by Allison Parr
“Subway’s closed?”
My stomach lurched, and I turned, ready to have been wrong. But, no I recognized that voice, deep and rich and male.
Right on the street’s curb, Ryan Carter had pulled his motorcycle over and his helmet off. He shook his unruly blond hair into place, and flashed perfect white teeth at me.
Nerves and unwanted lust collided sharply to form snarkier words then I’d intended. “You look like a shampoo commercial.” I wished that in the middle of a crisis I didn’t notice how good he looked in his black-and-crimson Leopards jacket and well-worn jeans. I determinedly kept myself from scoping out how well-worn they were.
He just grinned. “Nah, I only do cars. Are you going somewhere?”
He did car commercials? He’d probably never worried about money in his life. “I’m trying to.” I redirected my anger at him since the MTA didn’t seem to care. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be practicing or something?”
His expression hardened and he spoke caustically, as though I’d insulted him. “Thanks. We just finished, and we’ll do better this week, okay?” When I stared at him blankly, he sighed. “Don’t suppose you watched?”
“I was probably busy...washing my hair.”
He shook his head, and his lips curved in an exasperated, offended smile, the kind that said he needed to either smile or punch me. “Well. Tough break about the subway. Good luck.”
I frowned at him. “Wait. Um. Aren’t you going to offer me a ride?”
He smirked, reaching up to ruffle his hair. I tried not to stare at his muscled arm. I’d never cared this much about arms before. “I don’t think so.”
I jerked my attention back to his face. But he had a speedy form of transportation that snuck through traffic! And he was my only chance of making it to Trophy Press. “Please? You have to.”
“Actually, I don’t.”
“This is important! I have a job interview downtown.”
He shrugged. “That’s too bad, ’cause I live just a few blocks uptown and that’s where I’m headed. Besides, what would I get out of it?”
My eyes narrowed. “It could be your apology for being such a nasty jerk the other night.”
He laughed. “‘A nasty jerk?’ You were in way better form the first time we met.”
My cheeks warmed. “I might have made some—insulting—comments, but you were the one who accused me of trying to lure in one of your friends—” I stopped and took a deep breath. “Look, are you going to give me a ride or not?”
He pursed up his lips like he was considering it—forcing me, totally against my will, to stare at his mouth—and then gave a little shake of his head. “Not.”
My mouth dropped. “Seriously? What, do you want me to pay you or something?” I started digging in my purse for my wallet.
His laugh stopped me, bright with hard mirth. “I’m sorry, aren’t you on your way to a job interview?”
My cheeks burned hotter. “I’m not broke.”
“Right, no, of course not. What’s it you do again? Publishing? And that’s such a booming industry. Bet you make a lot of money in that one.”
My fists curled up. Who did he think he was, to mock me about what I did? After all, what was so great about football? “Fine,” I snapped. “I don’t need the help of a dumb jock anyways.” I started striding away, blinking hard. How the hell was I supposed to get there, now? I could call and let Trophy Press know I’d be late, or need to reschedule, but first impressions weren’t easy to shake, and late was late.
The motorcycle purred up next to me again. “Oh, fine. I’ll give you a ride.”
Relief smothered my pride, and I could breathe again. He must be a good person deep down. “Thank you.” I took a step toward him.
And then I stopped, feeling the restriction of my tight pencil skirt across my legs, and looking down at it in horror.
“Oh, that’s right.” His voice was like smoke. “Your legs are stuck together.” His smile grew broad and smug. “That’s what happens when you’re too uptight.”
Fury boiled up in me. He had seen immediately that I couldn’t exactly ride a motorcycle like this. I glared at him. “Too bad your lips aren’t stuck together.”
He laughed and saluted. “Touché. But, seeing how you’re not really dressed for riding, I better get going.”
“Wait,” I snapped, and he raised his brows as I considered my skirt. I could scrunch it up around my waist, but then it would get wrinkled and folded, ruining my pristine interviewee appearance.
Of course, I had one other option. I was wearing tights.
