by Lauren Layne
She’s quiet for a moment. “About like you’d think. Quiet. Serious. Deadly smart.”
“Deadly smart,” I say, surprised by the strange word combination. “Like…a savant?” Good Lord, am I falling for some sort of genius?
Pam gives a little shake of her head as she sets the fourth piece of chicken on the baking sheet and goes to the sink to wash her hands. “He hates all those labels, but yeah, I suspect his IQ’s off the charts. Parents didn’t know what to do with him. He was lucky to have a couple of good teachers who recognized that his brain moved faster than was the case with the rest of the kids, but sometimes I think…”
I wait for her to dry her hands and gather her thoughts.
“Sometimes I wonder if it was the best thing,” she says, turning back. “He’s kind and considerate as they come, but being put in with older kids didn’t do him any favors. They didn’t know how to relate to someone two years younger, and he didn’t know how to relate to them.”
My heart hurts at the thought of little Andrew feeling ostracized by his bigger classmates.
“Were he and Peter close?”
“Not particularly. The six-year age gap was a lot to overcome, even with Andrew’s advanced intellect. They cared for each other, got along well enough when they weren’t fighting, but were never friends in the way of siblings that are closer in age.”
I sip my wine, and she does the same. “Did he have any friends?” I ask quietly. “Andrew, I mean.”
“Sure. Some. He tried hard, but…”
She doesn’t finish her sentence, but that tells me all I need to know. No wonder he seems so heartbreakingly alone. The poor guy never learned how to make a friend.
“Please tell me he has some friends now,” I say, keeping my voice light. “You’re killing me here.”
She tilts her head. “You don’t know?”
“He and I are sort of…new to each other’s lives.”
“Ah. Well. Yes, he’s got a couple of close friends. Things were rough in high school, but they got better in college. His best friend is from law school. Paul. He lives in Boston. And I get the impression he gets along quite well with some of his colleagues.”
I relax slightly. Andrew doesn’t know it, but he just got saved from a very aggressive Georgie Watkins friend-matchmaking campaign.
Oh, who are we kidding? I’m going to launch one of those anyway. Everyone needs new friends.
Pam starts to clean up the cutting board, and I jump out of my chair. “Don’t you dare,” I say. “You sit.”
“I’m saying yes, mainly because you’re young and springy and have more energy than me,” she says with a wink.
“Okay, one more question,” I say, keeping my voice casual as I squirt some dish soap onto the kitchen knife.
She sighs. “Andrew’s going to kill me, huh?”
“He’ll never know. Girlfriends? Anyone serious?”
“Wow, you really don’t know each other, huh?”
I give her a look over my shoulder. “You’ve known him a couple of decades. How easy do you think he is to get to know?”
“Good point,” she says, pursing her lips. “So, girlfriends…oh yes.”
I spin around, sudsy water dripping all over the floor. “You don’t have to say it like that!”
She laughs. “You asked!”
“Because I thought you were going to tell me he was a nerd! Practically celibate!”
She laughs harder. “Your face right now, sweetie…Okay, it was like this. High school, not so much with the ladies. As I said, he was two years younger, and sixteen-year-old girls aren’t so much into the fourteen-year-old boy who aces every single test.”
“But?” I ask, my teeth clenched.
“In college, though,” she continues, “things changed. Suddenly that two-year difference didn’t bug the girls quite so much. Suddenly smart was sexy. Didn’t hurt that he had a late growth spurt and discovered the gym.”
I dry my hands on the towel. “I can’t believe this. I’m dating a playboy.”
“Yes and no. In college he was definitely…well, he didn’t tell me. I was an old married lady to him back then. But, putting the pieces together, I’d say there were a lot more nightly companions than there were serious girlfriends.”
“What about after college?” I ask, both dying to know and not wanting to know.
“He settled a bit in law school. Had one pretty serious girlfriend, although they split after graduation when she went back home to Texas, if I’m remembering correctly.”
“Pam. Do me a solid and tell me he’s been a monk since then?”
