by Lila Monroe
AHS looks at me like I just sprouted a second head. “What are you laughing at?”
“This! Us!” I splutter, still giggling. I’ve never seen somebody so reluctantly chivalrous in all my life. He’s like Mr. Darcy crossed with a grumpy grandpa, but I kind of see his point. I’m not exactly a poster girl for seeming sober and sorted right now.
I try to recover, wiping at my eyes. “What will it take to convince you that I’m of sound mind and judgment?” I ask, still smiling. “I mean, using the phrase ‘sound mind and judgment’ has to count for something, right?”
AHS folds his arms across his surprisingly broad chest and scowls at me. “You think this is funny?”
“Actually, yes.” I grin back. “Isn’t the point of chivalry to respect women, and what they tell you?”
He grits his teeth. “I thought it was to stop people getting mugged and left in a gutter to die.”
I sigh. Clearly, this dude won’t leave me alone until I prove I’m not a stumbling danger to myself or to others. I wrack my brains, trying to think of something that will—
Aha!
I suddenly get a flash of inspiration. It’s a feat I haven’t even attempted since college, but what the hell. Go big, and then maybe I’ll be able to go home in peace.
I give AHS a smile. “Watch and learn, mister.”
I take a few steps, summon all the muscle memory I can, and launch myself into a series of perfect cartwheels down the empty sidewalk. I’m already on my second when I think about the fact my bare hands are touching the New York City street, but hey, the three-second rule counts here, too.
I finish with my hands in the air in triumph. “Ta da!” I declare. “Is that good enough for you?”
AHS looks a little impressed, or maybe that’s just relief that he can wash his hands of me now. “You’re really sober?” he asks, drawing closer.
“For the thousandth time, YES!”
He draws level, looking at me with a weird expression in his eyes. “OK. I believe you.”
And then he kisses me.
I freeze in shock, because what the freaking hell?
And also, yum.
His body is warm against me, his mouth is cool and soft, and his tongue…
Well, let’s just say it’s good for more than just sarcastic retorts. I still have no idea what’s happening, but my body clearly knows what’s up, because somehow, I’m already reaching to pull him closer, kissing him back until my head spins and my knees are weak.
Then just as suddenly, Annoyingly Handsome Stranger wrenches away from me. His eyes are dark in the streetlight, his hair is rumpled from my fingertips, and he looks about as surprised as I’m feeling. “Uh,” he stutters, “I’m, uh, sorry.”
Don’t be, I’m about to tell him, and lean in for another round, but he’s already backing away. “I’ll, um… Goodnight.”
He turns on his heel, and pretty much bolts in the opposite direction like he’s trying to break the land speed record.
I watch him go. My heart is still pounding, and as for my other vital organs… Well, let’s just say, they’ve woken all the way up.
I shake my head, and start the walk home. Is the entire planet in retrograde or something? First my dream job, then the ice cream, and now this Handsome Stranger? It seems like the universe is dangling all these tasty treats in front of me, only to yank them away at the last minute.
Good thing I still have some emergency cookie dough in my freezer. Because that’s clearly the only satisfaction I’m getting tonight!
2
Eliza
The next morning dawns sunny and humid. I grab a jam jar full of cold brew from the pitcher in my tiny fridge and queue up my favorite playlist before I hop into the shower, singing along to Stevie Wonder and Ella Fitzgerald and the Beach Boys. Old-fashioned? Maybe. But that kind of music always makes me feel like I’m a plucky heroine in a Nancy Meyers movie, about to bake a perfect batch of flaky, buttery croissants in an immaculately designed kitchen the size of an airplane hangar.
Or smooch a handsome stranger on the street one night. Just saying.
