The Love in Duet Collection, page 39
“Seriously. You guys give off that whole we hate each other, yet we can’t stop flirting vibe, and you’ve given that off since the dawn of time.”
A new voice cuts in. “It is kind of wafting off you.” That’s Harper, who’s arrived with Carson out of thin air, it seems, a bakery bag in her hand. I swear the woman can apparate. “Like, it’s so strong you could bottle it, sell it, and make some serious jack.”
Truly jerks her gaze toward Harper. “How did you do that? Just figure out exactly what we were talking about?”
Harper taps her temple. “Women’s intuition.”
“The force runs strong in this one,” Nick says.
Harper gestures wildly to us, the bag flapping around. “Plus, hello. Look at the two of you. I mean, really. It doesn’t actually take any intuition. We’ve had a pool betting on when it would happen.” She leans in to whisper to her husband. “I won. Pay up, sweetie pie. Pay up.”
Nick scoffs but pretends to hand over some money to his wife, who then mimes pocketing it.
“He bet you two would become a couple a year ago,” Harper continues. “I said you were both too stubborn, so I predicted, hmm, right around now as the starting point. But does this mean you’ve finally, officially put us all out of the misery of watching you behave like, well, cats who chase each other into corners but then snuggle up at night?”
“I like cats. Can we get a cat too? I want to name our cat Calvin and Hobbes,” Carson chimes in. “And Malone can give him his shots.”
“We will definitely consider a kitty cat. But can he be Calvin and Hobbes McDoodle? Because that’s a fun name,” Harper says.
“That’s a super-fun name,” Carson says.
“Speaking of Malone,” Harper says, shooting Truly and me one of those purposeful looks that women shoot from their eyes like laser beams. “You know what to do, and like I said the other week, he probably suspects it anyway. He’s kind of smart like that, especially when it comes to, ahem, cat behavior.”
I heave a sigh. “He is. And message received. You guys are probably right.”
“Of course we’re right,” Nick says. “But listen, are you coming to softball practice? Because we’re on our way to the park. My woman and my kids are going to watch me hit home runs because I’m awesome like that.”
“And humble too,” Harper adds, squeezing his arm.
“Yes, I’ll be there shortly,” I say.
They take off, daughter holding her father’s hand, son holding mom’s, while they stroll up the streets of New York on a summer day.
I turn to Truly, the Saturday morning crowds scurrying by. “He’s right.”
“I know.”
“Why don’t we try to talk to your brother later today? I know we haven’t entirely sorted out what this is, but I also think we both know it’s not stopping, and we ought to be honest with him.”
“Because of that whole ‘crazy for you’ thing?”
I smile. “Yes, because of that little part. I’ll invite him to lunch. And we’ll go together.”
But later that morning after we parted, a message from Truly arrives, asking me to meet her first.
43
From: Darren Whitcomb
To: Truly Goodman
Re: Your Proposal
Dear Ms. Goodman,
Thank you so much for the thoughtful and well-researched presentation. It’s clear you devoted a lot of time and insight to your proposal. I wholeheartedly believe your new pub concept will be a tremendous success.
That said, my partners aren’t ready to move forward yet, but we’ll be in touch down the road. Thank you again, and we wish you success in all your endeavors.
All the best,
Darren
From: MixologistExtraordinaire at gmail
To: MixologistExtraordinaire at gmail
Re: Disappointments
Dear Truly “Don’t Let This Get You Down” Goodman,
This is the e-mail I will save. This is what I want to remember. How it feels to try something different.
Because today goes like this:
After I cry pathetic rainfalls of tears that I collect in buckets of misery, I consider calling my brother. Then Charlotte.
They’ve always been my people. They’re the ones I’d turn to.
But it’s a Sunday morning, and Charlotte is with her kids and hubby. My brother is likely busy with Sloane.
I wipe my tears, wash my face, and draw a deep breath.
I review the facts.