The voice of fashion set up shop on my left shoulder. Tights aren’t pants. And these tights aren’t even leggings, they’re just barely opaque.
Practicality took the opposing shoulder. Plenty of people still wear tights as pants.
You’re a failure, the inner voice whispered.
“Sorry, Rach,” Ryan drawled. “Best of luck getting to that interview.”
Damn that inner voice and the voice of fashion, too. “I said, wait,” I repeated, and then pushed out the three buttons on my skirt. “I’m coming with you.”
His shock turned to delight at my discomfort as I stepped out of my skirt. My cheeks flamed, even though it wasn’t difficult to ignore the side eyes coming this way. After all, this was New York. We’re brilliant at not seeing other people.
Ryan, on the other hand, watched without blinking while I carefully rolled my skirt up and placed it in my purse. He shook his head, grinning as his brows formed a disbelieving tent. “You’re insane.” He stared at my thighs—I hoped—as he got off his bike and opened up the attached trunk. “Completely mad.”
“I have an interview.”
“Sure, sweetheart. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Jerk. I snatched the helmet he offered and pulled it over my head. I’d briefly dated an Italian boy during my junior semester abroad, and we’d blissfully zoomed around Rome on his scooter for two months. Then, of course, I freaked out by how very fast he wanted to go, and I sort of ran away. Still, he’d taught me the art of not crushing my ears under a full-face fiberglass bucket.
I tossed my purse in the trunk, and then threw my stockinged leg over the bike. Ryan lectured as I did, irritatingly amused. “Now, don’t be shy. You need to hold onto me, and tighter is better—”
I wrapped my arms around his stomach, sliding my hands over his jacket until they hugged the other side of his torso. My legs pushed forward until they pressed snugly against his, and after a moment’s hesitation, I flattened my breasts against his broad, corded back. I heard a harsh intake of breath, and a shudder ran through him. I smiled against his back. “I take it you’ve ridden a bike before?”
I felt a little smug. “I had an Italian boyfriend.”
“Course you did.” He revved the bike. “I bet he was just your type. Dark and handsome—took you to art museums. Maybe the opera.”
“Brought me bouquets and diamond necklaces, too.”
We bickered all the way to my interview. That was fine with me. It kept me from concentrating on how Ryan’s abs were warm and carved under my hands. He smelled like cedar and faint male musk, and his back was broad enough to block out the wind. And every part of me that touched him...wanted.
I let out a tiny sigh. Fantastic. I was officially in lust with a guy I despised.
When he stopped a block away and a street over from Trophy Press, I reluctantly peeled my body away from him, and drew off the helmet. “Thanks.” I swapped out the helmet for my purse, and shimmied back into my skirt.
He snagged me by my waistband, pulling me forward. “You missed a bit.” He tucked an edge of my blouse under the skirt.
Our eyes caught. His shone, pale and bright and crinkled at the edges. For a moment, I wanted nothing more than to wrap my legs around his waist and have a good, long make out session. My gaze dipped to his lips.
They curved. He knew exactly what I was looking at.
Ugh. How h
umiliating. It was only because I was in that cursed horny part of my cycle, nothing more. I had to do something about this. I should just make out with someone at a club.
Yeah.
“Thanks for the lift.” I tried to pretend I hadn’t just been picturing him naked.
He flashed a bright, perfect smile. “You’re welcome. Have a good life, Rachael Hamilton.”
* * *
“So?” Eva said when I came home. “How’d the interview go?”
“I’m not sure. The editor was really nice. And we had a good conversation, and she laughed at some inane joke I made and told me about her kids...and she also told me about how crappy the publishing industry is, and that while it’s great that I have this internship I’m doing and that I interned at Girls! Magazine when I was in college, my best bet is to just stick around at Maples&Co and hope a position opens up.”
“Seriously? She said that?”
“Well, not quite,” I amended. “But she implied it strongly.” I let out a long sigh and opened the fridge. Three potatoes sat alone across from a door of condiments. Well then, it was spaghetti or elbows. If we were lucky, we might even have a jar of marinara. “And I’d love to work at Maples&Co, only Laurel’s been interning there longer, so if a job comes up, she’ll probably get it.”
