“It’s exquisite,” I’d told her.
“You’re such a cocksucker,” she’d said with a playful sneer.
“And I will take that as a compliment,” I’d said.
Now, she simply shakes her head in amusement. “Look at you, firing on all cylinders. Speaking of, do you want to see the mock-up I’m working on? It’s for that untitled YA Rainey assigned you.”
“Ooh, yes.”
We head down the hall, past Rainey’s office. The queen is out today, but her keeper is there. I smile at the bubbly blonde.
“Hi, Antonia.” I gesture to her green paisley dress. “Love the dress you have on.”
“Thanks. It’s my first dress with pockets. I remember you saying how much you loved them, so I snagged one the other day, and it’s fabulous.”
Stopping, I hold up a hand to high-five. “Welcome to the cult of pockets.”
Antonia smiles brightly. “That would be a funny name for a book.”
“I can see the cover now,” Lola says, her dark eyes filled with visions of, well, pockets.
We soldier on to Lola’s office, where she shows me the YA cover then begs me to entertain her more with my “sexcapades,” as she calls them.
“I don’t kiss and tell. Not in the office, at least,” I say.
“Then I’ll ply you with drinks this weekend.”
“Twist my arm.”
That night, I take my little man to see my main man, and when Linc gives Inspector Poirot a stuffed alligator with sixteen squeakers, I’m pretty sure I hit the jackpot.
And I don’t just mean the orgasm one, though Linc gives me a trio of toe-curling, earth-shattering ones that night.
The next morning, he brings me breakfast in bed, complete with what looks like my skull creeper cup. Mmm, coffee.
Except . . . wait. That’s not for me.
I sit up in bed, grab my glasses, and narrow my eyes. “I would be mad at you for denying my belly if you weren’t so damn dishy.”
Linc smiles devilishly, giving the dog water from the mug. Then he plucks the dog biscuit from the tray and offers it to my hound.
Inspector Poirot takes it, then scurries to Linc’s side of the bed, where he proceeds to devour the biscuit on his pillow.
“And I won’t even kick him out of bed for leaving crumbs.”
21
Linc
Baldwin called it.
But I knew it too.
Because I know who I am. I always have.
Maybe it’s because of my love of books and eighties movies.
Through them I’ve come to understand all sorts of men. I met the man with a plan in Aragorn in Lord of the Rings. I understood the guys who wanted the world to bend to their will, thanks to Jay Gatsby, and I got to know the rebel with a heart, courtesy of Matthew Broderick in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.
I spent time with the ultimate playboy, too, when I was twelve and ran across Giacomo Girolamo Casanova’s autobiography at the library and read it from cover to cover. Man, that guy could put Wilt Chamberlain to shame.
I met so many others: the wise wizard in Dumbledore, the nerd who observes between the pages of Looking for Alaska, and the relentless assassin Jason Bourne. (Not sure what the Bourne takeaway was except to always watch your back, which is a worthwhile lesson.)
Through stories, I’ve learned what I want. What I need. What makes me tick.
That’s how I’ve always known I’m not a one-night-stand kind of guy.
I’m the relationship type, and that’s exactly what this after-hours time has become.
It’s become what I want.
Amy feels like mine. She’s not a sidepiece, she’s not a booty call, and she’s not an affair.
She’s real, and she’s everything.
The best part about knowing your mind is not having to struggle with your inner demons when you meet the girl you’re crazy about.
I tell Baldwin as much over lunch on Friday. “You were right. The app was a good idea.”
He buffs his fingernails against his chest, then blows on them. “I’m brilliant. Who is she?”
“She’s a Smartie.”
His eyes widen. “And a SweeTart?” His voice rises with hope.
“Perhaps.”
“Look at you, Superman. Fishing in the waters at home.”
“Yeah, I know. But we’re going to disclose it when the VPs are back on Monday.”
“Smart plan. Also, I want details.”
“What a surprise.”
He shoots me a harsh stare. “I deserve details.”
I don’t tell him much—I’m not that guy—but enough to make him happy, because I tell him I’m falling hard for Amy.
My sister is another story.
I suspect she’ll demand to know even more when I meet her at the end of the workday.
After Lisa and Paige drop off the baby with Paige’s sister, I meet them for an early evening game of Ping-Pong at the Lucky Spot.
It’s a tight match between Lisa and me, and I’m determined to win. Because tonight I’m Jason Bourne.
The white ball whizzes at me, and with laser focus, I lunge for it, smacking it to the other side of the table.
Lisa grunts, racing after it, slapping it across again.
The plastic ball screams in my direction, and I carve my best backhand, sending it over the table once more.
“Go for it, baby!” Paige shouts, and Lisa misses.
I thrust my arms in the air. “And the game goes to the champion.”
Lisa shoots Paige a look. “Thanks for breaking my concentration.”
Paige slinks an arm around Lisa’s waist. “Please forgive me.”
Lisa sighs happily. “Fine, you’re forgiven,” she says, then drops a kiss on Paige’s lips.
Or, I should say, she mauls her, dragging her wife in for a possessive smooch in the middle of the game room.
“Don’t mind me,” I deadpan.