So what if I wanted to do a Parisian-themed place more than an English one? So what if he doesn’t want either the English pub or the Paris-type bar? So what? So fucking what?
He’s not the key to my happiness.
I will do what I’ve always done. Solve the problem. Turn down another avenue.
But maybe I don’t have to do it alone. Maybe, just maybe, there’s someone who understands me who I can turn to now.
Yes, I think there is. Time to do things differently.
Xoxo
Truly
44
After softball practice, Malone tells me he’ll meet up with me in thirty minutes, after he runs a quick errand with Sloane. His fiancée waves goodbye and says she’ll see me again soon.
I leave Central Park and head to the diner, prepping along the way, as I do. Walking and thinking, running and thinking, practicing what to say. It’s like a best man’s speech. You put your best foot forward. Be self-deprecating, but also don’t take yourself too seriously. Be honest, but also fun.
I can do this. I can talk to my friend and sort out my feelings for his sister.
I’ll just say something like, I’m crazy for your sister. I’ll treat her well. We’ll make it work. That’s really all there is to it. With my plan ready, I check my phone to make sure there aren’t any last-minute issues with tonight’s wedding.
And nope, all is well.
Perhaps this is the winding down, the beginning of the exit plan.
I’ll finish out this wedding, serve as the groomsman for one of Josh’s skateboarding clients in a couple of weeks, then do one last job that came in a couple of days ago. With that, I should have almost everything I need for Abby. Then, I can devote all my energy to growing the Modern Gentleman.
I spot a message on my phone from Walker that he’ll be at the wedding tonight. That’s a surprise.
Walker: The DJ is sick, so I got the sub call. That’s why I say you should never eat sushi the night before a gig. Bad fish. It’s always the fish.
Jason: “Fish” is a suitable answer for whenever someone asks what went wrong.
Walker: True that. When I see you tonight, should I act like I don’t know you? :)
Jason: Just act like someone who refuses to play Coldplay, and we’ll be all good.
Walker: Check. If you hear their music, consider it a sign of the impending apocalypse.
Jason: Duly noted.
After I send that, a text from Josh pops onto on my screen.
Josh: Hitting the gym this afternoon. Want to meet up? Even though I know it’ll be hard for you to keep up with me. Consider this my charitable act. Walker would be so proud of me.
Jason: Wow. How utterly noble of you. And just for that, I will kick your ass on whatever machine you’re riding.
Josh: Sorry for the slow reply . . . I was swept up in a fit of laughter from your last note.
Jason: Did you forget? Division 1 here.
Josh: Did you forget? Competitive bastard here, like you’ve never seen before.
Jason: See you in a couple of hours, asshole.
Josh: See ya, dickhead.
God, I love my friends. They’re such great assholes, and I fucking adore them for it.
I’m about to close my phone when a new e-mail icon pops up. It’s from Ryder. With a burst of hope—maybe it’s good news about more appearances—I click it open.
Hey. Just want to let you know I don’t actually need you this week. In fact, I’m not sure I’m going to need you on Mondays anymore going forward. Lots of things in play here. I can’t share much info right now. We’ll talk soon.
I reach for the street sign, grabbing hold of the pole.
I can’t walk straight.
I can’t process this shit sandwich of news.
He won’t need me anymore? He won’t need me at all?
Forget running in place. This isn’t even back to square one. This is take-all-the-steps-in-the-infernal-world-back-to-the-swamp-you-came-from news. Do not collect two hundred dollars, do not pass go. Sit in the godforsaken corner like a bad boy.
This is the most important gig I’ve had, and losing it tastes like eating bacon. Like greasy, undercooked pig fat. Disappointment rages inside me, ripping through my body like a virus, infecting my brain, my heart, and every part of me.
As I cross the street, I swallow past the acid in my throat. Is this Valerie’s doing? Did she rat me out?
That can’t be. Yet she is a powerful, strategic woman.
