by Lauren Layne
“You’re not late. You’re early. You’re not even supposed to be at the front desk for another…” She counted on her fingers. “Thirteen minutes.”
“Will you please just get inside so I can get to work?” he said with more irritation in his tone than he actually felt.
Her smile faded as though he’d hurt her feelings, and he opened his mouth to say…what? He never knew what to say around her.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” He snatched her clutch out of her hand, placed it on top of the donut box, and then shoved his travel mug at her. He wrapped his free arm around her waist and half pushed, half dragged her the remaining few steps toward the front door, holding the umbrella over both of them.
The revolving door seemed too complicated in her current state, so he dug his key fob out of his pocket and used the side door, pulling the umbrella closed before ushering her into the lobby.
Georgiana seemed uncharacteristically agreeable. He glanced down warily, thinking of how determined she usually seemed to be as difficult as possible.
He cursed under his breath. She was drinking his breakfast.
Andrew jerked the mug back out of her hands, his eyes reluctantly locked on the way the tip of her tongue flicked across her top lip. “That tastes better than I expected. Like cold hot chocolate.”
“Try it again sometime when your body’s not starved for nutrients after too much vodka.”
Georgiana sighed heavily. “You’re right. I remember now why I don’t do this sort of thing anymore.”
“Why’d you do it now?” he asked, trying to keep his eyes on hers, and not on the way the cold rainwater had made her nipples tighten beneath the slip of a dress.
She sighed again, and this time the sound was sad. “You’ll say I’m ridiculous.”
His lips twitched. “Probably.”
Georgiana looked back up at him, her eyes wide and guileless. “I was sad. Dumb, right? Trying to drown sadness in shots?”
“Why were you sad?” he asked quietly.
Damn it, what was he doing? Why was he letting this mess of a creature put him more behind schedule by the minute?
She’d opened the donut box, although she shut it again without taking one out. “It’s my parents. I wish they were…I wish we were more of a family. A different kind of family, I guess I should say.”
Please don’t cry, please don’t cry.
He watched as she bowed her head, wondering what the hell he was supposed to say. She couldn’t have picked a worse shoulder to cry on. Sure, he knew how to make sympathetic noises when his more heartbroken clients bemoaned their ex’s infidelity or inattentiveness, but he never really knew what to say when it mattered.
Somehow it mattered here, now, with this mess of a girl, and for the first time in a long time, he wished he were better with the touchy-feely shit.
Then again, in her current state, it was more than possible that she wouldn’t even remember having this conversation, or this entire encounter. A part of him hoped she didn’t. Keeping Georgiana Watkins at a distance felt…safe. Smart.
Georgiana shook her head as though trying to banish all the sad thoughts. Before he could react, she’d reached out and wrapped slim fingers around his wrist, pulling his watch face toward her.
Then she grinned, her melancholy mood apparently behind her. “There we go.”
“There we go what?” he asked gruffly, trying not to register the feeling of her fingertips against his skin.
“Five o’clock,” she said, dropping his hand. “Right on schedule. Shall we start arguing now?”
“I don’t have time to argue with you. You’ve already made me late enough.”
She didn’t seem to notice his sharp words, her vodka-soaked brain already moving on to the next subject. Georgiana was glancing down, and she made a happy sound when she looked at his feet.
“Your Dorothy slippers! They’re back!”
She started to bend as though to touch his gym shoes, and Andrew cursed, grabbing her arm and pulling her upright. Enough already.
“Mr. Ramirez,” he called across the expansive lobby to where the concierge had been discreetly minding his own business, “Ms. Watkins’s shoes are a little slippery from the rain. Can you help her to the elevators?”
Ramon immediately started moving toward them, and Andrew slid his hand from Georgiana’s small wrist to her elbow, making sure she stayed steady on her feet until he could hand her off.
“You okay?” he asked.
