by Lauren Layne
“See you tomorrow, Mr. Ramirez,” Andrew says. “Brody.”
Brody’s already opening the donut box, his stubby fingers reaching for the maple bacon donut I bought specifically for Ramon, but he lifts a hand in farewell.
Not that Andrew even sees. He’s already striding away without so much as a backward glance.
Let him go.
It’s excellent advice I give myself, except my body doesn’t listen. Without a word to Ramon or Brody, I dash after Andrew, pushing through the revolving doors into the chilly October morning.
“Andrew!”
He’s already several steps away from the building, but he halts when he hears me say his name. His body is tense, as though he’s willing himself to keep walking, but like me, maybe he’s not entirely in control of his body, because he turns around.
“What the hell?” I snap, striding toward him with as much purpose as I can in strappy Saint Laurent platforms. I’m grateful for the extra height when we come nearly toe-to-toe. It allows me to endure his scowl at least a little closer to eye level than usual, given our height difference.
“What?” he snaps back.
“What was that?” I ask, gesturing with my head toward the building. “You can’t even be civil?”
“We’re never civil,” he counters. His eyes are angry, and that pisses me off. He doesn’t get to be angry. I’ve been nothing but nice to him, and I’m sick to death of being treated like trash.
“I don’t need a hug, but I at least deserve to have my presence acknowledged,” I say, lifting my chin.
His gaze rakes over me, taking in the shorter-than-usual blue dress. “What, Brady’s slobbering attention isn’t enough for you? You need the entire male population to kiss the ground you flounce on, is that it? Because you can count me out.”
“Quit being an ass,” I hiss, placing a hand on his chest and shoving. He doesn’t so much as rock backward. “What is with you? I thought we were making progress on Friday. I thought we were on the verge of…”
His eyes narrow. “On the verge of what?”
“Of being friends!”
“I don’t need friends, Georgiana. Not friends like you.”
It’s so mean, so cruelly dismissive, that I lift my hand to slap him, even though I’ve never struck a soul in my life.
His fingers close on my wrist, his eyes furious. “Don’t even think about it.”
I try to yank my hand free, but he holds fast, his grip like a vise even as he bends slightly to set his briefcase on the ground. “What do you want from me, Georgiana? Why are you chasing me outside in the cold instead of taking him to your warm bed?”
“Excellent question. Let me go so I can do exactly that,” I say angrily, wiggling my wrist in a helpless attempt to get free and go back to Brody.
Instead he tightens his fingers, tugging me close. I stumble a little on my sky-high heels and his other arm comes around me, steadying me.
“I know,” he says, his voice quiet and menacing.
“You know what?” I challenge.
His eyes bore into mine, angry and…something else. “I know why you’re out here with me instead of inside with him,” he says quietly.
“You don’t know crap,” I say, lifting my hands and pushing against his shoulders. “Let me go so I can go be with a guy who actually likes me.”
“Not a fucking chance,” he growls.
His fingers spread wide on my back, pulling me all the way to him as he lowers his head. And Andrew Mulroney kisses me.
My eyes go wide with shock, but only for half a second, because then they’re fluttering closed as his lips nudge mine open, his tongue taking mine in hot, sweet possession.
I was wrong, I realize. First kisses aren’t always a disappointment.
Sometimes they’re perfect from the very start.
A second ago my hands were shoving him away, and now they’re greedily pulling him to me, my fingers on his lapel, needing his mouth against mine, harder, hotter. More.
He makes a low growling noise, and I realize that kissing Andrew Mulroney is nothing like it’s supposed to be.
Apparently the man is fastidious and uptight in all things except this, because his kiss is unapologetic and carnal, disregarding the fact that we’re in the middle of a sidewalk at the crack of dawn and that we don’t even like each other.
Maybe it’s that last part that makes the kiss so good, each of us just trying to best the other, tongues tangling, teeth nipping, even as we struggle the entire time to get closer.