Or is this something else? The inevitability of failure? Perhaps I was never going to get the gig anyway. Maybe it was always going to go to someone else, to Marcus, somebody who sounds just like me who followed my damn advice.
My jaw clenches, and I want to write back and say, WHY???????
But I’m not going to beg. That’s exactly what I advise the men who listen to me to never do—never beg for a thing.
The only acceptable begging is to the gods of baseball, football, hockey, or whatever your respective sport is. Only then may you beg for a victory.
Otherwise, I say never beg a woman. Never beg an employer. And always bow out gracefully.
I reply to Ryder.
I appreciate the heads-up. It has been an absolute pleasure working with you. I hope our paths cross again. All the best, Jason
I send it even as anger lashes at me. While I walk the rest of the way to the diner, I try to pinpoint what went wrong.
When I pass a dry cleaner that also cobbles shoes, tailors dresses, and sells craft soda—but adorns its window now with a going out of business sign—the answer becomes clear. I’m doing too many things. I’m juggling too many plates. I’m ignoring my own tips—I always advise my readers to pace themselves, to pursue balance, to make sure they aren’t spread too thin.
Like me.
I’m distracted, and it’s affecting all my work. It affected me last night when I let that “manners” comment slip in front of Valerie. Troy even noticed that I wasn’t at the top of my game, and that’s a problem. I have another wedding to do tonight, then a handful more, as well as some speeches to write.
I need to finish out the commitment I made to my sister, so when Truly sends me her note, I’m pretty sure what I need to do when I see her too.
As hard as it may be, and as much as it’ll hurt.
I brace myself for the pain. But no pain, no gain. Grit your teeth and suck it up like a man.
45
She’s waiting for me inside a booth, her eyes the darkest shade of midnight blue I’ve ever seen, but there’s a softness in them too. That vulnerability she shares with me.
I can’t let it draw me in. Can’t let it distract me more than it already has.
“Hey,” she says, and the sweetness in her tone nearly does me in. I don’t want sweetness right now. Don’t deserve it, can’t give it, and haven’t a clue what to do with it. I’m a snake, coiled tight, ready to strike at the next thing that shakes my world.
I don’t kiss her hello. I’ll cave if I touch her. I’ll haul her in for a searing kiss to blot out the misery churning in my gut.
“Hi.” It comes out tight, clipped.
The second I sit, she blurts out, “The investment deal fell through.”
I blink in surprise. “It did? Why?”
She takes a fueling breath. “The partners weren’t in love with my concept, I guess. I can’t figure out why. His e-mail was so . . . bland. It was a thanks, but no thanks. And I thought I’d done a great job with the pitch.” She takes a long breath, then holds up her palms, giving a what can you do smile. “That’s how it goes. It happens. Right?”
I blow out a long sigh of frustration, and I’m pretty sure good manners dictate that I ask her how she’s feeling about it, what she wants to do next, but misery loves company, so I serve up my side dish. “I’m in the same boat. My guest spot is gone. Ryder doesn’t need me anymore.”
Her expression transforms in a heartbeat. The sadness vanishes. She’s Fierce Truly now, her eyes narrowed. “Are you serious?”
“Unfortunately, I am.”
“That’s ridiculous. You’re the best thing to happen to that show.” And now she’s Defender Truly, and that’s damn tempting too.
Except temptation put me here, and I’d be wise to remember that. “I appreciate that, but he doesn’t see it that way.”
“He’s wrong.” She stabs the table with her finger. “Dead wrong. You know that, right?”
“No, I don’t know that.” I slump back in the booth, dragging a hand through my hair.
“You should, because you’re terrific.”
“Thanks, but it doesn’t really matter, does it?” I ask, more briskly than I’d like. “And I think what stings the most is I knew I wasn’t getting the full-time gig. I was fine with that, accepted it. But I thought this one was safe. Turns out that’s not the case. Guess I was wrong on that count too.”