Sadly, croissants only set off the temperamental fire alarm in my studio. It’s tiny, with a sleeping loft you can’t quite stand up in, and the kind of refrigerator you’d find in a college dorm. Still, it’s all mine and I’ve worked hard to make it feel like an actual home, with a fresh coat of white paint, and a framed quartet of my favorite old book covers hung between the tall, narrow windows. I used last year’s Christmas bonus to reward myself with a couch that didn’t come from the street, a sleek velvet number in a rich navy blue. Every week I buy fresh flowers at the bodega around the corner… along with a couple of cans of cat food for my slightly negligent neighbor’s slinky tabby cat, who likes to hang out on my narrow balcony.
But as for that annoyingly handsome stranger? I smile to myself as I blow-dry my hair, unable to get that kiss out of my mind—his strong hands spanning my rib cage, his narrow hips fitted against mine. It’s not like I make a habit of sucking face with guys I just met in the middle of Bedford Avenue, exactly, but it’s been almost eight months since I broke up with Boring Bryan and the well?
It has run dry.
I slip into a black silk blouse and leopard-print pencil skirt, then grab a cardigan for the violent air-conditioning of my midtown office and head downstairs. The streets are hot and quiet as I make my way toward the subway. Manhattan is a ghost town in August, with everyone taking off for grand houses in the Hamptons and rentals on Shelter Island or Cape May.
Can you imagine? Not just owning one home, but two! But it’s actually one of my favorites times of year in the city—a great opportunity to lounge in Central Park with enough room to really stretch out. There’s even space on the train to sit down and read a few pages of my latest manuscript, the A/C blasting with enough chilly velocity to ruffle the hair on the back of my neck. The whole city feels like a secret they only let you in on once you’ve lived here long enough to be in the know.
I grab two iced coffees from the cart outside my office building and head inside. The offices of Sterling Publishers are decidedly old-school—slightly scruffy, maybe, but in a way that feels distinctly literary. Harry hated open concept anything, so it’s mostly offices instead of big tables, with plenty of hidden corners to spend an afternoon lost in a new manuscript.
Even with half the staff on vacation, Sterling is buzzing with energy. The copyeditors are clustered like a flock of chatty birds around a box of donuts in the kitchen, while the accounting team is already meeting in the conference room, their studious heads bent over their spreadsheets. My assistant, Rachel is sitting at the admin desk, her slightly frizzy red hair tamed into a pair of braids pinned up on top of her head, Heidi-style. “For you,” I say with a smile, putting one of the iced coffees down in front of her.
“My hero,” she says, batting her pale eyelashes in my direction. “Messages are on your desk. And there’s an all-office meeting in ten with the new big-shot management consultant.”
I frown. “Wait, what new management consultant?”
“Did you not hear about this?” My colleague David joins us at Rachel’s desk, eyes wide behind his owlish glasses. He’s been a senior editor at Sterling basically as long as I’ve been alive. His list consists mostly of so-called literary novels about fifty-something English professors having mid-life crises and embarking on torrid affairs with much younger students, but he gossips like a 1950s housewife. “Not only did they hire somebody to whip our flabby financials into shape, but that somebody is Harry’s son.”
I turn to him in surprise. “Bryce?” I’ve met Harry’s son a few times over the years, and he’s perfectly harmless… and a total meathead. I can’t exactly imagine him burning the midnight oil over financial statements in an effort to save his father’s company—or, really, doing anything besides playing squash and spending Harry’s money.
David shakes his head. “His other son. Liam.”
That
gets my attention. “I didn’t know he had another son,” I admit.
“Hardly anyone does.” Rachel lowers her voice to a whisper. “And that’s because he didn’t have him with Celeste.”
Wait, what?
“Harry had an affair?” I blurt loudly, then clap a hand over my own mouth and look around. “When? Why? Who?”
“A one-night stand,” David reports excitedly. “With the stripper at his bachelor party. Right before his wedding.”
“Seriously?” My mouth is gaping, I can’t help it, and not just at the complete and total soul-killing grossness of imagining Harry—with his tweed jackets and penchant for expensive red wine—flinging dollar bills around at some seedy gentleman’s club. He was always utterly devoted to Celeste. It doesn’t make any sense. “I mean—seriously?”
“Seriously.” David nods, unable to keep the thrill of a juicy bit of gossip
out of his voice.