My hands tangle in his hair, his hands find my waist, and the kiss gentles slightly as we try to catch our breath without breaking contact.
It’s the snap of a camera that finally disrupts our obsession with each other’s mouths.
I pull back, my eyes blinking in confusion before turning toward the sound of the camera, just as I hear another fast series of clicks, followed by a “Holy shit!” from the photographer when he sees Andrew’s face.
“What the fuck?” Andrew snarls, taking a step toward the photog. “Who the hell are you?”
The short, portly man, who smells like coffee and sports greasy hair, gives a self-satisfied laugh. “Doesn’t matter who I am, man. What matters is that you’re not Brody Nash.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask, smoothing a hand over my mussed hair. It’s not the first time I’ve had my picture taken by desperate paparazzi on a slow celeb news day, but it’s definitely the first time I’ve warranted someone outside my apartment building.
“Someone saw you and Brody Nash leave together,” he told me.
“So?” I ask.
“So I thought maybe his fiancée would find it interesting,” the smarmy man says with an indifferent shrug. “Guess I got it wrong. At least I got his, though.” He holds up the camera and looks Andrew over. “You have any idea how hard it is to get the Divorce King on camera?”
Andrew’s face is murderous, and his eyes look too bright. Not at all like himself. I step between the men before Andrew can do something that will result in the pig pap pressing charges.
“Let him go,” I murmur, placing a placating hand on Andrew’s chest.
He glances down at my hand and takes a deep breath. “Is it always like this around you?”
I wince, knowing that the paparazzo following me home from the club has done nothing to elevate Andrew’s opinion of my lifestyle.
“Not really.”
“Print those pictures and you’re dead,” Andrew says over my shoulder to the retreating photographer.
The man shrugs. “I won’t print shit. But you can bet I’m gonna sell ’em to someone else who will print them.”
The man darts across Park Avenue, well out of Andrew’s angry reach.
Andrew swears vehemently under his breath, running his hands through his hair, and I reach out a hand to calm him, but he steps back. “Just…give me a minute, Georgiana.”
Georgiana. Even now, after he’s just had his tongue down my throat, I’m Georgiana. It makes me want to smile, even in spite of everything.
Then Brody’s striding out onto the sidewalk. He comes up short when he sees the murderous look Andrew and I both shoot him.
He laughs and holds up both hands. “What’d I do?”
“You’re engaged?” I ask.
His eyes go wide, and for the first time since I’ve known him, he looks a little unsure of himself. “Look, Georgie babe, it’s just—”
“I let you kiss me,” I say angrily.
It’s not until Andrew’s head whips around to look at me that I realize my mistake. “I mean—I—Andrew, wait—”
He takes another step back, his eyes shuttering as his face resumes its usual impenetrable icy mask. He lifts his hand to a temple as though warding off pain, then drops it. “I’m late,” he says curtly, turning away.
And because I know there’s nothing more disastrous in Andrew Mulroney’s life than being late, I let him go, watching helplessly as the distance betwe
en us increases with his determined steps.
Brody whistles. “Damn. What was that about?”
“Shut up, Brody. Who are you engaged to, anyw—Actually, you know what?” I hold up both hands. “I don’t even care. Just leave.”
“Georgie—”
“Leave,” I say, my tone sharper than I’ve ever heard it. Maybe Andrew Mulroney is rubbing off on me.
Brody gives a tired sigh like I’m the troublesome one, and bends down to kiss my cheek. “Call you later?”
I give him a look.
He laughs. “Or I’ll let you cool down first. See ya, babe.”
Unbelievable.
I don’t even register whether Brody walks away, hails a cab, or what. I’m too busy watching Andrew’s retreating figure get smaller and smaller until he disappears.
Well…
Damn it.
Now what?
Andrew
MONDAY AFTERNOON
Andrew tried mightily to pay attention to his phone conversation, to listen to what Liv Dotson was telling him, even as he rummaged through each and every one of his desk drawers in search of aspirin he knew wouldn’t be there.