“There will be other opportunities, Jason.” She sets her hands on the table, then makes a move like she’s going to reach for mine. But I don’t know what to do with kindness right now. I don’t know that I can handle it.
I keep my hands in my lap.
“Maybe,” I mutter.
“There will be. But I know you wanted this one, I know you were counting on it. I’m sorry.” She sets her hands in her lap, smiling sympathetically, and I hate that. But I also love it. I love it a lot—the way she cares, the way she wants to make me feel better. For a few seconds, I nearly cave. Because it’s comforting to have someone who understands.
I could join her on her side of the booth, kiss her hard, kiss away all my frustration. Hell, I bet we could fuck it away, and I’d be fine.
But the trouble is, I’d be in the same position after a roll in the hay. Besotted with her, instead of work. And I’m pretty damn sure that’s part of the problem.
Rather, that is the problem.
I swallow harshly, scrubbing my hand across the back of my neck. “I’m not at the top of my game. That’s the trouble.” I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the inevitable. “I think that falling in love is absolutely fucking distracting and ruining everything we’ve built.”
“What?” She flinches, shirking back like my statement didn’t compute.
But it makes as much sense as two plus two. This is easy math, even if I don’t like the answer.
“This seems proof of it, don’t you think? Love, feelings, all that stuff—it’s utterly distracting. It’s causing both of us to lose sight of our goals.”
She’s a mixologist—she ought to know. Add love to the cocktail mix of good sex, and what do you get? A drink that makes you lose your mind.
I’ve seen what love leads to. Seen how it makes you a fool. Witnessed how a man can end up with nothing when he chases it.
“It can be distracting, but it can also maybe be something . . .” Her voice rises like she’s waiting for me to fill in the answer. Hoping for me to color it in.
There’s no room in me for vulnerability. Emotions have been my foe, and letting them become a bedfellow was what brought me to the place where my business is falling apart.
She’s still looking, waiting for a word to fill in the blank, and so I give it to her. “Something like a problem. That’s what you were saying? It can be a massive boulder careening toward you, ready to crush you. You take your eye off of responsibilities. Off the prize. You start making mistakes. Don’t you see it? Obviously, it’s happening to both of us. You and your deal, me and my job.”
She’s silent for several long beats.
“Right?” I push.
She purses her lips.
“I mean, what else could it be?”
A long breath, and at last she answers, her voice crisp. “You’re right. We were crazy to think anything else. We should do what we’ve always done—be friends.”
Relief surges through me. “Exactly. That’s what I’m saying. Before we muck that up too. We still have time to go back. And it’ll all be fine. I can focus on business; you can focus on business. That’s what we both wanted to do all along.”
She offers a smile, then says, “I agree.”
Yes, she sees the wisdom of it. She’s a smart woman—I knew she would.
She laughs and waves like she’s dismissing the madness of the last few nights. “You’re so right. Love. Pssh. What is that? Silly distraction.”
“Thank you. I knew you’d feel the same way. Two workaholics, right?” I say with a wry grin.
She nods savagely, biting out a response. “Absolutely.”
“So, listen. I’ll finish paying off my sister’s school. Wrap up my best man jobs, devote more time to the Modern Gentleman. And you can go full speed ahead with finding another investor for the pub. Once we get all that sorted, we’ll see where we are. How’s that sound? Because it sounds fucking brilliant to me.”
She smiles so big and broadly, I bet it hurts. “Yes, that’s obviously the way to go.”
I breathe a massive sigh. “I’m so glad we’re in agreement.”
“Me too.”
The bell above the door rings, and when I jerk my gaze in that direction, Malone’s walking in.
“What should we tell him?”
“The truth. Since we’re not together, it shouldn’t be a big deal.”
“Exactly. No big deal whatsoever.”
“What’s wrong with the two of you? You look like someone told you that you have to eat bacon for the rest of your lives.”
Truly gives a forced laugh. “That does seem like quite a jail sentence.”
