by Lee, Nadia
I laugh. She’s always so dramatic.
She tugs me toward another sofa. We sit together.
She cranes her neck, looking behind me. “So… You came alone?”
“Were you expecting someone?” I shoot her a teasing smile. “I have a good friend if you’re looking for a husband. Ticks off all the boxes. Rich. Pretty enough. Educated. Decent personality, too.”
Nate would skin me if he were here. He’s enjoying his bachelorhood too much to settle down. But I know Yuna won’t take my offer seriously.
Sure enough, her cute little face scrunches. “Don’t even start.” She leans closer and lowers her voice. “You see those two women over there?” She gestures surreptitiously.
I follow the line of her hand. Two impeccably dressed Asian women with their black hair pulled back give me polite smiles so identical that it’s almost creepy. Must be Yuna’s entourage.
I turn back to Yuna. “Are they going to report everything I say to your mom?”
“Undoubtedly. Mom says they’re for my ‘safety and comfort,’ but they’re really spies. And they’re perfectly bilingual, with exceptional hearing.”
I bite back a laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind. No state secrets.”
“And no talk of husbands. Mom’s been trying to set me up with a bunch of suitable men.” She rolls her eyes. “Do you know how hard it is to deflect her?”
I can imagine. Yuna’s mom is just like her—a force of nature. It’d be easier to deflect a hurricane.
Yuna straightens. “Besides, I was wondering about the fifty-dollar girl. Ivy said you might bring her.”
My mood darkens a bit. Should’ve expected Ivy to tell Yuna. Those two tell each other everything. “She’s not coming.”
“Why not?”
“She’s busy.” Not technically a lie, because Skittles might really be busy right now.
On Sunday evening. Yeah, right.
“Don’t judge, but the headline was so trashy that I had to click on it,” Yuna says.
Oh, shit. The fucking tabloids.
“I read all about how you went to Maui, and um…”
“And kidnapped the wrong girl,” Tony says dryly.
“Hey, they’re identical twins. And it’s really TJ’s fault. He gave me the wrong twin’s name.”
“Maybe you weren’t specific enough. He’s never made a mistake like that with me,” Tony says.
“Whatever. If I’d gotten any more specific, he’d be walking around with her description etched onto his ass.”
Yuna raises a hand. “I have a feeling about this girl. This is destiny.”
Ah, jeez. I should’ve known Yuna would go into this direction. She’s big on fate, soul mates and all that female stuff.
Tony snorts. “If it’s destiny, he should’ve known which one was the right one.”
“Well, I sort of did.” When I first saw Curie, I didn’t feel the same scalp-prickling sensation I had with Skittles.
“See? Your inevitable fate!” Yuna’s dark eyes are bright with delight.
I roll my eyes. “Destiny” is what brain-dead poets and novelists blabber about. That’s why I couldn’t major in English literature. I could tolerate only so much idiocy. “If it is destiny, she should fall in my lap.” And not after some far-off promotion. Destiny should jump me, legs spread and screaming, “Take me, make me yours!”
Yuna looks at me like I’m an unenlightened cave dweller. “I said destiny, not a free lunch. Heaven has no free lunch.”
What kind of heaven has no freebies? “Then what’s the difference between heaven and hell?”
“In heaven, you get to eat your cake after you earn it. In hell, you get nothing.”
“Riiiiight.”
“Work for this girl!” Yuna says. “Then you can marry and give me another nephew and niece to spoil.”
Holy mother of God. I almost choke over her enthusiasm. Babies? Yuna’s already counting babies? “Do you have names picked out for them, too?”
“Do you want some help? But your wife might feel strange about that.”
I cover my face with my hands. But my head—that fucking traitor—is imagining Skittles in a gorgeous white wedding gown…and holding a baby. Well, not at the same time, obviously. And the baby has her eyes and my hair. Instead of making me shudder and want to throw up, the idea is weirdly warming.
Must be a mild fever. Or maybe I’m a little dehydrated.