“You must be thrilled you majored in English.”
I snorted. “Remind me to make my kids study business. At a state school.”
“Oh, don’t be a sell-out.”
“But if our kids are also starving artists, how will they pay for our retirement homes? How’s the show going?”
Eva rolled her neck and spread her hands out. “If this doesn’t get picked up, we’re all screwed.”
I laughed, setting the water on to boil. “Come on, they’ve made musicals out of Shrek, Legally Blonde, and Spider-man. If they can succeed, so can Pride and Prejudice: The Musical!”
Eva smiled reluctantly. “Even though we’re a little ridiculous?”
“You know you’re ridiculous. If people love Austen enough to read zombie adaptations and watch time-travel miniseries, they’ll come to the show.”
“Not my parents.”
“Your parents are snobs. And if they see the show, I’m sure they’ll like it. Come on, ‘Not Pretty Enough to Tempt Me’ is super catchy.” I’d been humming Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth’s duet for weeks now. “Is that what’s wrong? Your parents?”
She shook her head. “They’re fine. I guess. We haven’t talked about the show since they said I was bastardizing great literature. No, I screwed up at rehearsal. A lawyer came in to talk to Dickens, and I spilled paint all over him.”
I snorted laughter as I broke spaghetti strands into the water. “What happened?”
“I was standing on a ladder, talking to Mel. And my foot was just swinging loosely, and I hadn’t really noticed there was a paint bucket on the step below me, and—yeah. He was wearing a three piece suit, too.”
“He’s not going to make you pay for it, is he?”
“No, but Dickens was pissed. Exactly how I want the director to think about me—not that he does think about me, ’cause I’m just a singing maid. And I feel really bad, too...” Her face softened into the dreamy countenance of new infatuation. “He was so pretty.”
I grinned. “What happened to Mark? I thought you were in love with him this week.”
She waved a hand dismissively. “Mark can’t even afford to take me out to dinner. So over him. Hey, maybe I should call Ryan Carter. I bet he could afford anything. We could eat, like, fresh produce with our pasta.”
I busied myself stirring the pot. “I saw him today.”
“No! What happened?”
Eva listened, rapt, as I recounted the meeting. “I can’t believe you. Taking off your skirt! Midtown! That’s so not like you!”
“I know.” I ladled out dinner for both of us. “I don’t know what came over me. He just made me so mad. I wanted to prove that I wasn’t a prude. And, of course, I wanted to get to the interview. And it wasn’t such a hardship, being smashed up against him.”
“Yeah, I bet you really suffered.”
“I’m still suffering,” I said darkly. “It should be illegal for jackasses to be that gorgeous.”
* * *
That Thursday, the temp agency sent me back to John’s advertising agency.
I covertly texted Laurel from behind the receptionist’s desk on the fifteenth floor. She responded quickly: Drag him into the supply closet. Srslsy.
I sat staring at the message and considering it until the office phone rang and almost startled me out of my skin. Shoving my cell into a drawer, I plastered a smile on and answered. “Meckleson and Drivers.”
All day long, I imagined John pacing two floors above me, past the minions’ cubicles and into his office, or strolling over to the espresso machine for the fourth time. Every time the elevator dinged, I tensed, fingers freezing on the keyboard, nerves firing in rabbitlike anticipation.
What if Laurel was right? What if I should just indulge in a no-strings-attached fling? I could seriously use a good hook up.
Then again, I didn’t actually like John.
Finally, the clock hit five and I headed for the elevator, slinging on my coat and twisting up my flyaway strands into a contained updo. My shoulders finally relaxed as I crossed the lobby toward the rotating glass doors.
“Rachael!”
But of course.
I turned around, and there stood John. Tall and chiseled, his jacket flapping open behind him, he presented a picture of young success. Style over substance. I pasted on a smile. “John. Hi.”
He loped over and did a quick appraisal. “You look good.”
“Thanks.”
“You think about that drink?”