She merely smiles. “Like I said, he doesn’t tell me much.”
I sigh and turn back to the sink.
The sound of the front door opening prevents any more snooping into Andrew’s history. Just as well. I’m not sure I want to hear much more about his love life.
I tense a little as I glance toward him, worried how he’ll feel about seeing me, a homemade dinner, and his sister-in-law all in the same room.
Not to worry. He doesn’t even look at me. Andrew sets down his briefcase and duffel bag, then goes straight for Pam, pulling her close and kissing the side of her head. “Good to see you, Pammy.”
Pammy. I can’t get a Georgie, but she can get a Pammy? Oh well. At least I know there’s hope for him yet.
“Thanks for making the time to see me,” she says, giving his chest a sisterly little pat.
“Always. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to meet you.”
“Wasn’t a problem. I made friends with your girl Georgie here.”
I bite my lip a little, wondering how he feels about his family calling me his Georgie, and I brace for the chilly, back off eye contact.
His face is unsmiling when he looks at me—shocker—but his gaze is warm, and maybe a little…happy?
“Georgiana,” he says.
“Andy.”
He glances at the mess on the counter. “What did you do to my kitchen?”
“I was cooking, but it went badly. Should have stuck with soup. Pam had to rescue me. I didn’t realize you had plans, and now I’m intruding and leaving a mess.”
“Sounds like fairly typical Georgiana Watkins,” he says. But he’s smiling. Oh, how far we’ve come.
“I can clean up,” Pam tells me. “It’s the least I can do for spoiling your surprise. What I need to talk about won’t take long, and then you guys can get right back to your dinner.”
A clear dismissal, but an understandable one. If she came all the way into a city she doesn’t even like in order to talk with her brother-in-law, it’s got to be about something important. And perhaps not something she wants to talk about in front of a stranger.
“I’ll take you up on that,” I say, smiling to reassure her I’m not offended at being kicked out. “I’d tell you to leave the mess so I can get to it later, but I think our tidy Andrew might have a little heart attack.”
“How does this even happen?” Andrew says, gesturing toward a rogue piece of cheese that is nowhere near the cutting board or the package, and then running a finger through a coating of flour on the counter.
I reach up and pat his cheek. “You should probably accept now that being in my orbit can get messy.”
“News flash: I learned that months ago,” he mutters, swiping the flour-tipped finger down my nose. But his fingers close around my wrist before I can flit away, and he pulls me close and brushes a soft kiss over my lips. “Text you later?”
I nod, pressing my lips together and wishing I could kiss him again. All night, really.
He winks, as though reading my thoughts, and I have to step back, because I’m about two seconds away from jumping him.
“Nice to meet you, Pam,” I say, wiping off the flour on my nose. “Thanks again for your rescue mission with the chicken.”
“My pleasure, Georgie.”
“See?” I say, looking at Andrew and pointing at Pam as I walk backward to the front door. “Georgie
. Your sister-in-law got it right on the first try. By the way, Pam, did you know Andrew and I both like the color red? Don’t you think that means we’re soul mates?”
“Goodbye, Georgiana,” Andrew says, his voice exasperated, as he pulls a wineglass for himself down from the cabinet.
I open the door to his apartment and blow him a kiss. Which he neither catches nor returns, but he’s smiling.
And I’m starting to freak out—just a little—that I like being a part of his life. I like it way too much.
Georgie
THURSDAY, EARLY, EARLY MORNING
“Georgie Francie Watkins, where the hell have you been?”
I’m just stepping into the VIP lounge area, plucking my dress away from my damp skin and breathing hard, when my best friend slams into me with a tipsy hug.
“Don’t be mad,” I coo, petting Marley’s head. “You know you’re the only one allowed to call me Georgie Francie, so that’s something.”
She releases me from the bear hug and plants a smacking kiss on my cheek before pulling back to study me. “Oh, damn,” she says with a mock sigh.
“What?”
“You look happy,” she says, a little petulantly. “Like glowy and satisfied and…happy.”