There was a reason he took such good care of himself, and it was so he could avoid feeling the way he did right this moment: like absolute shit.
Damn Georgiana Watkins. Damn Brody what’s-his-name. He had half a mind to blame them both for the headache that was currently crushing his skull.
That slimy paparazzo too.
As for the kiss…he wasn’t thinking about that. At least, he wasn’t letting his brain think about it. His body, though—he wasn’t sure it would ever forget what it had felt like to finally, finally give in to his want for her.
He’d been fantasizing about the moment for weeks.
It had exceeded expectations.
“Anyway, I’m really just so sorry about how this worked out,” Liv said as Andrew gave up and closed the last drawer. “I feel like you wasted your time.”
“Absolutely do not apologize,” he said, giving in to the rare urge to slump back against his chair and close his eyes. “Believe it or not, I wish more of my cases worked out this way.”
Liv laughed softly. “I have to doubt that. You wouldn’t make a living!”
“There will always be divorces,” he said, lifting a hand and pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off a surge of pain and dizziness. “I’m just glad you and Chris won’t be one of them.”
And though he wasn’t thinking entirely straight, he meant it. Liv was sweet, if a little self-indulgent, and though he hadn’t met Chris, he was too much of a Yankees fan to not root for the center fielder.
Sure, their deciding to patch things up wouldn’t mean the fat check the firm had been expecting, but he’d gotten his retainer, been paid for the work he had done on Liv’s case.
And there were more than enough high-profile clients banging at the door to make up for it.
“Look, I know this might be a little bit odd,” Liv was saying, “or a lot odd, but I really enjoyed working with you, despite the circumstances, and I actually think you and Chris would get along really well….”
Andrew opened one eye. Surely she wasn’t…
“And you can absolutely say no, but Chris and I would really love to have you and Georgie come over for dinner some time.”
Andrew wasn’t sure which part of her statement was harder to absorb: the fact that one of his clients wanted him to talk baseball with the man he’d helped her almost divorce or…
“Georgie?” he managed.
“Just so you know, I’m totally taking the credit for introducing you guys that day at Del Frisco,” she said. “I had no idea you guys hit it off after. You’re so different, but I guess that’s the way it works sometimes.”
His eyes closed again. “Did she—did Georgiana tell you that we were—”
“Making out on sidewalks?” Liv said in a teasing voice. “Nope, she’s not answering anyone’s phone calls, but it’s all over TMZ. Georgie’s hardly ever attached to a guy, and you, well…you’re never connected with anyone.”
This was it, Andrew thought as nausea and pain rolled over him. The part where he died, with the world thinking he was dating a fluff ball named Georgiana Watkins, all while she was bringing engaged men home from the nightclubs.
“Anyway, talk to her, let me know!” Liv said. “Talk soon!”
Andrew didn’t even remember hanging up, and he had no idea how much time passed before he registered an insistent knocking on his door.
“Yeah,” he managed, pulling himself upright.
Shelley was standing in the doorway watching him with alarm. “Are you okay? I tried buzzing you, but you didn’t pick up, and—”
“Fine,” he said, running a hand over his face. “What’s up?”
“Your three o’clock’s called twice and is on hold. I told her she needed to wait until her scheduled time, but she said it was urgent.”
He sighed heavily. Might as well get it over with. The sooner he ended his meetings, the sooner he could go home and crawl into bed.
“I’ll take it,” he said, reaching for the phone. Then paused. “Actually, Shelley…”
She turned.
“Got any painkillers? Tylenol, Advil…morphine?”
She gave him a sympathetic look. “Absolutely. And after this call, I’m clearing your schedule for the rest of the day. You’re sick as a dog.”
He tried to tell his suddenly bossy assistant that he was just fine. That he didn’t get sick. But he couldn’t muster the energy.
