by Kim Karr
Maggie
When apprehension hits you like a ton of bricks, the only way to combat it is with some good food for the soul. And nothing screams remedy like a wheatgrass shot or two, although looking at the face Makayla is making as she finishes hers, I think she begs to differ.
San Shi Go is a Japanese restaurant located in an avocado-green building not that far from where we live, which is why I insisted we walk, and that I meet her just beyond Ryan Gerhardt’s house. Ryan is the famous mystery novelist who lives in the large, ultramodern beach house next door to me with his wife and two Yorkies.
Even though Keen is staying with Makayla and Cam, who live on the other side of me, I didn’t want to chance her asking me to swing by and get her, or running into him outside. Or anywhere, for that matter.
It was the safest way. I just can’t see his face or that “Maggie, I’m right here” look without letting my wall down a little.
You know?
It seems so easy to say I hate him, but then I see him, and I don’t. I don’t hate him. I miss him. I want him. I just want him. And I shouldn’t. Not after what he did to me.
“I’m not really understanding the problem here,” Makayla says around a mouthful of the plain chicken and rice she special-ordered.
Yesterday she was gone all day. And this morning she and Cam took Keen out to breakfast, so tonight is the first chance I’ve gotten to talk with her, and even so, she can’t possibly understand because I have yet to speak the whole truth, which is why I take a moment to sidetrack the conversation. “And how could you when you look so cute with rice falling out of your mouth,” I tell her.
She laughs and dabs up the fallen pieces with her napkin. “It’s hard to eat.”
Before dipping a piece of spicy broccoli into the wasabi mixture, I point my chopsticks at her. “That’s because it has no substance to it.”
“It’s sticky,” she protests, pouring one of the sauces all over her food and stirring it around on her plate.
“That’s way too much,” I laugh and then get back on track. “How do you not get it?” I ask. “He and me. Him and I. We have to spend at least the next two weeks together. Just shoot me.”
Pointing her chopsticks at me, which by the way are stained with so much soy sauce that I have to wonder how she will taste anything, she tries to understand. “And that is a problem because he’s an arrogant ass and you want nothing to do with him.”
I stop with a piece of vegetable halfway to my mouth. “See! You do understand.”
There—I didn’t have to tell her about our night, and how he led me on, and how I let him when I never do that, and then how he dumped me afterward. I was able to omit that whole part and she still came to the same conclusion—that he’s an arrogant ass.
She sets her chopsticks down and fixes me with a typical Makayla stare—raised brows, narrowed eyes, and pouty lips. She got that from me, by the way. “You talked to him for what, all of about fifteen minutes almost two months ago, and maybe ten minutes yesterday morning, and you got that opinion from not even thirty minutes of conversation?”
Not quite, but it has to work for now. I made a promise and for some reason I can’t break it, even though I owe him nothing. “Yes. And don’t tell Cam,” I add, with another point of my chopstick.
She laughs so loud the other diners turn their heads and stare. “Uh . . . no, I don’t think I’ll tell him that. He’s more of a fact guy, you know. Like if I were to tell him Keen made a move on you and you said no, but he won’t let up, and you won’t give in since you aren’t interested in him because you’re still hung up on Brooklyn, and now he’s making your life miserable, Cam might see why you’d think the way you do, but from a conversation, not so much.”
“Wait. What?”
“Sorry, but I had to get that out. I saw the men’s clothes in your room New Year’s morning. And when I knocked on Brooklyn’s door, he wasn’t in there. I know he stayed in your room. I’ve been waiting for you to tell me, but obviously neither of you is going to come clean.”
Shocked, I stare at her. I want to laugh. Really I do. Life would be much easier if I’d fucked the other brother because these feelings I have wouldn’t be there, and I’d be able to move on.
Just then my cell buzzes with a message. The number is unfamiliar, but the message is crystal clear.
Unknown Caller: I’ll pick you up at 7 a.m. sharp.
Me: Who is this?
Okay, so I know who it is, and I’m being a little immature.
Unknown Caller: Maggie, it’s Keen.
Me: Oh. Sorry, the number is unfamiliar. But since I’m showing you around tomorrow, I’ll pick you up at 7 a.m. sharp.
Unknown Caller: No, I’m driving.
Me: No, I am.
Once there is no further response from him, which isn’t unexpected, I put the Brooklyn conversation on the back burner and hold out my phone for Makayla to see. “Here, proof of what I’m trying to tell you. He is an arrogant ass.”
She takes it and after she reads it with a smirk on her face, she starts tapping the keyboard.
“What are you doing?”
“Adding him to your contacts.”
Reaching for it, she holds it tighter. “You don’t have to do that,” I tell her. “I don’t plan on talking to him much.”
Besides, Keen Masters isn’t the name I’d be assigning him.
Her laugh is loud enough to garner the attention of the whole restaurant—again.
“It’s not funny. I’m not going to let him drive tomorrow.”
She hands me back my phone. “Okay, then you drive. But you always say how much you hate the commute, which is why you stay at your mother’s, so why not let him drive?”
Horrified, I look at her dumbfounded. “Because then he wins.”
