by Maggie Wells
Clinging to her final thought, she gathered her neat pile of clothing and padded to the door. The folds of the robe swished and swirled around her legs. The heat of her skin warmed the smooth silk. Cool air tickled her bare ankles as she descended the stairs. For a moment, she wished for the fuzzy rabbit slippers she changed into every night when she got home from the office. But no. They were too scruffy for blue silk. This robe deserved something more elegant. More ladylike. Something along the lines of those feather-trimmed mules with the kitten heels the women always wore in old movies.
As she came to the bottom of the stairs, Georgie emerged from the kitchen holding a giant pitcher of dark red wine. “Miss I’m-never-home doesn’t have much in the way of entertainment for a girls’ night, but she does have a laptop and I have a Cineflix account.” She sighed happily as she took in the electric-blue robe. “I’m banning all beige from your wardrobe. You need color! Life! Booze!”
“A screaming orgasm,” Monica called out from somewhere off the hall.
Georgie rolled her eyes and shook her magenta-streaked hair back with a toss of her head. “Screaming orgasms are a given.”
“If she were being given them, we wouldn’t be having this powwow,” Monica countered.
Grinning, Georgie jerked a nod toward an open doorway a few steps away. “Oh, Monica, you’re such a hoot. Come on, this will be fun.”
Not entirely sure she agreed with Georgie’s optimistic take on the prospect, Rosie followed the other woman into a living room. The room looked to be about as lived in as the kitchen. The furnishings were nice, of course, and appeared inviting. There was no hint of there ever being a butt print in the overstuffed armchair adjacent to the sofa. If she hadn’t spotted a stray fruit snack wrapper peeking out from between the cushions, she would swear the sofa had never been used, either. Nearly every inch of a large, square coffee table was covered in take-out containers, ceramic bowls filled with candy and snack mixes, and an array of beautifully arranged canapés.
Rosie sank down on the center cushion as Monica indicated. “Are those yours?” she asked Georgie.
“Oh. Yeah.” She glanced up as she placed the pitcher on an end table. “I told Bossy McBosserson here I could provide food, but she insisted on exercising her speed dial skills.”
“I didn’t want you futzing around in the kitchen all night,” Monica replied mildly. Offering Rosie a know-it-all smirk, she rolled her eyes. “I invited Georgie and Mike over for a dinner party before my sister popped the new kid out. Arranged babysitting, ordered the most fantastic meal catered in from Jonquil.”
She paused long enough to gesture impatiently at the pitcher of sangria, and Rosie did her best to keep her expression blasé. She’d read about Jonquil in Chicago Chic magazine. The restaurant was the hottest spot in town. And Monica was the kind of woman who could have celebrity chefs deliver their food to her home.
“I bought wine,” Monica continued. “I suck at cooking, but I am really good at buying wine.” Then she let loose with a bitter laugh. “Anyway, what did this one do?” She pointed an accusing finger in Georgie’s direction. “She spent the whole cocktail hour re-seasoning, pan-searing, and re-plating the whole meal.”
Georgie handed Rosie an oversized wine glass filled with fruity wine, then moved on to pouring a glass for Monica. “I didn’t re-season, I de-seasoned,” she corrected, handing over the wine. “Mario tends to be a bit heavy-handed when he’s miffed, and catering orders make him miffed,” she explained to Rosie.
“Why? I paid a premium for that meal. Far more than I would have if we’d gone to the restaurant,” Monica argued.
“Because packing food in plastic containers makes a Michelin-starred chef feel like he’s tossing his babies into a lifeboat with no one there to catch them.”
Monica took a swig of sangria, paused for a second before swallowing the mouthful, then hummed her approval. “Yum.”
Georgie inclined her head as she poured one for herself. “I only gave the fillets a quick sear to reinvigorate the caramelization. No big deal. Trust me, nothing I did would have hurt Mario’s feelings. As a matter of fact, he would probably be grateful to know I was here to save his precious babies.”
