately, I’ve got a bunch of meetings tomorrow with vendors for Josh and Jonas’ grand opening party next week, so I can’t get away. Plus, thanks to Josh’s phone call a few minutes ago, it seems I’ve now got an elaborate marriage proposal to arrange.”

  “Josh asked you to arrange his proposal?”

  “Just the logistics. He came up with The Big Idea on his own.”

  “Lame.”

  “Why? Arranging logistics for Josh’s big ideas is literally my job.”

  “Honey, ‘executive personal assistant’ or not, no woman should ever be expected to help the man she loves propose to another woman.”

  “Gah! Stop it, Char. I don’t ‘love’ Josh—or, at least, not like that. Yes, I used to have a crush on him way back when, and, yes, this past year when I was so devastated about Stu, I maybe fantasized about Josh once or twice while using my battery-operated-boyfriend—but it’s awfully hard for a girl to get too delusional about her chances with a boss who’s never so much as ogled her in six years.”

  “Oh, please. Surely, Josh ‘The Playboy’ Faraday has ogled your double Ds at least a thousand times in six years.”

  “Nope. Not once. He’s always been the consummate professional with me. But why are we even talking about this? Josh is marrying Kat and having a baby with her and they’re gonna live happily ever after (while I die miserable and alone and untouched by human hands for the rest of my freaking life). There’s nothing to talk about.”

  Charlotte laughs. “Oh, Tessa.”

  “It’s okay. I’m just having a pity-party today. I’ll bounce back tomorrow. It’s got nothing to do with Josh, per se. I just wish I could find a guy somewhat like him out there, you know? A good guy who’s also hot as fuck—and also loyal and faithful and available. Does such a man exist?”

  “Well, no offense, but how do you expect to find a guy like that if you never go out and flirt with anyone?”

  “I don’t know anyone in Seattle, Char. I’m not gonna go out all by myself to a bar and flirt with strangers.”

  Charlotte lets out a loud puff of air. “Okay, that settles it: I’m coming to Seattle.”

  “When?”

  “Right now. I’m at LAX now—I just got off a shift. I’ll hop the next flight to Seattle and be there in a couple hours. Easy peasy. I won’t even have to miss a day of work—I’m sure I can swap shifts with a friend based in Seattle.”

  I let out an excited squeal. “Oh my God, Charlotte. Thank you! I’ve been missing you so much these past three weeks.”

  “But, listen up, girl: if I’m gonna fly a thousand miles to see you on a whim, then you’re gonna do what I say tonight. You’re gonna wear the damned uniform I bring you and flirt your
hot little ass off, okay?”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Charlotte giggles. “Tonight, you’re not gonna be Josh Faraday’s logistics-arranging, numbers-crunching, spreadsheet-creating executive personal assistant. You’re gonna be ‘Samantha the Randy Flight Attendant.’”

  “Oh my God, you nut job. Fair warning, though: I’m not gonna hop into some stranger’s bed, just ’cause I’m wearing a flight-attendant uniform.”

  “How long has it been since you’ve slept with someone? Since Stu?”

  “Yep. Nine months and three days, but who’s counting?”

  “Not even a make-out session?”

  “Nothing. Not even a kiss.”

  “Ooph. My vagina just vicariously turned to dust. Okay, Theresa Rodriguez, I’m officially your fairy godmother tonight—your wise and slutty fairy godmother—and I’m making it my mission to get you kissed by a hottie tonight.”

  “The hottie would have to be pretty damned hot for me to even consider kissing him, but, okay, I’ll keep an open mind. So, where are we gonna find this hottie-I’m-gonna-kiss, Slutty Fairy Godmother?”

  “Wise and slutty. Don’t forget the ‘wise’ part.”

  “So sorry, darling. So, where are we going?”

  “I dunno. I’ll ask my friend based in Seattle where we should go. Just the other day, she was telling me about a couple places she said were hottie-wonderlands. I think one of them was called The Pine Box?”

  “Whatever, I’m in. Thanks for coming to see me.”

  “I’m not coming to see you—I’m coming to see, Samantha.” She giggles. “See you soon, girlie. I love you, Crazy Girl.”

