Wild Card

by Lila Monroe

  I spend the weekend working out and catching up on all the errands I’ve been ignoring since I got back from Florida, getting my hair cut and my nails painted and filling my fridge with—gasp—actual groceries. I pick up fresh flowers for my dining room table and grab a new candle for the office. By Monday morning, I’m feeling fresh and new.

  Or at least that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

  I put on my favorite work dress, a killer black sheath, and a pair of nude pumps that make my legs look a mile long. I treat myself to an extra-large, extra-hot latte on my way in, then fling open all of the windows to let the fresh air in.

  “I’m Olivia fucking Danvers,” I tell Thor, ignoring the great skepticism written all over his mangy feline face. “I’ve got this.”

  Hallie texts me mid-morning, the same way she’s done every day of my gloom. Status check? She writes. On a scale of 1 to 2007 Britney?

  I’m OK, I type back. I even took a shower. Meet for donuts after work?

  I’m there, she sends, with a flurry of thumbs up emojis.

  I plow through the weekend’s email, lining up dates and setting up interviews. I’ve gotten what feels like a full day of work done by the time Alice comes in at ten. “We’ve got a new potential client,” she tells me, consulting her notes. “Super hush-hush. They didn’t want to tell me too much, but he’s minor royalty from Europe. And he’ll only meet with you in person.”

  “Ooh.” I sit back in my desk chair, intrigued. A big, juicy project like this is exactly what I need to sink my teeth into. It’ll be great for the Agency.

  And a perfect distraction for me.

  Alice has set the meeting for this afternoon, so I freshen up my makeup and take a car downtown. I’m just turning the corner when Alice texts me: Last minute venue change, the message says, along with a new address a couple of blocks away.

  I try not to get annoyed. I can go out of my way for minor royalty, but there’s traffic ahead, so I hop out and go the rest of the way on foot, hurrying to make up for lost time. When I turn onto the block, I stop, and I pull up Alice’s text one more time to make sure I’ve gotten the address right.

  My fancy new client wants to meet at . . . the aquarium?

  Well. “Even weirdos deserve love,” I remind myself, before pushing through the revolving doors.

  This aquarium is even bigger than the one in Key West—noisy and crowded, packed with bewildered-looking tourists and little kids long past their naptime. I sidestep a toddler melting down beside the tropical fish tank, looking around with zero success for anyone who might be my mystery client. The old man in the Hawaiian shirt, wrangling a passel of grandkids? The harried dad taking a business call while his wife looks on in open irritation? I’m digging my phone out again to ask Alice where the hell this guy is when I turn the corner into the lobby and come to a screeching halt.

  It’s Ryan.

  Looking delicious in a three-piece suit.

  Holding the largest bouquet of tropical flowers I’ve ever seen outside a five-star wedding.

  For a moment I just freeze, standing still while the world spins on all around me. Then he sees me in the crowd, and there’s no going back.

  I swallow hard and make my way over.

  “Hi,” Ryan says, smiling a little bit sheepishly as I approach. “Olivia.”

  “Hey,” I manage, my heart in my throat. “I don’t understand. You’re my mystery client?”

  Ryan shrugs. “I hear you’re the best in the business,” he says quietly. “And I need someone on my team.”

  My heart turns over, and all I want to do is hurl myself into his arms, but I can’t forget the way he looked at me, so stone-cold it was like he felt nothing.

  “I tried to help you once, remember?” I say, my voice wavering a little, my eyes filling with tears before I can stop myself. “It didn’t go so great.”

  “It went OK in the beginning,” he points out, with a rueful smile. “And, you know. The middle was pretty damn spectacular.”

  I smile at that, I can’t help it. “The middle was spectacular,” I agree, remembering those nights gasping naked in his arms. “The end, though . . .”

  He takes a step closer. “What if it wasn’t the end?”

  My heart stops. “Ryan—”

  “I fucked up,” he says simply. “I should have trusted you, Liv. I know you better than that. I got jealous and crazy, and I said some things I didn’t mean. I thought that guy—Tristan—was the kind of person you should be with. The kind of person you’d want to be with. And . . . I shut down. To protect my feelings, I guess. Like if I pushed you away first, it wouldn’t hurt so much. But I was wrong.”