She flopped down on the couch beside Rosie. “What is a big deal is how our friend James can’t get his head out of his ass, and stop hurting Rosie’s feelings.” She looked over as Monica took the seat on the other side of her. “Now, we all agree Rosie needs to move on, but we also need to help James extract his head from his ass.”
“What we’re doing here is kind of a brainstorming session,” Monica informed Rosie.
“And a bit of a consult,” Georgie added.
Monica nodded. “We need to know what we’re dealing with here.”
Georgie pulled her phone out from under her bra strap and began tapping. “First things first. Do you have a non-work e-mail address?”
Rosie’s ears burned as she rattled off the mildly embarrassing moniker. “Rivetingrosie1 at mail dot com.”
“Good one.” Georgie’s thumbs flitted across the screen like hummingbirds.
“But in order to sort these things out, we need all of the facts. Particularly those pertaining to past encounters between you and James.” Monica’s tone was matter of fact.
“I-I’m not…” Rosie slammed her mouth shut to stop the stammering. The last thing she needed was to slip back into old habits. Not now. Not when she was ready to be someone different. Someone strong. Someone who was not in love with a man who would never love her back. Not in the way she wanted to be loved. Swallowing her nerves along with a healthy gulp of wine, she ignored Georgie’s pointed stare and tried to mimic Monica’s cool, factual style. “We kissed once. On accident. A mistake.”
True to form, Monica pounced. “When was this?”
“How do people accidentally kiss?” Georgie wondered aloud. “Did you trip and his mouth broke your mouth’s fall?”
Heat flared in Rosie’s cheeks. She would have blamed the warmth on the sangria, but the tips of her ears and the back of her throat burned as well. “No, it was…an accident.”
“Date of birth?” Georgie demanded, her gaze locked on her phone again.
“What?”
“Month and day is fine,” the other woman assured her.
“July fourth,” she replied, confused by the abrupt shifts in topic.
“Ooh! Our own firecracker baby,” Georgie cooed as she typed.
“Back to the kissing,” Monica interrupted.
“The kiss was no big deal.” The truth and a lie all wrapped up in one handy sentence. But it was a fact, not fantasy. He’s kissed her, whether he meant to or not. She’d done nothing wrong.
“I’d picked up the kids for him. I was getting out of the car, he was getting in…” She fortified herself with another sip, then told the rest. “I turned around and he was…there.”
“Kissing you,” Monica concluded.
“Accidentally,” Georgie chimed in.
“Okay, maybe accident isn’t the right word. Some kind of reflex,” she argued, standing firm on the point. “One minute I was telling Jeff not to stick an action figure up his nose, and the next James was all, ‘You’re the best, Rosie,’ and kissing me like he was home from a hard day at the office. A peck.”
“From a real pecker,” Monica muttered into her glass.
Georgie gave a low shushing laugh. “Poor James.”
“Poor Rosie,” Monica corrected. “Then what happened?”
“I think I laughed.” Rosie saw the scene all like a movie playing in her head. “And he kind of laughed.”
She paused and Georgie whispered a breathy, “We laughed.”
Rosie shook her head, desperate to escape the clutches of the memory. “Then we got in the car and he gave me a lift home.”
Georgie growled low and menacing. “Way to rui
n a good set-up.”
She laughed. Not a giggle or a snicker or even a chuckle. A full on, outright laugh. And even as the sound rolled through her, Rosie wondered how long it had been since she’d let one loose. Certainly before discovering James had let Megan move into his house, and probably since before The Kiss. For a second, she was grateful to discover she hadn’t forgotten how. She closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her lips. Not to stop the laughter, but to feel it. Rosie concentrated with all her might, hoping to trap some of the mirth in. She wanted to remember every muscle contraction and vibration. In case she forgot how to laugh again.
When she lowered her hand and opened her eyes, she found both women staring at her. They were like a pair of horribly mismatched bookends. One tall, thin, and clad head to sock in black-and-white yoga gear, the other a whirlwind of color, curves, and sparkle—some provided by the brow and nose piercings Rosie still found both fascinating and slightly disconcerting. Georgie lifted her glass in a silent toast, and she saw the word ‘RISE’ tattooed in tiny script inside her wrist.