“I’m just kidding,” Yuna says. “But oooh, guess what I brought?” She turns to Ivy and Tony. “I went baby shopping and found the most adorable onesies…”
Chapter Eighteen
Pascal
All Saturday evening and Sunday, I felt like a jerk for not calling or texting back. It was a weird sensation, and it kept me restless. How do guys manage it?
On Monday morning, I tell myself I’ve been busy thinking about what Court said—about somebody sabotaging me. But for four years? I just can’t think of anybody who could’ve done it for that long without me noticing.
After the morning meeting, I notice a text from Curie. What’s she doing with her phone rather than enjoying her honeymoon? She still has almost a week left.
You’ve been holding out on me!
I cock an eyebrow. How so?
I saw Mom’s post. Your man sent her flowers.
He brought them on Saturday when he came for dinner.
Ha! Nope. See?
She sends me a screenshot of Mom’s Facebook post. A picture of daisies and a dog biscuit. Mom captioned it, “Sweet surprise this morning. My daughter’s date sent them to me, thanking me for the delightful dinner. I love it when people appreciate my cooking!” It’s followed by a bunch of hearts.
Totally like her to get excited about stuff like that, I think fondly. She loves her little herb garden in the back, but she also adores flowers of all types.
It’s a nice, unexpected gesture. I mean, some of my exes tried giving flowers to Mom to suck up to my parents. But the treat for Nijinsky? That’s a first. And it makes the gesture even more genuine and lovely.
I start to type a response to Curie, but the arrival of calla lilies at my desk interrupts me. The blossoms are large and gorgeous, the fragrance strong and delightful.
Pleasure unfurls. There’s part of me that says I should be annoyed that Court is ignoring my no-dating-until-promotion rule, but somehow I can’t muster the energy. The flowers are just too pretty, and I’ve never gotten anything like them at work.
“Hot damn.” Megumi pushes her nose into one of the blossoms. “What did Tom do?”
“Ha.” Tom bought me flowers once, from the closest grocery store to my apartment because he forgot my birthday. “Tom and I are history. Been that way for a while now.”
“Then who?”
I pluck the card before she can. It merely reads: Court.
Most men would add something to focus on the fact that they sent the flowers. But not him. Confidence much?
The self-assurance makes me a little hot.
“Who is it?” Megumi demands.
“Somebody I met.” I shrug with a nonchalance I don’t feel and stick the card in my purse, and then my purse into the bottom drawer, which I lock again. I don’t trust someone as nosy as Megumi not to read it otherwise. Megumi is a surprising mix of discretion and gossip. The problem is that I never know which way she’s going to go.
My phone buzzes. It’s Curie again.
What stories are you coming up with to cover it up? You know you can’t keep a secret from me for long, don’t you?
Of course not. I wouldn’t even think to try. Besides, Curie definitely deserves some explanation, because she is not only my twin, but an unintended victim of my one-night stand with Court. I still feel terrible about that, even though she told me it was no big deal before leaving for the honeymoon. But first, time to set her straight about this “your man” stuff.
Dad invited him over. Mom cooked pot roast. He loved it, and she packed him some to tak
e home. He’s just thanking her for that. It’s nothing serious.
The calla lilies on my desk chant, “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” in what I imagine to be an angelic choir of tiny flower voices.
It’s totally serious. Joe didn’t send flowers to Mom until he knew he wanted her to be his mother-in-law.
Shock twists in my throat until I can’t breathe. Court is NOT trying to propose to me, if that’s what you’re saying. Marriage has made you crazy.
Mark my words. Whatever the history between the two of you, Dad’s going to approve of him because he’s making all the right moves. You know Dad wants you to settle down, too.
He just wants grandkids, I text back quickly. It’s so like Curie to think everyone wants love and family and all that because she wants those too. Besides, it’s Curie Dad wanted to see settled down, not me. He knows about my career ambitions—to make a name for myself and more.
Bet he does, but if he approves of Court, it won’t matter about the no-relationship rule. He owns SFG. He can override it, if such a thing really exists.