  Tears sting the back of my throat. I can’t believe he’s standing in front of me, saying these things.

  Because if he really is sorry, if he didn’t mean what he said . . .

  Then there’s hope. For us.

  And fuck, if that tiny ray of hope isn’t the most amazing thing I’ve felt in weeks.

  “I don’t want to be with Tristan,” I promise, needing to say it again. Make him believe how amazing he is. “It was only ever curiosity, wondering what he was up to now, but the second things started happening between you and me, I forgot all about him. He was just an old crush, one of those ‘might have beens.’ But you . . . you and me. You’re the real deal.”

  I swallow hard, moving closer to him without thinking. It’s instinct, the way I belong in his arms, and he must feel the same, because he reaches for me.

  “Mason and Arianna were right, about opposites attracting,” he says. “We make each other better, together.”

  My heart does a wild flip. “So what are you saying exactly?” I ask, that ray of hope turning into a full-on solar storm.

  “I want to be with you.” Ryan takes my hands, “If you’ll give me another chance, I promise not to get jealous and screw this up. I love you, Liv.”

  His words hit me hard, in that small, lonely place I don’t even let myself feel anymore.

  All this time, I’ve been getting by just fine on my own, but now I know I have someone on my team. Someone to support me and make me laugh—and make me moan with pleasure. The kind of man I didn’t even know I was looking for, until he showed up in my office, looking for somebody else.

  “I love you too,” I manage to say, before choking up completely.

  Ryan breaks into a grin. “Well, that’s a relief,” he laughs, before sweeping me into a smoldering kiss.

  God, I could kiss this man forever. I melt against him, savoring the warm, familiar taste of him, making up for lost time. I’m winding my arms around his neck when I hear a chorus of oooooohs behind me—I look around and there are thirty kids on a field trip, and every single one of them is pointing.

  “This is a place for children,” their teacher chides, her eyes narrowing behind her owlish glasses. “You two should be ashamed of yourselves.”

  I feel my face flame, but Ryan just shrugs. “Mammalian mating rituals,” he jokes. “It’s good for them to learn.” He turns to me. “We should maybe get out of here before she gives us a detention.”

  I laugh, so happy I don’t care who sees. “In a minute,” I say, dragging him back down to me. “Let them watch.”

  26

  Olivia

  “Does a tie make me look too thirsty?” Ryan asks, coming into the bedroom in a button-down shirt and a pair of boxer briefs. It’s a couple of months later, and we’re headed to the opening party at the first PowerBar storefront, in a prime location in the Financial District. “I feel like I’m playing dress-up when I get too smart.”

  “A tie is going to make you look just thirsty enough,” I promise. He’s holding out two of them, and I consider for a moment before picking the deep blue one that matches his eyes. Then I smile. “I might put some pants on, though.”

  Ryan shakes his head. “Nah, this is the look now,” he says, without missing a beat. “All the cool kids are doing it.” He grins, mischievous. “I coul
d use a pair of socks, though. Have you seen my bag?”

  “I put it on the shelf in the hall closet,” I admit, a little sheepishly. “Sorry.”

  Ryan smirks. “Of course you did.”

  “It was just sitting there on the floor!” I protest, although it’s not like he looks mad about it, exactly. “I like a tidy house!”

  “I‘d never have guessed,” Ryan teases. He’s had plenty of opportunity to observe me in my natural habitat the last few weeks—ever since our reunion at the Aquarium he’s been staying at my place pretty much every night of the week. I was worried I might not like having somebody in my space all the time, but—aside from that ugly duffel bag—it’s actually been going amazing.

  “You should just take a drawer,” I tell him absently, gazing into my closet as I try and figure out what I’m going to wear. Then I pause, whirling around to look at him. “Actually, you should just take a bunch of drawers.”

  Ryan raises his eyebrows. “I should?”

  “I mean it,” I say, and as the words come out of my mouth I realize they’re true. “What if you moved in?”

