Moon Over Miami: A Romantic Comedy

by Jane Graves

  Mark wished he had a choice in the matter. But knowing Liz, if he didn't let her in, she'd probably pick the door lock or break a window.

  She stepped into his condo, and he closed the door behind her. "How did you know where I live?"

  "Stuff's all over the Internet if you know how to find it."

  "And you know how to find it?"

  "Not exactly." She shrugged offhandedly. "I know people."

  "What kind of people?"

  "People who think website security is a joke." She nodded down to the beer bottle he held. "Aren't you going to offer me a beer?"

  Mark couldn't believe her audacity. Contrary to what she might believe, this was not a social occasion.

  "Never mind," she said. "I'll get one myself."

  To his utter disbelief, she strode through his dining room, tossed her purse on the table, then went into his kitchen. She opened the fridge and started rummaging around, her derriere sticking out beyond the door. Beneath that derriere were those mile-long legs, which his gaze instantly locked onto. A great big "wow" formed in his brain that came within a centimeter of gushing out his mouth.

  She stood up and closed the refrigerator door. He stuffed his eyeballs back into his head and transferred his gaze to the back of a dining room chair. It was late, and he'd had a couple of beers. That's why he'd stared at her like some kind of junior-high kid on hormone overload. That, and the fact that it had been way too long since he'd seen any woman's body sticking out of his fridge, much less a body as gifted as Liz's.

  She came back into the living room. "It's kinda dark in here, isn't it?"

  Brushing past him, she went to the lamp on the end table and jacked up the three-way bulb, making his living room brighter than a landing strip at DFW. Then she picked up a framed photograph from his end table.

  "Is this your mother?"

  "Yes."

  "Nice house. Is that where you grew up?"

  "No. She moved there later." And why are you asking?

  Liz set the picture down and plopped herself onto on his sofa, kicked off her shoes and tucked her legs beneath her, then popped the top on the can and stared up at him questioningly.

  "Aren't you going to sit down?"

  Mark felt as if he'd just intruded into her condo rather than the other way around. But he didn't want her there. He wanted to wallow in his misery all by himself, and Liz's presence only reminded him once again of everything that had gone wrong tonight--and in the rest of his life, as well.

  "I know why you're here. I do not want to talk about Gwen."

  "Good. Neither do I."

  He blinked. "You don't?"

  "No. I mean, what's to discuss? I worked hard to come up with the flat tire thing, and you messed it up. Case closed."

  Mark's mouth fell open. "I did not mess it up! I followed your instructions to the letter!"

  She shrugged offhandedly. "Whatever."

  "And I said I don't want to talk about Gwen!"

  "Fine. I won't." She paused, taking a sip of beer, then eyed him critically. "Except to say that if you don't know how to change a tire, you should have said so."

  His mouth fell open again. "What do you mean, I don't know how to change a tire?"

  "You don't have to be embarrassed, Mark. A lot of men--"

  "For your information," he said, pointing an angry finger at her, "I've been changing tires since I was twelve years old! And I don't want to talk about that, either!"

  She gave him another one of those infuriating offhanded shrugs. "Fine. We won't talk about it. It's just as well, anyway. I mean, I can't imagine where you ever got the idea that a woman like Gwen would be interested in a guy like you."

  Liz might as well have socked him one right in the stomach. He stared at her, speechless, his face growing hot with humiliation. Is that what she really thought? Had she known all along he had no chance with Gwen and had just been humoring him?

  He swallowed hard, feeling as if she was seeing the real Mark McAlister, the backwards, small-town guy who had deluded himself into thinking he'd ever be a match for a woman like Gwen Adams.

  He sat down on the sofa, his elbows on his knees, holding his beer bottle in both hands. He let out a breath of resignation.

  "Well?" Liz said.

  "Well, what? You're right."

  Liz sat up suddenly, her offhand expression vanishing. "What did you say?"

  "I said you're right. A guy like me--"

  "A guy like you," she said, slapping her beer down on the coffee table, "is worth ten of a woman like her. And don't you ever forget that!"