With their lips still locked, Lisa flips me the bird and kisses Paige more deeply.
When she finally comes up for air, Lisa asks me, “Speaking of deep, passionate kisses that last for days, have you fallen in love yet? Since I know you’re partial to that.”
I shrug impishly like I have a secret.
Lisa closes the distance between us, clasping her hands on my shoulders. “Must. Know. Everything.”
I laugh. “The woman I was telling you about?”
“The one you met online?” Paige chimes in, and I guess Lisa told her.
“Yes. Turns out she works in the same office as me.”
Lisa’s eyes widen in curiosity. “She does? Tell me more.”
I don’t tell them the winding, twisty path to Amy Summers—that would require serving up more details than necessary. What I tell, though, is true: Boyfriend Material matched us, and Amy is smart and wildly clever and loves books and hates sports and has a wicked sense of humor and a goofy heart. She’s completely single, obsessed with her dog, and basically the most fascinating person I’ve ever met.
Two jaws drop.
“Someone is in love,” Paige says, singsong.
It’s still early, but I’d say it’s heading pretty damn close to that four-letter word.
“Falling,” I correct, like the distinction between the path to love and love itself matters greatly.
“Like a regular Casanova,” Lisa jokes.
“Yes, that’s me,” I say dryly.
Lisa nudges my elbow. “When do we meet this fabulous ball of energy?”
“Soon. We just need to tell the bosses at work that we’re a thing, but we’ll do that first thing Monday, and then it should be smooth sailing.”
“Can she come play Ping-Pong with us?” Lisa asks, like she’s five, pleading for ice cream.
“Why don’t you ask her yourself?”
I grab my phone and FaceTime Amy.
She answers right away. “Hey, hottie face! I’m heading to the gym to work on my booty, so this better be good if y
ou’re interrupting buns-of-steel time,” she says as she marches down the street wearing yoga pants and a tank-top sports bra I want to peel off with my teeth.
I point to the two women by my side. “Hi, Amy. This is my sister and her wife.”
She waves. “Hi, pretty ladies! Nice to meet you, Lisa and Paige.”
“My brother really likes you,” Lisa chimes in.
Amy’s grin is magnificent. “I had no idea.”
“Like, a lot,” Paige adds.
“The feeling is mutual,” Amy says.
“That’s what I like to hear.” Lisa nods at the screen. “I don’t want to keep you from your buns time.”
“Actually, I’m teaching a Hula-Hoop class tonight. But it’s good for the butt too.”
“I’ve been dying to learn how to hula-hoop,” Lisa says, excitement dripping from her voice.
“Don’t die from wanting. Just come to class sometime. I’d love to teach you.”
Lisa gives Amy a big thumbs-up.
“See you later,” I say to the woman on the screen.
“Come over.”
“I’ll be there.”
I end the call, and my sister slings an arm around me. “Just letting you know my radar says keep her.”
Mine does too.
Especially when I go to her place that night and she tells me she has something very important to show me.
Her thesaurus.
From when she was a kid.
It’s like a window into her soul, and it delights me.
“Show me your favorite word,” I say.
She flips the pages to “serendipity” then says, a little shy, a little sweet, “Sort of like how we found each other online.”
I read the synonyms out loud. “‘Lucky chance. Happy break. Accidental discovery.’ I like those too.”
Then I strip her naked, and I spell “serendipity” with my tongue till she cries out my name, and there’s nothing accidental about that.
* * *
The weekend goes by and we spend it all together. On Monday morning I say goodbye and tell her I’ll see her at work, and then I go for a morning run before I head into the office.
I tackle some edits, but before I get far, Baldwin raps on my door. “One, you still owe me an update and many nuggets of info. I’m practically starving. And two, the VPs just called an unplanned morning editorial meeting.”
When I enter the conference room a few minutes later, one editor in particular looks at me as if all my secrets are written on the whiteboard.
22
Amy
My pitch is polished.
My editorial letter is scrubbed, glossed, and primped.
I’m walking on sunshine as I head to the subway on Monday morning after dropping off my dog at Fluffy and Fabulous.
I catch the train early because I’m proving to myself that my office romance won’t slow me down. If anything, it’ll speed me up. Make me better. Hell, I feel bionic.
I could lift a taxi, I tell myself when I exit the subway. I could leap across the block in one big jump.
Apparently, falling like crazy can fuel your creativity.
As I turn onto the block for Bailey & Brooks, I spot a familiar face leaving the building.
Walking in my direction.
Smiling.
Freaking smiling.
My heart pinches, and my smile erases itself. But I do my best to be friendly. “Hi, Madison,” I say when she’s a few feet away from me.
She flicks her chestnut-brown hair off her shoulder. “Hey, Amy. How are you?”
Is it me or does she sound as awkward as I feel?
I keep on the chipper path. “Great. How are you?”
“Oh, good. I had a meeting this morning with some of the VPs. They invited me back to do a pitch. I’m excited.”
I slap on a smile. “I’m excited for you.”
She sets a hand on my arm. “I’ll be happy for you if you get the job. I just want you to know that.”
I laugh it off, ready to say I won’t get it, you will.
But that’s what the old me would say.