The skepticism is so palpable that even I’m starting to doubt my own conclusion. That’s Curie’s superpower—making people see things her way. She probably wins all her fights with Joe, too.
We’ll see, I text. Trying to argue with a supervillain is useless.
I put away my phone, then stare at the flowers. There’s no place to hide them, and no way I can throw them away.
Pretend they aren’t here. Then take them home. If anybody asks, I’ll say they’re from a friend I did a favor for. And later today, I’ll text Court and ask him not to send anything else to work.
My mind made up, I set the vase just so on my desk and spend the next few hours wrapping up calculations for the projection I’ve been working on.
Dad stops by my desk.
“Got any plans?” he asks. “If not, why don’t we have lunch?”
I look up him and blink a few times. In all my years working at the firm, he’s never asked me to lunch. Is this about the promotion? Or the idea I proposed last week? Maybe he mulled it over and decided it has some merit.
“Sure.” I hit the save button on the Excel spreadsheet I’ve been updating.
He tilts his chin at the calla lilies. “Nice flowers.”
Stick to the plan, Pascal. I paste on a smile. “Thanks.”
“From Court?”
I wish I could demur the way I did with Megumi, but it’s my dad. He knows me too well to be fooled. “Yeah. To thank me for the dinner on Saturday.” I take the purse out of the bottom drawer. As long as I act super casually, he won’t see anything. People give flowers to each other all the time, don’t they?
“Huh. Your mom’s the one who cooked.”
He has to be so literal. “I brought the pie. He sent something to Mom and Nijinsky separately.”
“What did Nijinsky do?”
“Be cute?” A thought strikes me. “Did he send you something, too?”
“Men don’t send men flowers.” There’s a calculation taking place in his dark eyes. And it isn’t reassuring. At all.
I stand up.
Just then, Court walks in, a laminated VISITOR tag around his neck. I pause and stare, suddenly hyperaware. All eyes—female and male—swing toward him. He’s impossible to ignore. His gait is unhurried, like a man used to having the world wait for him. There’s a sense of deep and calm satisfaction and confidence in his eyes and smile that say he’s assured of his place and position and wealth. He’s dressed in a simple blue shirt, slacks and polished loafers, but commands more attention than the asshole VP behind him in a thousand-dollar suit.
The butterflies from Z are back in my belly, fluttering like mad. And I can’t seem to stop the happiness from bubbling within. Oh God. I have it bad.
“Hi, Steve.” Although Court greets my dad, he stands next to me, making clear the real reason he’s here.
Crap. If I will him to compliment my pie, is he going to notice and do exactly that? Or is that going to deflect off his Teflon brain?
Dad smiles warmly. “Hello, Court.”
“Hi, I’m just about to go out for lunch with my dad,” I say quickly, so grateful Dad wants to eat with me.
“Oh. I was hoping to steal you away for lunch,” Court says with a small frown.
“Maybe next time—”
“We can always do it tomorrow,” Dad says, then turns to Court. “She usually gets a little over an hour off.”
My jaw slackens. A little over an hour? Since when?
“But you can take some extra time if you want.” Dad’s voice couldn’t be warmer or more paternal. He has never been this this proud or happy, even when I graduated summa cum laude from the University of Chicago. “You’ve earned some comp time.”
Comp time? We have that at SFG?
“Great, but I can’t let her spend her comp time on me.” Court smiles. “I’ll bring her back in an hour.”
Dad beams the delighted dad smile he usually reserves for Curie and Joe. He doesn’t think Court and I are anything, does he? Court didn’t even kiss me goodnight on Saturday.
“Have fun, you two.” He waves us off with an indulgent look.
Court puts a hand at the small of my back and leads me out. And I go along, since that’s better than being on the receiving end of Dad’s weird…expectant look. Court’s touch is firm but gentle. His palm tingles against my skin through the bright green dress I’m wearing, just like that night at the club and the Aylster Hotel afterward. My coworkers stare, and I see admiration and envy in some of the women’s eyes. I feel like the hottest thing in the world…but a small sense of hypocritical shame wriggles inside me. After all, I’ve been telling him we shouldn’t be seen together for the sake of my career. And I wasn’t kidding about the promotion being important. If I’m passed over again…
Suddenly, everything inside me starts to deflate.