“Why did you choose ‘RISE’ for a tattoo?” The question popped out before Rosie could edit herself. She gasped and immediately started backpedaling. “I’m sorry, rude question.”
Georgie glanced at her wrist as if she’d forgotten all about the ink etched into her skin and chortled. “Why? Lots of reasons.”
“Never mind,” Rosie insisted. “You don’t have to tell me.”
Georgie leaned over and gave her a nudge to show no offense was taken. “No, it’s okay. Better reasons than for this one.” She lifted the back of her hair to show the whimsical cupcake drawn there. “This was a drunk twenty-first birthday act of rebellion.”
“Better than the insipid ankle butterfly my sister got,” Monica commented dryly.
“I love butterfly tattoos.” Georgie shot Monica a challenging look from under her bangs. “They’re a symbol of rebirth.” She let her hair fall back into place and raised her wrist to give them a better view of the tattoo Rosie had asked about. “I use a lot of four-letter words, but this one keeps me going.” Her normally sunny smile turned wan. “This one reminds me there’s no challenge I can’t rise up to meet. There’s no glory in taking the low road and little joy to be found if you’re looking down on someone. I choose to rise.”
Rosie blinked, surprised to find her eyes misting. “That’s lovely.”
There was a slight pause, then Monica leaned over to put her glass on the end table. “Right now, I’m going to rise enough to grab an empanada.” She snagged one of the plastic containers, snagged one herself, then offered the rest to the others. “Want one?”
Georgie chuckled as she plucked a folded pastry from the tray. “Monica doesn’t want to talk about feeeeeeelings.”
Monica raised her eyebrows in silent insistence, and Rosie took one as well. “I only thought we could eat while we talk about feeeeeeeelings. Kill two birds with one stone.” She placed the container on the coffee table again. True to her word, Monica nibbled around the edge of her pastry as she pounced. “How do you feel about Megan moving in with James?”
Thankfully, Rosie hadn’t taken a bite yet. Her jaw dropping slightly, she turned the imperious eyebrow she liked to use on the guys on Monica. The other woman was unwavering. She simply stopped nibbling and took a big chomping bite as she waited for an answer.
Rosie decided vague nonchalance was her best first line of defense. “His living arrangement really isn’t my concern.”
Georgie chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. “Which is why you stormed into my place and started biting the heads off all my poor peens.” She stared at the empanada contemplatively, studying it in minute detail. She went in for a second bite, then began nodding as if some pressing internal question had been answered.
“Not all of them,” Rosie interjected. “And you insisted I have more than one.”
Georgie shrugged and went in for another bite. Her face lit up as she chewed. She actually moaned as she relished the third taste. Before she’d even swallowed, she snatched her cell phone out from under her bra strap and started typing with astonishing speed.
Monica leaned forward to watch. “What are you doing?”
“There’s lobster in there. Some kind of spicy sauce… Diavolo?” She continued typing with her thumbs.
“I could have told you.” Monica fell back with a huff. She gave Rosie a side-eyed glance of commiseration. “She does this with everything she eats. It’s like some kind of game. It’s time to play Name That Ingredient!” she boomed like a television announcer.
Unperturbed, Georgie held the empanada up for a visual inspection. “Hey, I’m a chef. If the palate goes, my career is over.”
“I believe we’re witnessing some form of obsessive-compulsive behavior,” Monica grumbled, reaching for her sangria. “If I tell you the croquettes are jamón and wild mushroom, will you just eat one of the damn things?”
Georgie ignored Monica in favor of digging an elbow into Rosie’s side. “Favorite color?”
“Red,” Rosie responded without hesitation.
“And yet she has a whole wardrobe of neutrals,” Georgie mused aloud.
“Nothing wrong with neutrals.” Monica passed the bowl of chips to Rosie, then turned to face Georgie. “It’s okay to hate Megan being there. I hate her being there. Colm does, too.”