Instead he managed to prop his forehead up on his right fist while he reached for the phone with his left. “This is Mulroney.”
Georgie
WEDNESDAY, 5:20 A.M.
In all the months we’ve been playing our early morning game of cat and mouse, I’ve skipped plenty of times, but never Andrew. Not on a weekday.
But he didn’t show yesterday morning.
I figured he was pissed, and since he had a right to be, I let it go. Gave him a day.
Today is Wednesday, though, two days after we made out on the sidewalk and then broke the Manhattan gossip circuit, and he’s still not at the front desk.
I was willing to give him one day to lick his wounds and come to grips with what was going on with us, but two?
Not a chance.
I’ve been waiting here in adorably matching workout clothes for twenty minutes, and there’s no sign of his red shoes or his boring travel mug.
“You know, Charles, I just realized I forgot something,” I say.
He gives me a slightly puzzled smile, probably wondering why it took me twenty minutes of making small talk to realize that.
I give him a little finger waggle and head back to the elevators. Charles has already hit the eighty-sixth floor for me, but I hope he’s not watching the elevators too closely, because I take out my key fob and swipe it so that I can access the seventy-ninth floor.
A few moments later, I’m stepping onto a floor that looks exactly like mine. I scan the discreet numbers until I find the one I’m looking for: 79B.
Home of Andrew Mulroney, Esquire.
I knock.
No answer.
I knock louder.
Nothing.
I give in to the immature urge to put my thumb on the doorbell and press it over and over and over and—
The door swings open, and I barely have a chance to register what I’m seeing before I hear an exhausted groan. The second he sees me, the door starts to swing shut again.
“Wait—” I press my palm to the door, a little surprised by how easily I’m able to push it back open considering the man works out like a Viking and definitely doesn’t want to see me.
I push the door wider, and let out a little sound of dismay as I absorb the reality of what I’m looking at.
The man looks terrible.
“Oh, Andrew,” I murmur, stepping into his apartment uninvited and dropping my bag on the floo
r.
His hand is gripping the door, and he rests his forehead tiredly against it, eyes closing. “Is there any chance that you’ll go away now?”
“Absolutely none,” I say, prying his fingers away from the door and feeling his forehead with the other. “How long have you looked like this?”
“Like what?”
“Regurgitated death.”
He lets out a noise that’s half laugh, half groan. “Go away. I can’t spar with you today.”
It’s too late. I’ve already shut the door and am preparing a plan of action.
He really does look awful. His hair’s a curling mess, he obviously hasn’t shaved in a couple of days, his eyes are red-rimmed and glassy, and I’m not even sure what he’s wearing. Sweatpants, but he seems to have paired them with a godawful, vaguely holiday-looking sweater.
“I was cold,” he said, apparently reading my thoughts even through his illness. “Or at least I was. Now I’m hot.”
“Well, that’s because you’ve got a fever,” I say, gently placing my hand on his back and guiding him toward his bedroom. I figure I’ll have plenty of time to snoop later, so I just take in the basics, confirming that his apartment’s basically exactly like mine, except reversed, bedroom on the right instead of the left, et cetera.
The second we enter his bedroom, I know it’s where the poor guy’s spent the better part of the past two days. His apartment’s otherwise as tidy and anal as I’d expect, but his bedroom smells like a stuffy sick ward.
It says a lot about how just un-Andrew-like he is right now that he doesn’t seem to register how wrinkled and uninviting the bed looks.
“Hold up there, sickie,” I say, grabbing the back of his sweater and pulling him back with more ease than I should. “Let’s just take a pause, sit in this nice chair here for a second.”
I help him toward the black leather chair in the corner, pulling a blanket off the arm and tucking it around him.
“Want to sleep,” he says, leaning his head against the wall.
“I know you do,” I say, feeling a wave of tenderness as his lashes sweep down onto the dark shadows beneath his eyes. I let my fingers touch his hair, just for a moment, before I spring into action. “One minute, ’kay?”