  “I love you, too, Nut Job. Bye.”

  Chapter 3

  Ryan

  I enter the bar and survey the room. “If you’re up for trying a new place, I recently went to a cool little place with Kat and my brother,” Josh said when I called him this afternoon and suggested we grab drinks tonight. “It’s called The Pine Box.”

  And, so, here I am.

  I scan the faces in the room, looking for Josh; and when I don’t see him, I stride to the bar, settle myself onto a stool, and order a drink.

  Yeah, this is definitely a cool little place. As much as I like it, though, I’d make a few adjustments, if it were mine. The layout doesn’t optimize the flow to the bar and the “specialty drinks” menu could use a little jolt of originality. Plus, that corner in the back (the one currently filled with crates and boxes?) is the perfect spot for a foosball table. That’s a cryin’ shame, I tell you—a tragic waste of space.

  The bartender places my drink in front of me. “You wanna open a tab?” he asks.

  I gotta assume everyone who grabs drinks with Josh Faraday expects him to pick up the tab—a natural assumption when a guy drives a Lamborghini, I suppose—so I’m thinking I’ll give the poor (rich) guy’s pockets a break tonight. “Thanks, Tim,” I say, looking at the bartender’s nametag. “Yeah, let’s open a tab—I’m expecting a buddy. And, hey, whatever my buddy says about paying the bill when he gets here, drinks are on me tonight.”

  I’ve only met Josh once, actually, about three weeks ago at my parents’ house, when my little sister, Kat, brought her new boyfriend home to meet our entire family (everyone except Keane, that is, who was too busy shaking his ass for dollah billz as Seattle’s newly christened “Peen Star” to make the dinner); but just one spaghetti dinner and four foosball games later, and I already knew Josh Faraday was a long-lost Morgan brother. In fact, as I recall, I texted Keane later that night to tell him Josh had just usurped his spot as “the one I love the most.” (I must say, Keane took the news remarkably well.)

  Of course, when Kat shocked us all by revealing she was carrying Josh’s baby at that dinner three weeks ago, my whole family instantly realized we had no choice but to accept Kat’s baby-daddy with open arms; but the truth is, we all liked Josh so much, we would have opened our arms to him, regardless of Kat’s bun in the oven.

  Which brings me to why I’m sitting here at The Pine Box right now. Despite what Kat said at dinner three weeks ago about marriage “not being in the cards” for her and Josh, it seems Josh has secretly asked my mom and dad for their blessing to propose. So, of course, I texted Josh right away and asked him to drinks, suddenly feeling the need to explain two things to my soon-to-be brother-in-law: one, when he marries my sister, he’ll be getting a helluva lot more than a wife—he’ll also be getting a family, including four brothers who’ll always have his back, come what may; and, two, fuck number one—if Josh screws up and breaks our sister’s heart, the Morgan Brothers will turn into the Morgan Mafia so fucking fast, Josh won’t know what hit him.

  My phone pings with an incoming text and I look down, expecting it to be from Josh—but, nope, it’s my extremely hot but crazy-as-fuck girlfriend (or, as of about an hour ago, my ex-girlfriend?), Olivia.

  “Sorry, babe,” the text from Olivia begins.

  I roll my eyes. That woman should get “sorry, babe” tattooed onto her forehead.

  “I shouldn’t have said all that stuff to you,” Olivia’s text continues.

  No shit.

  “But you shouldn’t have stormed out like that and there was certainly no need to say you wanted to break up. We just had a fight, that’s all. It happens. It doesn’t mean we’re ‘fundamentally incompatible.’ I was just pissed, that’s all, and I had every right to be, not only about that bitch at the restaurant, but also about how women always throw themselves at you. I can only assume it means you don’t tell them up front you’re in an exclusive relationship. AND THAT PISSES ME THE FUCK OFF!!!!”

  I clench my teeth. This is Olivia’s idea of an apology? What a fucking loon. How the hell did I let myself get hooked up with a woman as jealous and possessive as Olivia? It’s not my fault that blonde in the restaurant slipped me a note, totally unsolicited, when she thought Olivia had gone to the restroom (emphasis on the word “thought” in that sentence). I’ve been eavesdropping on you and your girlfriend, the blonde’s note said. It sure sounds to me like your relationship is about to go bye-bye. When it does, feel free to call me for a little fun. Or, hell, call me tonight. I won’t tell.