“Bingo.” She winks, setting her napkin on her plate of mostly uneaten food.
Flabbergasted, all I can do is sputter my lips as I covertly change his name to Asshole, for the second time in my life. At least he got a new phone number or Asshole would have popped up when he texted me minutes ago, and then I’d have had some explaining to do.
Makayla raises a brow again. “Maggie, you know I love you, and that I am always on your side, but it really isn’t that hard to figure out what is going on here.”
“And what do you think that is?”
“I’m going to be honest with you. Keen is the male version of you. You are the female version of Keen. You clash because you’re so much alike. That’s why I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Besides, he’s a really great guy going through a hard time.”
Hard time?
“What kind of hard time?” I interrupt.
She shrugs. “I don’t know everything, but apparently he was fired from his job and kind of went off the deep end.”
My entire body starts to shake. His job was his life. “Why? When?”
“All I know is it happened just a couple of days after we left New York. No one realized it for weeks. Then late last week his mother got a call that he was in Vegas, and sent Brooklyn to get him. I told you that yesterday.”
“You did?”
She laughs. “Well, you were in your own world over the party details. Anyway, Cam truly respects and trusts Keen. I have no doubt that he will be professional, and that you will too. At the end of each day you can both go home to your own places and that will be that. Or maybe, just maybe, you’ll like each other enough to go for a drink and talk about all your conquests. Like I said, I just don’t see the problem.”
Reaching for a second wheatgrass shot, I don’t know what concerns me more: the fact that my best friend thinks Keen Masters and I come from the same mold, or that she doesn’t see Keen Masters as a problem . . .
Because honestly—both terrify the hell out of me.
Maggie
The clock ticks six fifty-five and there is no sign of Keen Masters.
Brooklyn took him out last night to the Underground and he isn�
��t home yet. Obviously Brooklyn scored at the dance club. And I’d bet every fish cracker in Laguna Beach that his brother did too. He’s probably in bed with some bimbo right now while I’m waiting for him in my grown-up clothes ready to do grown-up things.
Six fifty-six. I check the big silver zipper in the back of my black shift dress to make certain it is all the way up. This one I borrowed from Makayla last night once I knew the coast was clear at her house. For no reason, really, other than I was tired of skirts, and skirts and blouses are the only clothing pieces my mother owns.
Six fifty-seven. Sighing, I fiddle with the low bun I rolled my hair up in and stare out the window.
Six fifty-eight. I bet a cab pulls up within the minute and he gets out in those insanely sexy black jeans of his from Friday night, smelling like sex and asking me to wait while he takes a quick shower.
That is so not happening. He can get in my car smelling like sex or stay home on his first day on the job.
I really don’t care.
He can explain to Cam why. Or better yet, I can.
A quick glance at my watch alerts me it is six fifty-nine. Determined to not be late, I grab my purse, my keys, my bag with a change of clothes for the party tonight—oh, and my pride, you know, in case I need it.
Ready to go with or without Keen Masters, I swing my door wide open only to have my knees go completely weak.
Oh. My. God.
He can fuck me one more time right here, right now.
Okay, that is so not happening.
Blinking. Taking a deep breath. Finding my focus, it takes me a few seconds to gather my wits.
Just a momentary relapse.
It will pass quickly.
How had I not foreseen this?
The Porsche 911 that Keen drives is parked at the end of my walk, but the sexy car is not why my body is racing with an excitement I haven’t felt in weeks. It’s because Keen Masters is standing before me in a suit. A suit. My weakness. Not just any suit, either. A suit that would drop any girl’s panties.
Gray tailored-to-perfection pants and jacket.
Crisp white shirt.
Bold red tie.
And the body that fills it puts most men to shame. Long and lean. Broad shoulders. Ripped with strength.
My eyelids flutter as I try to calm my beating heart. Wait! I swear in one of my blinks I just caught something unfamiliar flash in his bright blue eyes. I have no idea what, but it looked an awful lot like a nervous twitch.
Could he be nervous?
Afraid of me?
No.
Still, it is possible. Now, I have to admit that I thought keeping it professional was going to be so hard when all I wanted to do was scratch his eyes out, yet his nervousness brings a whole new layer to the picture.
Ever hear of taunting?
Karma is a bitch with the name Maggie attached to it today.
Hmmm . . . I think I might be going in reverse across the healing stages of a breakup.
“Good morning,” he says, taking a step back. “I was just about to knock.”
That voice.
I relapse again.
Damn it.
“Good morning,” I respond, trying to maintain that professionalism I talked myself into all night, while at the same time trying to remember how to put one foot in front of the other as I step over the threshold.
Keen gives me an easy smile, and doesn’t it just make me go boneless. “I guess we’re spending the day together in Santa Monica?”
Locking the door behind me, I turn back around and slip my keys in my purse, only to be brought face-to-face with his incredibly good looks and have to pretend I don’t even care. “Yes. The distribution center is more like a giant wardrobe closet and the workroom is there too. It really is the best place for you to get a look at this upcoming season’s collection. Oh, and I spoke to Jordan—he would like us to join him tonight to celebrate the completion of the spring line. Did you bring a change of clothes?”