  "But you just said--"

  "I know what I just said! But you weren't supposed to agree with me!"

  Mark stared at her incredulously.

  "You were supposed to tell me that she's the one who's not good enough for you, and if she can't see that, then it's her loss. That's what you were supposed to tell me!"

  Mark was silent. Right about then he couldn't have uttered those words if his life depended on it.

  "Is that what this is about?" Liz asked. "You think you're not good enough for Gwen Adams?"

  "No. Gwen's the one doing the thinking. And for the third time, I don't want to talk about it!"

  Another shrug. "Fine. I'll wait."

  "For what?"

  "For you to change your mind."

  "Liz--"

  "Did I tell you I like your sofa?" she said, settling against a sofa pillow with a comfortable sigh. "Very cozy. I mean, I could stay here for hours."

  "Now, just a minute--"

  "You won't throw me out the door. You won't toss me over the balcony. And no matter how irritated you get, you won't call 911 and have me escorted from the premises. And since I have no plans to leave of my own accord..."

  She leaned forward, rested her hand against his arm and gave it a gentle squeeze, her expression becoming solemn and sincere. "Why don't you tell me what happened between you and Gwen?"

  A long silence stretched between them. He stared down at his beer bottle, all the while aware of Liz's green eyes fixed on him, those eyes that teased him and challenged him and never took no for an answer. She had a talent for insinuating herself into his life as if she'd known him forever. And the longer her hand remained on his arm as if it belonged there, the more he felt as if he had known her forever, and in a way that was more than friendly.

  Wait a minute. What are you thinking?

  Touchy-feely, he reminded himself, as he slid his arm from beneath her hand. Making overt gestures of familiarity with near-strangers was second nature to Liz. She was simply that kind of person, and it didn't mean a thing. She was also the kind of person who would never leave unless he spilled his guts.

  "Okay," he said finally. "I'll tell you. But you have to promise not to laugh."

  "Laugh? Why would I laugh?"

  "You'll know in a minute." He blew out a long breath. "I gave Gwen my suit coat to hold while I changed the tire."

  "Yeah?"

  "She read the tag inside the collar."

  "And...?"

  Mark closed his eyes. Just spit it out. "Have you ever heard of Zoltan the Suit Man?"

  "Sure. That big, ugly bald guy who advertises on TV. At the top of his lungs."

  Mark was silent.

  "That's where you buy your suits?"

  He cringed, waiting for the gales of laughter he knew were coming. Instead, Liz just shrugged.

  "So what's the matter with that? From what I hear, the suits he sells are designer seconds or last year's overstock. He buys them in big lots and puts his own label in. You get a nice suit at about half the price you'd normally pay. Right?"

  "Right. But Gwen didn't feel that way about it."

  "She brushed you off because of the label in your suit?"

  "Essentially, yes."

  "She actually said, 'I never want to see you again because you wear inferior clothing?'"

  "No. Of course not. But I'm happy to know her maid's husband looked really spiffy i
n his Zoltan suit at his grandson's christening."

  "But she didn't actually blow you off."

  "Come on, Liz! What more did she have to say?"

  Liz held up her palms. "Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. You're telling me that the only thing standing between you and your dream woman is a suit label?"

  "No! Don't you understand? It's what the label represents!"

  "What it represents is a smart buying decision. It represents a guy who doesn't waste money. It represents--"

  "No!" Mark clunked his beer down on the coffee table. "What it represents is a guy who comes from nothing, who's so used to being broke that he's a tightwad about everything, a guy who was too dumb to figure out that you can have it on the inside, but if you don't show it on the outside, it won't do you a damned bit of good. A guy a sharp, sophisticated woman would never be interested in. And the fact that you can't see that means you're not half as smart about people as you think you are!"

  He rose from the sofa and strode to the sliding glass door leading to the balcony. He yanked the door open and went outside, closing it behind him so hard it rattled in its frame. He walked to the balcony railing and gripped it tightly, his head bowed, frustration racing through him like a runaway train.