When we’re inside the elevator, I try to take a step sideways to break the contact, even though my hormones want exactly the opposite.
But he moves with me, so that I’m trapped between him and the wall, like taco filling in a hard shell. I should try to push him away. But instead, I’m inhaling his scent.
He smells good. Indecently so. It’s the kind of scent that can make a woman lose all sense and logic. And I, Pascal Snyder, can’t afford that.
“What did you do to my dad?” I ask him to buy myself some time to reorient. “Jedi mind trick? Vulcan mind meld?”
He laughs. “No.”
“Did you send him something?” Dad said Court didn’t send flowers, but said nothing about anything else—like a bottle of premium liquor.
“Of course not. He’s a guy. Did you like the flowers? They reminded me of you.”
It’s hard to stay focused when he says things like that. His blue gaze is so deep that I feel like I could plunge right in and never come out.
“They were all right,” I lie, hoping it’ll discourage him. Those are some incredible flowers. If I act untouched by them, he has no hope of impressing me with any others.
“Next time I’ll send you tulips.”
“Why tulips?” I’ve never received anything other than roses. Bright red roses. Well…until today.
“They’re cheery and colorful. Like you.”
The smile he sends me is entirely too sincere and disarming. I can feel my shields drop despite my best intentions.
“By the way, you don’t really have over an hour for lunch, do you?” he asks.
This must be a new routine. Mr. Astute.
Oh, this isn’t new, my traitorous mind whispers. He was damn astute in bed.
The memory of what happened in the Aylster Hotel breaks through the dam I put up. Sweat mists over my suddenly hot skin, and liquid heat pools between my legs as though he has his mouth on mine, his hands on my breasts and his hard cock rocking against me. Sizzling shivers run down my spine. Closing my eyes, I bite my lower lip so I don’t make an inappropriate nois
e.
“Skittles?”
He really shouldn’t be saying my name in such a low, intimate voice. We’re in an elevator, after all. “Hmm?” And maybe I shouldn’t be responding in such a breathless tone. Or does it matter? We’re the only ones in the elevator.
“The lunch break?”
What’s that again? What about lunch break?
My brain finally pulls itself out of the crazy hormonal haze. Oh crap. The lunch hour.
“No.” The word comes out husky and slightly raspy. Even though he can’t possibly know exactly what was going through my head, my face is burning anyway. I clear my throat, unable to meet his gaze. “I normally take about half an hour or so. And usually at my desk.” So I can stare at charts while nibbling on a sandwich.
“That’s what I thought. And you don’t get comp time.”
“No. There’s no such thing at the firm.” It seriously annoys me that Dad said that. Nobody working in finance gets comp time. Except maybe if you’re working in retail banking.
I steal a glance in Court’s direction. He’s smirking. What’s so amusing?
“So. A fancy lunch is out. How about something simple and quick? Sandwich or a burger good?”
“Yes. Either one.”
He takes me to a burger joint. It’s not fast food, but not anything fancy, either. We have a table waiting for us. Must’ve been reserved.
“Aren’t you presumptuous?” I ask.
“What?”
“How did you know I’d come with you?”
“I didn’t. But if you were busy and couldn’t come, I would’ve come alone.” He shrugs. “Even faced with the harsh reality of a life-ending rejection, I still gotta eat.”
I snort a laugh at his dramatic tone. And to be honest, it’s a good thing he has a reservation. The place is packed.
“What’s the deal? Are the burgers here that good?” I ask after we’re seated.
“Their non-meat burgers are supposed to be good. Want to try one?”
“Non-meat? Like veggie burgers?” I try to hide my wince. Maybe this place has great fries and milkshakes.
“You don’t like the sound of it?”
“I had one once in the college cafeteria. Let’s just say I’m not interested in experiencing that culinary horror ever again.”