“Apparently Harry always took care of him,” Rachel continues. “Put him and his mom up in some big house out in California. Paid for private school, all of that. But he’s definitely the black sheep of the family. Nobody’s been rolling out the welcome mat for the guy.”
“Until now,” David says darkly. “Desperate times, I suppose.”
“He’s here to trim the fat,” Rachel tells me.
“The fat, in this case, being us?” The hits just keep on coming. I shake my head. “It’s that bad?”
“Worse,” Rachel says. “According to Steve in accounting, at least.” I raise my eyebrows—since when is she hanging out with Steve in accounting?—and she shrugs. “I let him buy me boneless buffalo wings the other night. Apparently the whole company is wildly inefficient.”
“Well, we knew that much,” I point out. “I mean, it’s not like Harry was exactly running a tight ship around here.”
“It’s worse than that,” Rachel says. “Apparently he was way overextended. Like, we’re talking millions of dollars in debt.”
I let out a low whistle, dread blooming in my chest like a late-summer flower. For weeks it’s felt like we’ve been in a holding pattern around the office, waiting to see what Harry’s passing meant for the company. But now that I know… I almost wish I didn’t. “Yikes.”
“That’s an understatement.” David sighs. “Come on,” he says, nodding toward the conference room. “Time to meet the executioner.”
I grimace before grabbing my coffee cup and following him down the hallway, lost in my own shock over the revelations about Harry’s infidelity—and Sterling’s apparently uncertain future. I take my usual seat with the rest of the editorial department at the far side of the conference table—then glance up at the front of the room and almost drop my coffee cup.
Because standing next to Celeste beside the projection screen, Powerpoint clicker in hand, is…
Handsome Stranger?
“Oh my god,” I blurt, unable to control myself.
“What’s wrong?” David asks, just as Handsome Stranger looks up in my direction at the sound of my distress. I have to admit, I’m expecting a smile, some version of the sheepish acknowledgement I’m sure is written all over my face—hey there, what a surprise, how have you been since we last groped each other?—but his expression is stony. In fact, he barely even makes eye contact. If it wasn’t for the Technicolor memory of his tongue in my mouth not twelve short hours ago, I might think I had the wrong person entirely.
Well! I square my shoulders, sitting up a bit straighter. Fine then. If that’s how he wants to play this, that’s his business.
It was only the best random make-out of my entire life.
“Eliza?” David asks again, and I’m about to make something up when Handsome Stranger clears his throat up at the front of the room, calling us all to attention.
“Good morning,” he says. “I’m Liam Sterling. And I hope everyone is ready to work.”
The meeting feels like it goes on forever, Liam clicking through an excruciatingly dry slide presentation which basically boils down to: profits: good. This company’s financial situation: bad. Once it finally wraps up I basically hip-check the entire production department in my mad dash to get out of the room.
I flee to my office, shutting the door behind me and clunking the back of my head against it, not gently. What am I going to do? And how have I not already acquired a self-help book on how to deal with your sexy middle-of-the street make-out partner turning out to be your new boss?
Enough, Eliza, I remind myself firmly. You’re an adult.
You’re a professional.
You can handle this.
Right?
Best to confront this situation head-on, I decide, congratulating myself on my own maturity. I take a deep breath, wipe my sweaty palms on my skirt, and head down the hall.
I’ve spent a lot of time in Harry’s office over the past few years, asking for career advice, talking through editorial strategy, and listening to a treasure trove of old publishing war stories. It’s strange—to say the least—to see someone else sitting behind his massive mahogany desk.
Especially someone who looks a whole lot hotter in a suit than Harry ever did.
What was I saying about being a professional, again?
“Ah, hi,” I say, knocking gently on the open door. “I don’t think we were ever properly introduced. I’m Eliza.” I offer him a smile, which goes resolutely unreturned. “Do you have a minute to talk?”
To say Liam doesn’t look thrilled to see me would be an understatement. “I have one minute, yes,” he informs me, and then pointedly sets the timer on his phone. “Go ahead.”