“Mike hates it, too, and she’s his sister,” Georgie supplied.
Rosie stiffened. “It’s James’s life. He can do as he likes.”
“From what I hear, he doesn’t like having a houseguest either,” Georgie pressed.
Rosie sighed and chomped off the end of her flauta as she allowed herself to sink into the cushions. “Maybe not, but she’s there. She’ll stay as long as she likes, then leave. I can’t sit here hoping he’ll let me help clean up her mess. It’s ridiculous.”
She added the last with a vehemence meant to convince herself more than the others, but they seemed to agree with her.
“Right.” Georgie’s phone chimed, and she grinned as she checked the message. “Okay. Good.” Shifting slightly, she pinned Rosie with a stern gaze. “You have a date with my friend Charlie on Monday.”
“What?”
Georgie didn’t look up from the phone. “Mondays are the only night he’s not in the kitchen. The restaurant business is hell on dating.”
“I have a whole bullpen of hotshot traders,” Monica said. “You can come by and take your pick, but I recommend recreational use only. These guys are workaholics.”
“Takes one to know one,” Georgie singsonged.
Rosie shook her head. “But I—”
Georgie lifted the hand clutching her phone to stop her. “I’ve set up profiles for you on MatchStix, Sparker, HelloEros, and Mate dot com. I used the picture from Trident’s website as your profile pic, but I really think we need to get some shots of you in the blue robe before the night is out.”
“You…I…No,” Rosie stammered, her eyes widening as she clutched the lapels of the robe with her free hand.
“God, yes, it’s perfect on you.” Monica dismissed her objections with a wave.
“But I never said I—”
“Consider this an intervention,” Monica pointed a flauta at her like a pistol.
Georgie gave her a sad half-smile. “The best way to fall out of love with someone is to fall in love with someone else.”
“Or, if not love, lust,” Monica conceded.
Rosie blinked rapidly. Tears threatened, but she couldn’t quite identify the emotion behind them. “But…” She managed the word one more time, found nothing more to add to it. Georgie’s phone was bleeping and buzzing with notifications, and she had a creeping feeling they had something to do with her. “Mate dot com?”
“We’re casting a wide net.” Monica gave a brisk nod. “Better to be the chooser than w
aiting to be chosen.”
Though casually spoken and obviously not meant to be an insult, the words felt like a punch to the chest. Monica was right. They were both right. This was what she needed to do. She needed to move on.
She tilted her head toward Georgie. “Charlie?”
“He’s a great guy,” Georgie glanced down at her phone and frowned. “Hey, how do you feel about extreme sports?”
“Extremely uncomfortable,” Rosie answered without hesitation.
Georgie bobbed her head. “Okay, swoosh! Mr. Heli-skier is gone.”
“She’s getting hits already?” Monica craned her long neck to get a glimpse at the screen.
“She is a hit, but imagine how popular she’ll be after we take a few robe pics,” Georgie answered with a lascivious grin. “You’ll need a better data plan.”
“How do I look at them?” Rosie leaned in to peer over Georgie’s shoulder. “Good God, is that his real hair?”
Georgie zoomed in on the photo of the next candidate. “I think he might be wearing a fur hat.”
Monica clambered up onto her knees for a better angle. “Or a cat on his head.”
“Swipe,” Rosie ordered.
Looking up questioningly, Georgie pressed her thumb to the screen. “Swipe yes or no?”
“No!” Rosie and Monica cried in unison.
Georgie chuckled as she dismissed the candidate in question. “We’ll get these set up on your phone. Your password is Time2quithim!. Capital T, numerical two, exclamation point on the end.”
Digesting the last bit, Rosie subsided into her seat and took a large gulp of wine. She inhaled through her nose as the fruity alcohol pooled in her stomach. Her head was already spinning, but for the first time in a long time, her purpose was clear. She would quit waiting for James and find someone who deserved her.
These brilliant women were right. Rosie was going to do her damnedest to fall out of love.
Chapter 5