She didn’t answer. She was rummaging around in the donut box, saying, “Eenie, meenie, minie—”
“Hey,” he said firmly, grabbing her chin gently, lifting her face to his. “Don’t eat that. You don’t need the sugar right now. Let Ramon get you upstairs, take an Advil, wash it down with two glasses of water, and eat a banana if you have one.”
“I don’t have one. But I have a leftover red velvet cupcake from Sprinkles. Does that count as a substitution?”
“Why would that—You know what? Never mind,” he muttered as Ramon approached.
He and the other man exchanged a brief look and a nod of understanding as Ramon placed a hand beneath Georgiana’s elbow. “Careful now, Ms. Watkins. Let me just help you to the elevators. I’ll have someone clean up the water on the floor right away.”
The water wasn’t the problem, and he and Ramon both knew it, but Georgie seemed oblivious, linking her arm in Ramon’s like they were best friends and happily chatting about the bakery throwing a complimentary pumpkin spice old-fashioned into the donut box.
Andrew watched them a moment longer, making sure that Ramon’s grip was enough to prevent Georgiana from falling on her face. Once she made it to the elevator, Andrew started to turn away to get on with his day, but then he heard his name.
He glanced back and saw Georgiana waving at him happily, much as she had with the cab driver.
Don’t wave back. For the love of God, man, don’t—
Andrew lifted his hand, just briefly, in acknowledgment.
Damn. She really was the most ridiculous creature. He carefully hid his smile until he was back outside.
Georgie
MONDAY AFTERNOON
Ugh.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had a hangover. And a long, long time since I’ve had a hangover this bad.
I shuffle into the kitchen and open the fridge, hoping for Gatorade to magically appear. Those electrolytes got me through sorority life.
Nope.
I settle for a San Pellegrino and a cupcake.
It’s red velvet with delicious vanilla frosting, but for some reason as I chew I keep thinking…banana?
Not because it tastes like banana, but because…
I groan as fuzzy memories creep forward.
Andrew freaking Mulroney.
The details are hazy, but I remember enough to lose my appetite. I toss the rest of the cupcake in the trash.
Crap. Now I owe the guy. Not because he was nice. I may not remember all the details, but I distinctly remember that he wasn’t nice.
But he was decent, and that’s…that’s…
Annoying.
I lean against the counter and sip the fizzy water, trying to figure out if my nausea is just from the excess booze or if it’s from the sense that I’m indebted to my worst enemy.
There’s probably a little self-loathing in there as well. Despite what you’re probably thinking right now, I am not that girl who goes out and gets drunk to erase her troubles. Sure, I like to party, but as I’ve said before, I’m pretty tame about it. A few cocktails here and there, but I space them out, I drink water, I don’t drink on an empty stomach.
Last night, though…
I groan as flashes of the evening come back to me. Marley wasn’t able to come out, which was my first mistake. Marley and I have gone drinking together enough times to develop a code word: spins. Translation: You’re one sip away from the spins, which means you’re already past the point of feeling like crap tomorrow.
But there was no Marley, no one to utter the code word, and so I drowned all my regrets about my parents and their unhappy marriage and my loneliness with Grey Goose citron.
Tacky, Georgie. Very, very tacky.
Somewhere around three-thirty A.M. I ran into Trevor and Brett, a couple at the top of the city’s gay elite, and kind souls. They took me to a twenty-four-hour diner and tried unsuccessfully to get me to eat a few bites of scrambled eggs and some coffee before loading me into a cab.
At least I’m pretty sure that’s how it happened. And I remember going to the donut shop—even tipsy, I don’t forget the important things in life.
And then I ran into…Andrew Mulroney, Esquire. Damn it.
Why was he so nice? I don’t like when he’s nice. It makes me feel…funny. And how am I supposed to act when I see him next?
At least I’ll have another day to figure it out. No way am I going out tonight, which means I’ll have no reason to be downstairs at five A.M. I could set my alarm and go down anyway, but that’s just pathetic.