  “Seriously?” Just for a moment, Ryan goes very still. “You want me to?”

  “Yeah,” I tell him, my heart thudding at the realization. “I really do.”

  In fact, I’m already picturing it: the two of us waking up together every morning, ordering takeout and sharing the shower and watching old movies in bed. Flirting and fighting—and, OK, fucking—in a place all our own. It’s same kind of life I imagined back when I was scrolling through Tristan’s Instagram all those weeks ago—but this is a million times better.

  It’s Ryan.

  And what we have is real.

  “OK,” Ryan says now, and his smile is like the sun rising over the East River in the morning. “Yes, I’ll do it. Let’s shack up.”

  I laugh. “Live in sin?”

  “Get the milk for free.” He smirks, crossing the room in two big steps, and kisses me hard, sweeping me off my feet as the both of us fall backwards onto the bed. His mouth moves lower, grazing down my neck in the way he knows makes me shudder, so I pull my tank top off and straddle him, going to work on the buttons of his dress shirt.

  “Here’s a thought,” I say breathlessly. “What’d you do with those ties?”

  Needless to say: we’re almost late to the opening.

  “It’ll be OK,” Ryan reassures me, as we finally arrive at the PowerBar location, “it’s not like they can start without me, right?”

  “Good point.” I grin, checking there’s no sign of lipstick on his shirt. Or neck. Or . . . lower.

  “You’re good to go.” I nod briskly, but he pauses.

  “Kiss for luck?”

  I grin, leaning up to drop one on his cheek. “Go get ’em.”

  Inside, the place is packed with celebrities and sports people, plus the media, too. Mason and Arianna are already there, along with Ryan’s business partner Logan and a bunch of his old teammates. Hallie and Max made it out, and so did Cal and Jules. “This place is amazing!” Jules crows, holding her bangle-covered arms out for a hug, and as I look around I see that she’s right: the space boasts high ceilings and big windows, with black-and-white sports photography by local artists hanging on the exposed brick walls. There’s even a massive skylight that retracts in the summer, creating an open-air effect.

  “You were right about the subway tile,” Arianna admits with a smile.

  “And you were right about this girl,” Ryan tells Mason.

  The chef Ryan’s been working with put together hors d’oeuvre-size versions of all PowerBar’s menu items, so we snack on tiny black bean and quinoa sliders and sweet potato fries, then hit the bar for some fresh-pressed juice that’s surprisingly delicious in spite of its fluorescent green hue. A DJ spins chart hits in the far corner, and looking around, I can see that this place is a slam-dunk, home-run, insert-sports-metaphor-of-your-choice success. I feel like my heart might explode with pride.

  Someone lays a hand on my arm. “Hey, Livvie,” my dad says with a smile. He’s dressed in khakis and a parrot-green polo shirt, with a young, incredibly familiar-looking blonde woman beside him.

  “You came!” I say, wrapping my arms around him and hugging tight. I’ve been checking up on him a bit since the non-wedding, but he keeps insisting he’s fine. Neither one of us have heard from Vanessa—or Tristan, for that matter. And with any luck, it’ll stay that way.

  “I wouldn’t have missed it,” my dad says now. “After all, Ryan’s practically part of the family. Hint hint,” he adds with a wink.

  I laugh. “Getting that way,” I admit, “but we’re not rushing into anything. Unlike some people,” I tease.

  My dad clears his throat. “Well, speaking of that . . .” He turns to his blonde companion. “I believe you’ve met—?”

  “Fern,” the woman beams as she holds her hand out. “We shared a really meaningful spiritual journey. I feel like we’re bonded already!”

  And that’s when the penny drops: she’s the tantric sex coach from Vanessa’s bachelorette party.

  Because of course she is.

  I wait for the familiar rush of exasperation—with my dad and his questionable taste in young women, with young women and their questionable taste in my dad—but, to my surprise, it doesn’t come. The truth is, I’m too happy. And if my dad is, too, then that’s good enough for me. “Great to see you again,” I tell her warmly. And glad to be seeing less of you this time, I don’t add. “Why don’t you guys check out the juice bar?” I lean in and add in a whisper to my dad, “The bartender will find you some bourbon, if you ask nicely.”