I laugh, lifting my hands to my cheeks. “I’m happy to be here.”
“Maybe,” she says with pursed lips. “But it’s something else. You’re in loooooove.” She drags out the last word like she’s eleven.
“I’m not!” I protest. “I’ve only been seeing the guy for a week.”
“Sure, but with months’ worth of foreplay, you’re on an accelerated timeline.” Marley puts her arm around my shoulder and drags me to our table, where we both plop into the booth. It’s early in the night, so most of our group’s either not here or on the dance floor, energy still high.
“I nearly freaked when I got to the table and you weren’t here,” Marley says, smiling in thanks as one of our go-to servers races over to bring Marley a vodka tonic. “I thought you bailed.”
I point down toward the dance floor below. “DJ’s been on a Beyoncé kick. You know I can’t resist the Queen.”
“Speaking of Queen Bey, do you think this dress makes me look like her?” Marley asks, spreading her arms out to the side and doing a little boob wiggle.
I give my petite, flat-chested blond best friend a once-over. “Absolutely.”
She nods in approval, gesturing down at the strapless, sparkly gold dress. “I spotted it last week at Intermix and thought, ‘There’s my New Year’s Eve right there.’ ”
I pull a bottle of water out of the ice bucket. “Wait, how long have I been out of the circuit? Isn’t next week…Halloween?”
“Right, well, I decided the dress was too fab to bench it until January. But who cares about dresses when we can talk about boys?”
I can’t hide the smile.
Marley gives a delighted laugh. “I’ve always wondered what it’d look like on you.”
“What what would look like?”
“Being smitten,” she says smugly.
“I’ve been smitten before!” I say indignantly. “I’ve had lots of boyfriends.”
“Lots of boyfriends, yes. Smitten…nope. So be honest, do you think this gold shimmer’s going to be too tacky as a maid-of-honor frock? What season are you thinking for the wedding? Because I could really make this work for fall and winter.”
Oh, man. I wasn’t planning on having another drink, but if this keeps up, it’ll be vodka city.
Not because the wedding talk is freaking me out. But because it’s not freaking me out. And because for just a second there, I really did think about my wedding. Not so much about Marley’s bridesmaid dress as about the groom, and, well…
Yikes, is my smile getting bigger?
“So is he why you didn’t join us for dinner?” Marley says, propping her chin on her hand.
I twirl a strand of hair, then realize I look like a smitten schoolgirl and drop it. “Sort of.”
“Where’d you guys go? I’m bored with my restaurant rotation, need recs.”
“We stayed in, actually.”
“Ordered in?”
“Eh. Cooked.”
Marley is staring at me. “You cooked?”
“It’s a thing. Pots, pans, stoves…”
She flicks my arm. “Sure, but since when do you do it? You’re a Manhattanite.”
“Well, to be fair, I didn’t really do it. I mean, I tried, and failed, and had to be rescued.”
“Ooh, he cooks?” Marley’s eyes light up.
“Not so much. His sister-in-law stopped by.”
Her jaw drops, and she sets her fingers over her eyes. “Just…give me a second. So much to process. You’ve already met his family? She’s not going to bump me out as maid of honor, is she?”
“I don’t know. Her chicken was really good….”
“Did she join you for dinner? Did you pass the mashed potatoes around the table and eat off fussy china? Was there a tablecloth?”
“We ate at the kitchen counter, used paper towels as napkins, and no, she went home before we ate.”
Marley nods and sips her drink. “That’s a good sign for my maid-of-honor status.”
I don’t mention to Marley that Pam might be spending a bit more time in the city in the coming days. I don’t say anything to my friend because it’s fiercely private, but Pam’s reason for coming to see Andrew is both a little sweet and a little heartbreaking.
She wants to borrow money…for fertility treatments.
My heart squeezes just thinking about it. Apparently she and Peter have been trying to conceive for years, but there’s still no baby. The doctor has recommended a new treatment, one that’s terribly expensive. Peter is too proud to ask his brother for money, but Pam wants a baby more than her pride.