Although changing would be a shame.
The designer suit he’s wearing fits his body to perfection. Broad-shouldered, visibly fit, and attractive as hell in that suit, I have to remember not to stare at him.
Do not stare.
DO. NOT. STARE.
Remember what he did to you.
“I threw a few things in a bag,” he answers, taking a step away from me. Okay, uncertain what that means, I guess what he is wearing is perfectly fine too.
Talk about being in a hurry.
Swift movements take him down the two stairs with the ease of a man full of confidence. Any nerves seem to have completely dissipated.
Damn him.
Me, on the other hand, I’m taking baby steps while my legs return from their temporary stint of insanity.
I’m also cursing the grand idea I had about wearing my very own highest pumps because I wanted to be able to look Keen in the eye. You know, in case I need to remind him where he can go—like to hell, which I really don’t have reason to right this minute since he’s being so professional.
Just like Makayla said he would be.
And I’m not sure how I feel about that. To be honest, I wanted him on his knees, begging for my forgiveness. Not that I would be giving it. Doling out frantic kisses and wild groping. Not that I would be participating. Then again, I knew that was not going to happen.
Not his style.
Way too much bad boy in him for that.
The simple heartfelt I am sorry did come close, though, and that, coupled with what Makayla told me, managed to crack my armor a little. No worries; I glued it back together and am ready to do this.
Professional.
That is me.
For now, anyway.
Looking ten degrees of sharp, he waits for me at the bottom of the steps. In my perusal of him, I can see his hand twitching, like he wants to offer it to me. Then again he is probably just worried I might topple over these mountains of shoes and land face-first right on top of him.
Under any other circumstances, the idea would be appealing. Not these ones, though.
Making it down the stairs and up the walkway seems like a really great accomplishment. Wonder if I should grab another pair of shoes? Looking back at my door I consider it, but then I turn back and see Keen opening the passenger door like such a gentleman that I feel like a fool asking him to wait while I grab a comfortable pair of shoes.
What am I, eighty?
No, I am woman, hear me roar.
I can do this.
As I sink into his car, it takes me a moment to pull my legs in. Not on purpose. Well, yes, maybe on purpose.
That’s when I notice the way his eyes are devouring me.
Like what you see, buddy? Oh, well you fucked it up, and it’s not on the table any longer.
The smile on my lips can’t be denied, nor can the pitter-patter of those really annoying butterflies in my stomach.
Those really need to calm themselves down.
I can’t deal with them right now.
As soon as Keen gets in the car, his fresh, clean scent is the only thing I can smell. No lingering smell of sex after all.
How infuriating.
After a quick glance my way to make sure I’m buckled in, Keen starts the engine and it roars to life, the sweet purr making a ghost of a smile appear on his lips. Boys and their toys. Yes, I know men. And I know I know men, yet my pulse still begins to race at the sight of his easy grin.
I can’t do this.
I can’t.
I.
CANNOT.
BE.
ATTRACTED.
TO.
HIM.
ANYMORE.
Absolutely cannot.
Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.
Without thinking about the consequences of what I’m about to do, I’m placing my hand on the gearshift to stop him from putting it in drive. And without even thinking anything through, I’m talking—spewing, actually. “
Before we leave, I think you should know, I have no intention of sleeping with you ever again.”
There!
Now that I’ve taken care of that there should be no more sexual tension lingering in the air between us.
Right?
Pulling his features together, he slowly looks over at me. “Yeah, I got that. You made it pretty clear the other day.”
Our eyes lock, and my pulse is racing. “Just making sure we’re on the same page and that we can both keep this professional.”
The easy smile is long gone. “Maggie, I promise you that is something I am very capable of doing.”
Why do I feel like he wants to add to that words like but can you?
A weighted silence falls between us as we stare at each other. “And we should forget about what happened between us.”
His response is to quirk a brow at me. “Now that is impossible.”
Infuriated, I have to remember to maintain professionalism. “Well, suit yourself, but I already have.”
The air around him thickens. “Yeah, I picked up on that a couple of times, as well.”
I tug the hem of my dress down with my free hand, because the thing about borrowing other people’s clothes when you are as tall as me is that the clothing is always just a tad too short. “Oh, one more thing. Just so we’re clear, I only let you drive because my heels get caught in the carpet on my floorboard.”
At that his smirk is back, and I swear it grows a little wider with the raise of his brow. “Oh, I think we’re clear. Very clear.”
I stare at him, feeling my palms turn clammy as my heart rate increases. “It really slows me down, and I didn’t want us to be late.”
Taking control of the gearshift, with my hand still on it, he shifts into drive. Little bolts of energy zing through me even though I quickly move my hand to my lap. And I swear I heard a sudden intake of breath that this time I know wasn’t mine because I’m not breathing.
Pulling onto the main road, he accelerates his speed and shoots forward. “Thanks for all that. Probably good to know where we both stand.”
Wait. Do I know where he stands?
Feeling an unexpected thrill from the Porsche, it takes me a moment to find my breath. “Yes, I thought we should be clear since we’re being forced to work together.”