Is this guy for real? I shake my head but push forward, resolute. “I just wanted to clear the air,” I begin, trying to sound more confident than I feel at this particular moment. “If we’re going to be working together. I mean, obviously when we met last night I didn’t know who you were, or I would never have…” I trail off, waving my hand vaguely in a way that’s meant to convey let you kiss the heck out of me. “I just wanted to let you know that as far as I’m concerned, it never happened.”
“Well, of course it happened,” Liam says, looking at me strangely. “But there’s no reason for it to change anything about our working relationship. It was a… error on both our parts, clearly.”
Didn’t feel like an error when your hand was on my ass, I think and don’t say. “Of course,” I agree haltingly. “Understood.”
Liam nods briskly. “In any event, the only thing I’ll be judging you on is your author list.”
“I’m sorry.” I tilt my head to the side, not liking the sound of that. “There’s going to be judging?”
“Well, of course,” Liam says, looking pleased with himself. “As I was saying in the meeting this morning, we’re going to need to slim things down considerably around here. And I thought, as a nod to what you all… do here, with books and all, we’d do a Hunger Games theme.”
I almost choke on my tongue. “A what, exactly?”
“The Hunger Games!” he says. “Those are books, aren’t they?”
“They… are,” I agree slowly. “Have you read them?”
Liam frowns. “Well, no,” he admits, “of course not. They’re utter drivel. But I understand the general gist. Bread, circuses. May the odds be in your favor.” He holds up two fingers on his right hand.
“That’s the Boy Scout salute.”
Liam drops his hand. “Oh. Well.” I think he might be blushing. “Either way. I’ll expect you all to bring me your best pitches first thing tomorrow morning.”
“And if you don’t like them?” I press. “You make us all murder each other?”
“What?” Liam looks at me like I’ve completely lost it. “Of course not.” He shrugs lightly. “I’ll let you go, that’s all.”
The timer goes off just then, soft chimes filling the office, and he smiles for the first time all morning. “Look at that,” he says, obviously basking in the glow of his own brutal efficiency. “Time i
s up.”
3
Eliza
“I’m sorry, you did what?” Maddie’s eyes are wide. “With who?”
“Well, to be fair, I didn’t know he was my new boss at the time.” I protest, taking a sip of coffee. We’re seated at a tiny corner table at my favorite breakfast spot in Soho, eating bagels heaped with smoked salmon. “And it doesn’t even matter, because it turns out he’s some kind of corporate robot killing machine.”
“Uh-huh.” Maddie looks at me with the great skepticism of a person who has known me since freshman year of college and is thus completely immune to my BS. It’s hard to fool a friend who’s seen you at your absolute worst—slutty pirate Halloween costume, anyone?—and loves you anyway. “You guys must have had some spark. I mean, yeah, you’re a romantic, but I don’t think of you as a love at first sight kind of girl.”
“Try lust,” I correct. “I guess I thought we had chemistry, in the moment. But now…” I push my bagel away.
“Uh-oh,” Maddie teases. “You’re too worked up even for bagels?”
“He’s making us fight for our authors as part of some ridiculous Hunger Games-themed pitch off,” I tell her miserably. “I was up all night trying to prepare for the damn thing, but I’m worried I just psyched myself out. What if I totally choke and he makes me ditch my entire list?”
“No way,” Maddie shakes her head. “Not going to happen. You’re completely stellar at your job, you have an incredible editorial eye, and even your hot sex robot boss isn’t going to be able to ignore that.”
I laugh so loudly a couple of crusty Upper East Side biddies at a neighboring table shoot me a dirty look. “Now there’s an idea for a steamy romance,” I say. “My Boss Was a Hot Sex Robot.”
“See?” Maddie takes a sip of her iced coffee. “You’re full of good ideas. You’ll have this guy promoting you to senior editor before you can say New York Times bestseller list. And in the meantime…” She pushes the bagel back across the table in my direction. “May the odds be ever in your favor.”