  “What would I do without you?” My dad smiles and heads off with his new, oh-so-flexible friend.

  Then there’s a loud whistle cutting through the crowd. Everyone stops talking and turns to the back of the store, where Mason is gesturing for silence. “I give you, the man of the hour. Come on up, Callahan!”

  There’s cheers and applause, and Ryan hops up on one of the tables, looking bashful. “Hey, don’t worry, I’m not the type for big speeches,” he starts, smiling broadly. “But I do want to thank you all for coming out and celebrating tonight with us. This business has been a dream of mine for a long time, and I’m fucking pumped to see it come to life, if you’ll excuse my language.”

  People laugh, and I take the moment to look around the room. Everybody’s watching Ryan with respect and admiration, and I couldn’t be prouder.

  “Mason’s been an awesome mentor to me,” Ryan continues, “and I have to thank everybody behind the scenes. But there’s one person who’s really given me the support and wisdom I needed to make this happen. She’s the one who believed in me when I wasn’t sure I could follow through, and it’s because of her I’m standing up here right now. Olivia, come on up.”

  He points to me, and every head turns. I gulp and shake my head. I stay in the background, I don’t go chasing the spotlight, but Ryan insists, and someone gives me a firm nudge towards him. I catch a glimpse of Hallie’s innocent smile, and then Ryan reaches down and lifts me onto the table beside him.

  “I couldn’t have done it without you,” he says softly to me, and my heart just melts. “I’m lucky to be on your team.”

  I’m the lucky one, because I know he’s the only one for me. And as Ryan dips me in a deep, slow kiss—applause fading as I sink into the rush—I know this is going to be one hell of a ride.

  And it’s only just beginning.

  Epilogue

  Nick

  I’ve done my share of stake-outs in my time. From sleazy motel rooms to million-dollar penthouse spreads, I’ve seen it all. So spending my Friday night on the Upper East Side, parked opposite a nondescript brownstone, is nothing out of the ordinary.

  Neither is the woman I’m waiting for, at least on paper.

  Alice Jones, 28. 5 ft 7. Brown hair, brown eyes. You couldn’t get more average than that. According to my research, she’s worked for The Agency for
five years now, lives alone, has a taste for Thai takeout, and enjoys old movies, crochet, and herbal tea. Snooze. She’s sure as hell not the kind of woman who would usually catch my eye, but I’ve already checked out every other woman on Olivia’s roster, and none of them fit my specifications. I’m on a deadline here, and I need something I can work with.

  Come on, Alice. Surprise me.

  I take a gulp of hot coffee and flip the pages of the newspaper I’m pretending to read. Sure, I could have just called and made an appointment, but even though The Agency has a great reputation, one of the most discreet places around, I like to do my own recon before walking through the door. If I’m going to use them on my next job, I want to know exactly what I’m paying for.

  The front door opens right on cue at six, and a pretty, nondescript woman emerges. I check my phone for the photo I pulled from Alice’s social media.

  Bingo.

  I toss my coffee and cross the street, falling into step behind her, far enough back that she doesn’t even notice I’m here.

  Up close, she’s exactly what I would have expected from her file. A decent figure under a plain navy dress, her hair pulled back in a neat braid. Sensible. Practical. She could be the parody of a prim secretary at the start of a porno, but I would bet my entire bank account she won’t be stripping off and getting down to dirty business any time soon. At least, that’s what I figure, until I catch a look at her shoes.

  Well damn.

  They’re hot pink, with cross-cross straps and a wicked stiletto heel. Not the kind of shoes I would ever have picked for Miss Secretary here, but just the sight of them makes me snap to attention.

  Maybe there’s hope here, after all.

  I follow Alice another few blocks downtown. She stops for coffee, and then arrives at an old movie theater and goes to the ticket window. They chat like old friends, and then she disappears inside.

  I saunter over. The clerk is a pimply teenage guy, yawning as he scratches his balls. “What’s playing tonight?” I ask, expecting a rom-com or classic weepfest.