  Yeesh. The look on Olivia’s face when she lurched at me out of nowhere and snatched that piece of paper out of my hand was so fucking scary, I almost screamed in terror. (Of course, true to form, I laughed my ass off, instead—and, man, did that piss Olivia off even more).

  I take a long sip of my drink.

  For fuck’s sake, I didn’t solicit that note tonight—I hadn’t even noticed that blonde sitting with her friends at the next table. And that’s exactly what I told Olivia when she accused me of flashing the woman some sort of nonverbal “let’s fuck behind my girlfriend’s back!” signal throughout dinner. Ridiculous. I’d never do that to a girlfriend of mine (even if it turns out she’s a fucking loon and not even close to the person she pretended to be for the first month of our relationship). Plus, not that it matters, but I wasn’t even remotely attracted to that blonde at the next table and wouldn’t have taken her up on her offer, even if I’d been single. Yeah, I know Olivia is a classic blonde, just like the woman with the note, so Olivia automatically thinks I’m all about banging blondes; but, honestly, my attraction to Olivia was kind of an aberration for me. Give me a dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty over a blonde any day of the week, man—I swear to God, it’s like I’m genetically programmed to lose my shit over girls like that.

  But, regardless, even if I were a sucker for girls who look just like Olivia, does she really think I’m the kind of douche who’d hit on one woman while out with another? Gimme some fucking credit. And, hey, as long as I’m compiling my List of Reasons Olivia’s Tirade was Complete Bullshit, the truth is, I’m not all that into one-night stands these days, either. Been there, done that. Nowadays, I strongly prefer getting to know every inch of a woman I’m attracted to, both inside and out, night after
glorious night.

  I take another long swig of my drink in an attempt to loosen my clenched jaw.

  There’s nothing I hate more than being accused of cheating. Like I’ve told Olivia over and over: I don’t cheat. I’m a Morgan, after all, and Morgans don’t cheat. Not on our women. Not in sports. Not in school or business or even in a stupid game of beer pong. Do I blurt, “I have a girlfriend!” like some pussy-whipped loser with girlfriend-inspired Tourette’s syndrome every time a female so much as smiles at me or says, “Hey, don’t I know you from the gym?” No, I don’t. But does that mean I’m gonna fuck every attractive woman who flirts with me? No. Because, first off, at that rate, I’d be fucking twenty different women a day. (I mean, come on, I’m a commercial real estate broker, after all, and that means I come in contact with a lot of different people on a daily basis, including women, some of them highly attractive.) And, second off, regardless, I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned this, but... I don’t fucking cheat!

  I drain my drink and slam my empty glass down on the bar.

  I can’t take it anymore. Life’s too short to be this miserable. I’m officially done. That’s what I told Olivia when I stormed out of her place right before coming here, and, contrary to what she obviously believes, I meant every word I said.

  I grab my phone off the bar and tap out a quick text to Olivia: “I meant what I said. We need to talk. Are you gonna be home later? I’ll come over.” I’m tempted to add, “Fuck off! I’m done with this nightmare of a cluster-fuck of a fucking relationship, you crazy fucking bitch!” but I refrain (but only because my darling momma would kill me if she found out I’d cut the last, dangling cord with a girl over text—or, for that matter, told her to “fuck off” and called her a “crazy fucking bitch”).

  “Another one?” Tim the Bartender asks, motioning to my empty glass.

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  I tap out a second text, this one to my soothsayer of a little brother (not that he’s gonna reply to me any time soon—Keane’s the absolute worst about answering his texts). “Hey, Peenie,” I write. “Remember two months ago when we were fishing at Green Lake and I said you were wrong about Miss Perfect? FML. I owe you 50 bucks. I broke up with her earlier tonight. Text Colby for me, would you? I’m too embarrassed to tell him myself. Make sure to tell him I’ll never doubt my Master Yoda again.”