So I have until Wednesday to figure out how to act when I see him.
For now, though…I take a hot shower, change into Lululemon pants and a comfy sweater, and spend the rest of the afternoon and evening catching up with my old friends Phoebe, Monica, Chandler, and the rest of the gang.
Somewhere around seven, I order in a sesame bagel and Gatorade from Seamless, a food delivery service that’s served many a kitchen-impaired New Yorker. At the last minute, I notice the bagel place has fruit as side items, and I order a banana.
With Ross and Rachel bickering in the background over whether or not they were on a break, I text with Marley and somehow find myself being talked into hosting a dinner party tomorrow.
I’ll have it catered, obviously, but my apartment building has a great community space with an awesome view. My crew hangs out there sometimes when we’re in the mood to chat with close friends rather than see and be seen. I leave Marley in charge of the guest list and start going through my mental list of food options for a group of ten people.
My mom calls somewhere around nine P.M.
I ignore it.
Georgie
TUESDAY EVENING
“Georgie. I appreciate you inviting me.”
Ugh. Gross. I shove the corners of my mouth upward, hoping it resembles a smile, as the dark-haired charmer bends to kiss my cheek.
His lips land maybe just a little too close to mine.
Meet Brody Nash.
I know what you’re thinking: name sounds like he might be a player, right? Ding ding ding. Correct.
Brody Nash has a gift for making you think he gets you, that you’re special to him, maybe the one.
And it doesn’t hurt that all those soulful vibes come from a very attractive package. He’s gorgeous. Warm hazel eyes, short black hair, really good features.
Really good everything, honestly.
Now, I haven’t slept with Brody Nash.
But not too long ago…I’d wanted to.
We dated. Or at least, I thought we were dating.
He’d singled me out, or so I thought. Drinks, just the two of us, before meeting up with the group. Then it progressed to dinner. Brunch. Walks in the freaking park.
Then he’d invited me to his parents’ house in the Hamptons—just the two of us.
I mean, what was I supposed to think?!
My bags had been half packed when, the night before, I went out to Lisa’s bachelorette party.
During one of those dumb drinking games that leads to things being confessed that shouldn’t, I’d learned that not only had the bride-to-be slept with Brody, but so had five of my other friends.
And that he apparently kept a list. That he showed people.
Eyes wide open, I’d canceled my trip with Brody and kept him at arm’s length ever since, even though he somehow remains a part of our group, like a really bad rash that everyone’s given up on getting rid of.
And since Marley was in charge of the guest list, and since I’d successfully convinced her that being around Brody didn’t bother me…
Well, here he is.
“We should hang out soon. I miss you,” Brody says quietly, giving me a forlorn smile.
I reach around him to pluck my glass of pinot grigio off the counter. “Uh-huh.”
Brody touches my arm, then moves his hand to my hip. “Hey.”
His voice is soft and compelling, and I look away so that I’m not even tempted to be lured into that dangerous place where I’d let him make me feel special—important.
Only, as my gaze is swinging around wildly looking for something besides Brody to fixate on, I see something way, way worse than Brody.
My best friend is strolling through the door of the community event room I reserved, her arm entwined with that of Andrew Mulroney, Esquire.
No friggin’ way. I blink. Blink again.
Yup. Definitely him.
As I’ve said before, I do occasionally see Andrew outside our five o’clock meetings, but not all that often.
And the sight of him in a three-piece gray suit with a skinny black tie does something funny to my belly.
His copper-brown hair’s a little more tidy than it is first thing in the mornings, so I’m guessing that after he showers at the gym, he puts some sort of product in it to keep the waves under control.
Right now I’d be hard-pressed to say which style I like better.
Not that it matters. I meet his eyes, and shocker of all shockers, he’s glaring at me.
Well, not really glaring. That would require emotion, and Ice Man’s got none. But if I’d been maybe holding out hope that him being semi-decent to drunk Georgie yesterday morning would be a step forward…nope.