That was how I felt in An Open Book when I told Josh about all the books I didn’t nab.
Only, that was before I realized I had it in me to climb a mountain.
It had been there; I simply had to look under the surface. I had to see inside myself and find my skills, with a nudge here and there from people I’ve known my whole life and people I’ve known a short time.
And I see it now.
I’m all about confidence. I won’t doubt myself anymore. I’ve done all I can to nab the job.
Let the best editor win.
“I’ll be happy for you too,” I say, then I laugh to defuse the air of awkward. “But let’s be honest—we both want the job.”
Her laughter is full of relief too. “I’m so glad you said that. I do want it. Gah. I just felt a little bad for wanting it. It’s so hard as a woman. We’re trained to be a certain way. To not always say what we want.” She squares her shoulders, her brown eyes vulnerable.
“Then let me go first. We shouldn’t feel bad for wanting things,” I say, and holy hell, I am a motivational speaker right now.
Madison grins. “You’re right. We shouldn’t. And here’s the full truth: I admire the hell out of you. I think you’re a total badass. And yet, I still want the job you’re going after.”
I beam at the compliments. “I admire the world out of you, and I’m also convinced you have a magical lasso.”
She cracks up, then acts indignant. “Please. It’s a cape.”
“Women who wear capes,” I declare.
She offers a fist for knocking. “Cape power.”
“Let’s agree that it’s cape power for us to want things for ourselves, and to want the best for each other.”
“That’s absolutely cape power, isn’t it?” she asks, swishing an imaginary cloak around her.
“Yes. It definitely is.” I don my virtual superhero accessory too, and like that, any latent jealousy, any ancient anxiety, dissipates.
I’m left only with what matters: my faith in myself, my certainty that I’ve done all I can, and an iron-clad belief that women can support each other even when they compete.
That wasn’t a piece of wisdom I thought I needed. It wasn’t something I was looking for, but along the way I found it, and I like it. It matters to me.
Inside the building, I stop by my office, drop off my bag, and then, as I start to slide my phone in my pocket, I spot a new notification.
An all-hands editorial meeting.
Huh. That’s odd. We don’t usually have those first thing Monday morning.
I head into the conference room and find the VPs—Rainey, Tiffany, and Raphael—and the senior editors too, like Baldwin, Linc, and Juanita. Junior editors and assistant editors are here as well.
When I sit, my skin crawls. Someone’s staring at me.
It’s odd.
I pretend I don’t notice as Rainey clears her throat, works her way down some agenda items, then takes a beat.
“And at our retreat last week, we kept returning to a nagging issue.”
I swallow roughly, wondering what it could be.
Raphael chimes in with his explanation. “Because it seems as if the lines of editors here don’t really intersect. We have VPs working with junior editors, but the senior editors understandably do their own thing.”
Tiffany bats next. “And we want to align the editorial departments more tightly. Make sure we’re instilling a true mentorship atmosphere at Bailey & Brooks.” She takes a deep breath. “That’s why we’re rejiggering things a little bit, and we’d like all editors, junior editors, and assistant editors to work in tandem with a senior editor.”
A stone lodges in my throat. My head starts to buzz with a swarm of impending bad news as Tiffany continues, outlining who Juanita’s working with, then Baldwin, before she turns to the guy I’ve spent the last several nights with.
“And Linc, we’d love for you to work more closely with Amy Summers on her books.”
A cough nearly bursts from my chest. My stomach pitches, and I briefly wonder how the conference table will look covered in the yogurt I ate for breakfast.
But I keep it together.
“How does that sound?” Tiffany asks the group.
But Linc’s not the first one to answer. Nor is Baldwin. Nor am I.
Antonia is.
The very editor who gave me the odd I know what you did last night look when I walked in.
She chirps, “Oh, that’s so perfect. Especially Linc and Amy, since they’re an item. They’ll work together so well.” She gasps, then her mouth forms an O. “Oh, but I just realized, that’s against the rules now.”
She doesn’t have to quote from the employee handbook for me to know what she’s referring to.
No romances with a direct report.
23
Linc
Turns out it’s Baldwin who’s Superman.
The second Antonia pastes on her clearly fake smile, my friend chuckles.
His laughter cuts the tension, and in a perfect kill-her-with-kindness tone, he says, “Antonia, I’m pretty sure what’s also against the rules of decorum is dropping inappropriate rumors like that at an all-hands meeting.”
“What?” she asks, her blue eyes wide.
He stares at her with the biggest let me help you grin ever grinned. “As your newly assigned mentor, I just wanted to share that bit of feedback. I’m sure you didn’t mean to do that now, did you?”
“Um . . .” She gulps, her face flushing red, and she shakes her head. “No. Sorry.”
“Exactly.” He takes a conversation-clearing breath, then says to the group, “Now, shall we move on? All this mentorship sounds great. What else is on the agenda?”
And like that, he pushes us past that fraught moment. Even though Tiffany’s eyes register surprise and Raphael’s show a bit of shock, none of the VPs mention Antonia’s bombshell.
I flash back to my first debrief with Baldwin when he told me that Antonia is a new editor but she’ll help with anything.
Asking For A Friend Page 15