Andrew wrote her a blank check, no questions asked, and my heart…
I’m saved from getting weepy by the smell of familiar perfume and a wave of gorgeous red hair.
“Hello, darlings!” Liv Dotson says, plopping down into the booth across from us, her emerald green halter top a stunning contrast to her auburn waves.
Marley and I exchange a what the hell look without actually looking at each other. As best friends do.
This is…odd. We’re friendly with Liv, but hardly besties. Our respective groups overlap often enough that we frequently end up at the same club, but the same table? Not so much.
“So,” Liv says, leaning toward me and wrinkling her nose in playful confidence. “I’m dying to know. Did you get him here?” She looks around the VIP lounge, scanning for someone.
“Who?”
“Andrew,” Liv says, in an obviously voice.
“Oh, man, did everyone see that Page Six article?” I say, pressing my fingers against my forehead. I don’t really mind, but it doesn’t get much more private than kissing, and that was definitely a kissing moment. I resent, just a little, that I have to share it with the world.
“Pretty much,” Liv and Marley say at the same time.
“So is he here?” Liv asks.
I give her an oh please look. “You’ve met him. What do you think?”
Liv laughs. “Good point. But he doesn’t mind you being here?”
I shrug. “Nope. Told me to have fun.”
“That’s a good one right there,” Liv says with a little shake of her head, waggling her fingers in thanks as a server appears with a glass of champagne. “Gotta appreciate the ones who let you do what you want without getting all whiny and insecure about it. Did he pass along my message?”
“Um, no,” I say, nudging Marley under the table with my stiletto. She’s all but salivating, clearly loving that she’s on the verge of hearing Liv Dotson confirm outright that she’s hired a divorce attorney.
Liv waves. “I should have just asked you myself. I was saying that the four of us should totally do dinner some time. I think Chris and Andrew would get along great. They’re both a litt
le shy but sarcastic.”
Understatement.
And also, wait, what? Liv wants her divorce attorney and soon-to-be ex to have a dinner party together?
Marley can’t help herself any longer. “So how do you and Andrew know each other?”
Liv glances at Marley, her expression cooling just a tiny bit. “I’m sure you ladies put the pieces together when you saw me with Andrew at Del Frisco that day. Chris and I were having…problems. I took the coward’s way out, thought divorce sounded easier than working through it.”
“You’re speaking in the past tense,” I say with a hopeful little smile.
Liv blinks. “Well, yeah. I called it off. Didn’t Andrew tell you?”
Both women are looking at me. I swallow. No, he didn’t tell me. Come to think of it, he doesn’t tell me much. We’ve come a long way since our early days of him talking to me not at all, but most of the time he seems to live in his head unless coaxed otherwise.
“He takes client confidentiality super seriously,” I say, rolling my eyes dramatically as though it’s no big deal.
Both women smile in understanding, but Liv’s expression is skeptical, and I can feel what she’s thinking: More seriously than your relationship?
I shake it off. I knew what I was getting into when I started dating a workaholic with a big old brain.
“Damn, you weren’t kidding, this DJ does love Beyoncé,” Marley says as the music shifts into a remixed version of “Single Ladies.” She nods at the dance floor. “Shall we? This is our jam! Or…used to be.” Marley nudges me with a wink.
I force a smile as I stand and do an abbreviated version of the “Single Ladies” dance.
Liv laughs. “Have fun. Let me know about dinner!”
Right. The dinner invitation. Another thing he didn’t mention.
It’s not a big deal. Is it?
Georgie
THURSDAY, 4:57 A.M.
Here we are again.
I tell myself the only reason I’m going through the familiar routine is for Ramon. Between Andrew’s sickness, my sickness, and then our, um, nighttime activities, poor Ramon’s been deprived of his early morning donuts!
I push through the revolving door of my building, pink donut box in hand, determined to pretend like I’m not still stinging a little from the embarrassing realization of how little I actually know the guy I’m falling for.