  Well, now there was no question about it. Gwen wasn't the only one who knew what a backwards nobody he really was. He'd just filled Liz in on that fact, too. How could she possibly have missed it? He'd yelled it loud enough to wake the dead.

  What in the hell had made him say all that?

  Frustration, that was what. And a lot of it. But why had he taken it out on her when all she'd ever done was try to help him?

  A minute or two passed. Mark played over a dozen different ways to apologize in his head, and they all sounded as dumb as his outburst had. Then he heard the patio door slide open softly in its tracks and close again with a gentle click. Liz came up beside him, her arms folded, and stared out at the city lights. He didn't know what to say. Maybe something like, after I yelled at you like that, why are you still here?

  "Feel better now?"

  "Oh, yeah. I always feel better after loud, moronic outbursts."

  "Hey, you're not the only one, you know."

  "I was the only one who shouted like an idiot."

  "No. I mean that you're not the only one who came from nothing." She leaned her forearms against the balcony railing next to him. "Most of the time I was growing up, it was just me and my mom. We lived in Big Fork, Texas. The only people who've heard of it are the two thousand people who live there."

  "Where was your dad?"

  "He died when I was nine. He was on the roof of our house, replacing a few bad shingles. He fell." She shook her head. "He didn't have any life insurance, and without his income, my mom had a hard time making ends meet. She was a hairdresser, and in a town that small, she didn't bring in much money." Liz laughed softly. "To this day I still can't stand the sight of rice and beans."

  Mark concentrated not on Liz's words, but on the carefree tone of her voice. Despite financial difficulties, she clearly remembered her childhood with fondness. All he remembered was shame and humiliation.

  "How about you?" Liz said. "Do you come from a small town, too?"

  "Oh, yeah," he said. "Waldon Springs, Tennessee. A real thriving metropolis."

  "Tell me about it."

  "Nothing to tell. It was your average microscopic backwoods Tennessee town full of narrow-minded people. I left almost fourteen years ago, and I don't much like going back."

  Liz looked at him with surprise. "Come on, Mark. There must have been something good about living there."

  "I grew up in a trailer park three miles outside Waldon Springs that was so shabby I was ashamed that people knew I lived there. My mother was a maid at a motel in a nearby town. She did the best she could. Without a high school diploma, though, she didn't have a lot of options."

  "Where was your father?"

  "I never knew my father. He took off before I was even born. We were the local charity case. So you see, Liz, there was really nothing good about living there. Not a single blessed thing."

  He had no idea what made him tell her all that. Maybe it was because she was basically a stranger and it really didn't matter. Or maybe it was because he'd known her such a short time, yet she felt less like a stranger than some people he'd known for years.

  But there was still plenty she didn't know. He hadn't told her about working odd jobs from the time he was ten years old just to help put food on the table. He hadn't told her about kids laughing at his tattered clothes, his rusted-out second-hand bicycle, his shoes with holes in the soles. He hadn't told her about most of his teachers looking right through him as if he weren't there, assuming that any kid with his background couldn't possibly have the ambition it took to make something of himself.

  He hadn't told her any of those things. Yet when she turned and met his gaze, the look of understanding in her eyes spoke louder than any words could possibly have, as if she knew every bit of the heartache he felt without him saying a word.

  "This is Miami," Liz said softly. "Not Waldon Springs. Whatever your life was like then, it's over now. You're clearly a successful guy. I think it's time you dumped Zoltan and got yourself another wardrobe consultant."

  He shook his head. "It's more than just the suit."

  "I know. But that's a good start, isn't it? If you work on the outside, the inside will follow." She gave him a tiny smile. "And I can help you."

  Mark felt an instant sense of foreboding. In the past few days, the words of Liz's that he'd grown to fear the most were I can help you.

  "See, I have this friend who works at Bergman's at Sunrise Square," she said. "He can advise you on picking out a new suit. Or a couple of new suits." She paused, her eyes brightening. "And shoes. And shirts. And accessory stuff like ties and belts. And casual things, too. Everything. You could get a whole new wardrobe!"