“George, you’ll never guess who I ran into in your elevator lobby,” Marley gushes, patting Andrew’s arm. “This is Andrew Mulroney. We met him briefly last week when he was at dinner with Liv?”
Oh, that? You mean that time when the jerk pretended he didn’t even know me?
I remember I never got revenge for that, and decide it’s time for payback.
I rearrange my features in a polite, slightly embarrassed expression, as though I’ve just been caught in the awkward social faux pas of having to be reintroduced to someone I’ve already met.
“Of course,” I say with false sincerity. “Mr. Mulroney, nice to see you again.”
As I extend my hand, I see something unexpected flicker across Andrew’s face. I can’t tell what exactly. It’s not the indifference I’m expecting, but not quite annoyance either.
He hesitates just a fraction of a second, setting his gym bag aside before shifting his briefcase from his right hand to his left and shaking mine.
Andrew doesn’t meet my eyes, and it bothers me, because he doesn’t seem to be ignoring me so much as hiding something.
I have this weird sense that I’ve hurt his feelings with my impersonal greeting.
Which is blatantly unfair. He’s the very definition of impersonal.
But I feel a sting of regret all the same.
Making everything way worse, Brody appears by my side, his hand slipping around my waist as though it has a right to be there, and he too extends a hand to Andrew. “Hey, man. Brody Nash. Nice to meet you.”
Andrew’s gaze shifts briefly to Brody’s hand on my waist, but he still refuses to meet my eyes as he shakes Brody’s hand.
“So, you’re staying, obviously,” Marley says to Andrew in the bossy, self-assured tone that’s earned her the reputation as the mom of our group.
“No, thank you,” Andrew says a little gruffly.
“Unless you have other plans, I’m going to have to insist,” Marley says, pressing against his arm. “Although I should warn you, if you tell me you have a date, I’m going to be very disappointed.”
My stomach twists at Marley’s flirting, and I feel a sudden stab of regret that I haven’t told her about Andrew’s and my…thing.
&nb
sp; Not that we’re involved, and not that he’s off-limits. So what do I care if my best friend has terrible taste in men and can’t tell that Andrew Mulroney is…
I look up, see him watching me. “I don’t want to impose,” he says.
“Oh, poo, you’re not,” Marley says, waving her hand. “Right, Georgie?”
“Of course not,” I hear myself say. “There’s plenty of food, wine, booze, whatever you want.”
I would have said it to anybody—our friend circle is an open, chatty group. We’re always welcoming strangers, our group ever expanding. But I’m not sure it’s autopilot manners that have me urging Andrew to stay so much as the unexpectedly vulnerable look on his face.
“All right, then,” he says with a slightly stiff nod. “I’ll just run up to my place, drop my stuff off.”
Marley slides her hand out of his arm to let him go. “Okay, but hurry back.”
She walks backward away from him, blowing him a playful kiss before turning to fetch her drink.
Brody’s fingers are firm on my waist, pulling me back toward my friends, but before I can think better of it, I slip away, following after Andrew’s retreating back.
“Hey,” I say, touching his sleeve just before he can leave the room.
Andrew glances down, first at my fingers, then at my face. “What?”
I nearly smile at the irritability he manages to stuff into that one word.
“You’re not planning to come back down, are you? After you ‘put your bag down’?”
He looks away and I know I’m right.
“Marley will be disappointed,” I say.
He blinks. “Who’s Marley?”
Oh boy.
I tilt my head back toward the group. “Pretty blonde? The one who found you in the elevator, dragged you up here?”
“Oh. Right. Ms. Hamlen.”
I can’t stop the little laugh. “Where are you from? I’m pretty sure Buckingham Palace has less formality than you.”
He stares down at me. “I’m merely polite. Try it sometime.”
“Hey!” I say, stung. “I have plenty of flaws, but impoliteness isn’t one of them. I invited you to stay!”
“After you pretended not to know me.”