I gazed at him, the angel and demon back on my shoulders. Would it hurt? Just a drink. I didn’t need to sleep with him; we could just have a good old-fashioned make out session. I could stop thinking about that damn quarterback all the time.
But.
It had been a little shady how he hadn’t mentioned his girlfriend until she walked in on us. For God’s sake, I’d made him show me his blood work. Shouldn’t he have mentioned he’d had a steady sexual partner? If their relationship was so very open, shouldn’t it have come up?
I shook my head. “You have a girlfriend.”
He rolled his eyes, clearly frustrated. “I told you. We have an open relationship. Besides, she’s in Japan for the next two months doing research.”
I kneaded my lip with my teeth. John didn’t have a problem hooking up with me. Why did I? Maybe it was just residual resentment from discovering he didn’t want what I wanted. Was I actually one of those girls who couldn’t just have a good time? Sexually repressed. With issues.
“Come on,” John wheedled, taking a step closer. “We’ll go out this weekend. We can get dinner at Mariette’s—I know the owner. Or there’s this great wine and chocolate bar...”
I blinked, pulling my coat tighter. Mariette’s cost upward of two hundred dollars a meal, and the reservation list stretched for months. Why was it so attractive that John could get into places like that? That he came from old-New York money? It shouldn’t balance out a tedious, smarmy personality.
“Or,” John said, when I remained silent, “my family has season tickets to the Leopards’ games. We could go on Sunday.”
I stared at him, sick. The Leopards game? What was this, a conspiracy to insert sports in my life? I should call my father. “I don’t do sports.”
He laughed condescendingly and rolled his eyes. “Well, yeah. But they’re the Leopards.”
I don’t even do the Leopards. As one Leopard would most certainly ascertain.
“Look, John—” The mention of the Leopards had drained away any lust-fueled temptation, and now I fumbled for words. Luckily, deus ex telephone, my ringing cell saved me. I held it up. “I have to take this. See you.”
I pressed the cell to my ear, not
recognizing the number and not caring. “Hello?”
“Rach!” a male voice cried. “What’s up?”
I glanced over my shoulder at John, who had already turned away. “Um, hi. Who’s this?”
“It’s Abe.”
I knew an Abe? Oh. I knew a football player named Abe.
“Hey. How are you?”
“Great. So—I was thinking.”
Thinking people were dangerous. “Uh-huh?”
“This might be short notice, but if you’re not doing anything tomorrow, wanna have Shabbos dinner?”
I drew the phone away and stared at it. Had burly Jewish Abe just suggested we hang out? “Um—I don’t really do Shabbat that often.” Like, since I was fifteen.
“Yeah, I haven’t either since I got to New York. But, I don’t know. I thought it might be fun?”
He’d pulled out that puppy-dog tone again. Didn’t he have relatives over here? I could not be the only Jew he knew in New York.
But what if I was? He was observant, and I knew from past experience that spending holidays alone was depressing as hell. That semester in Italy, I’d spent Yom Kippur curled around my empty stomach waiting for time to pass so I could call my family on the other side of the world. I caved. “Come on over. I have a standing invite to a family friend’s place. Want to go there?”
“Great! I’ll see you tomorrow!”
After we hung up, I laughed and shook my head. At least Shabbat with Abe would be safer than dinner with John.
Chapter Six
Friday evening, I came home from my internship to find Eva primping in front of the mirror, her heart-shaped face stretched long and narrow by the distortion. “Where are you off to?”
She met my reflection’s gaze, her own smug as a cat. “I have a date with the lawyer I spilled paint on.”
Eva would. I tossed my coat on the couch, remembered Abe would be stopping by later, and hung it neatly on the back of the door. Then I frowned. Damn, I should have a mezuzah hanging on the doorframe. “How’d he get your number?”
“He didn’t.” She touched up her lips and fluffed out her pale hair. “He showed up at rehearsal and told me I could buy his dinner to apologize. I’m thinking of taking him to a hot dog stand since I have no money.” She grinned up at me. “You still going out with that nice Jewish boy?”