  "No. No way. I don't shop at places like that."

  "My friend can get you a thirty-percent discount."

  "I said no. I have no intention of spending that kind of money, discount or not."

  Liz gave him a skeptical look. "You may have been broke once. But you're not anymore, are you?"

  He opened his mouth to protest, then snapped it shut again. What was this woman, anyway? A human lie detector?

  She was right. He wasn't broke anymore. But all at once he realized he still thought of himself that way. Why else would he wear suits sold by the King of Bad Advertising, live in a dinky condo and drive an eight-year-old car, despite making more money in a year than he ever thought he'd see in a lifetime?

  "You're a manager at that big ol' accounting firm," Liz went on. "You've got money out the wazoo, don't you?"

  "No. Probably not as much as you think. I mean, it is a lot, but it's not all liquid. Stock, mutual funds, retirement plan--"

  "And a healthy checking account, and a huge line of credit, and--correct me if I'm wrong--at least two hundred bucks in your pocket right now."

  Mark blinked. "How did you--"

  "Because I'm smart about people. That's how I knew."

  He deserved that. Big time. And whatever else she wanted to throw at him. When it came to people smarts, Liz Prescott was at the head of the class.

  "That house in the photograph on your end table," Liz said. "You bought it for your mother, didn't you?"

  He jerked his head around, and she met his gaze without blinking. He looked away again.

  "It's not all that big. I wish I could have done more."

  "She looks pretty happy in the picture."

  Mark nodded. Remembering the look of delight on his mother's face when he'd given it to her made him happy every time he thought about it.

  "You're clearly very successful. Don't you think it's time you did something for yourself? Go to Bergman's. See my friend, Eddie. I've known him for years. He's a genius with clothes. He'll have you looking like a million bucks in no time."
>
  "Yeah, and that's just about what it would cost me."

  "Nah, it'll only be...well, okay. Maybe half a million. But trust me--you can take Bergman's labels anywhere."

  After Gwen had seen that Zoltan label, Mark had no hope of impressing her no matter what clothes he wore. Still, he knew now that his image needed a complete overhaul, and Liz was offering him the means to do it. He'd be a fool not to listen to her.

  "Okay," he said suddenly. "I'll do it."

  "You will?"

  Mark had that weird feeling that his mouth was moving but somebody else's words were coming out of it. "Yeah. I will. Whatever it takes."

  Liz beamed. "Great! We'll go tomorrow. Get you all kinds of clothes. And a new haircut wouldn't hurt, either. And maybe new glasses, too, or even contacts. What do you think?"

  He closed his eyes, dollar signs and decimal points floating around in his mind, wishing for the first time in his life that he wasn't so adept at mental math.

  "Okay," he said, that disembodied voice talking again. "Whatever you think."

  "This is going to be such fun!" she exclaimed, then rose to her tiptoes and threw her arms around his neck in a quick, enthusiastic hug. In a reflex action, his arms went around her, returning the hug even though he really wasn't a "huggy" kind of person. But Liz made wild outbursts of affection seem like most natural thing in the world, especially when she felt so soft and so warm and exuded more effervescence than a bottle of champagne. Then she took his face in her hands and planted a quick kiss right on his lips.

  He stared down at her, his lips still tingling. For a split second their gazes locked, and he was so close he could see sparkles of light reflecting in her eyes. Then she patted his cheek, slipped out of his arms and grabbed her purse from his dining room table.

  Touchy-feely he reminded himself, as Liz tossed her purse over her shoulder. She does that with everyone, doesn't she?

  He followed her to the front door. She put her hand on the doorknob, then turned back.

  "This is going to be really fun. You'll see."

  Fun? Just the thought of knocking the cobwebs off his platinum AmEx card made him break out in a cold sweat.

  No. He had to stop this broke thinking. Broke thinking had helped him keep Zoltan in business and kept him looking like a loser. And he wasn't going to tolerate that any more.