The Love in Duet Collection, page 66
As we near the entrance to Sunshine Living, she says, “The best thing about being my age is I don’t have to worry about getting knocked up.” She eyes me up and down. “You, on the other hand . . .”
I hold up a stop-sign palm. If she only knew how dating and I have fared. “I’m not involved with anyone. Or dating, even.”
Her sharp gaze says she doesn’t believe me for a second. “Are you sure you don’t have a date tonight? You look different. You’re wearing black. You never wear black. And a little more mascara. Do you have a swipe-right lined up?”
I laugh, shaking my head. Dating is the opposite of what I do with Oliver. “Nope. I’m just meeting a friend after work.”
Skeptically, she regards my skinny jeans, my black boots, and my sweater that . . . Fine, this one is my favorite, and since my blue shirt was unwearable, I had to go home and change after that troublemaker put his arms around me.
“I don’t buy that he’s just a friend,” Roxanne says.
I picture Oliver’s square jaw. His flop of hair. His daring grin. The way he drives me absolutely crazy.
With complete honesty, I answer, “I’ve known him since I was wearing braces. Since I was all elbows and knees, and understanding boys was like learning how to survive on Mars.”
“And now you’re all legs and sass and energy,” she says in a flirty tone.
I shake my head, adamant. “And he’s always dating someone else. Besides, he’s helping me with the paperwork I need for my new venture.”
Her face says she still doubts me. “Is he a dragon?”
That’s a dating term I haven’t heard. “Does that mean he has bad breath?”
She shimmies her hips. “It means he brings the fire in the bedroom.”
A blush creeps across my cheeks and my skin heats as the briefest image of what Oliver might be like in the bedroom flashes before my eyes.
But I give her the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. “I will never know, because he’s just a friend. And he’s my brother’s best friend at that. Ergo, nothing will happen.”
For so many reasons.
“If you say so . . .” Roxanne lets those words trail off into the evening as I say goodbye, heading across town to meet the off-limits dragon.
3
OLIVER
My job boils down to three things: Reassuring. Fighting. Finagling.
I happen to be tops at all three.
Perhaps that sounds cocky.
But as my cousin Jason says, “You can’t be cocky if what you say is true.”
Fine, fine. There are about a million flaws in his logic, as I point out every time, but it’s become our joke.
Today, I’m completely confident as I reassure my newest client. “I’ve got this, Geneva. I’m going to take care of you. This is going to be the partnership you’ve always wanted.”
Seated across from me in my Park Avenue office thirty floors up, the nervous client breathes an audible sigh of relief. “Thank you so much,” she says, her shoulders relaxing. “I had a feeling you would be the right one to call on this deal. And I’m not just saying that because we’re from the same side of the street.”
“Can’t beat Crystal Palace, even the dodgy end,” I say. I grew up in that London neighborhood, where I lived until I was thirteen, and my new client comes from there too.
I tap the top paper in the stack on my desk—a term sheet I’m working on for her. Her ad agency is partnering up with a smaller one for a number of media clients, and my firm is handling the legal issues of the new pairing. Untangling prior contracts, I’ve found a few particularly thorny ones with unfortunate terms. Her last attorney was a selfish prick, adding in layers of unnecessary loopholes that likely just padded his billables. He was also her ex. More proof that exes are douches. “We’ll get this all sorted out,” I tell her, keeping my opinion of her ex to myself.
“Thank you, Oliver.” She smooths a hand over her tight black bun. “It’s been a terrible year, and I want something to go well. I had a very public split recently.” She waves a hand to dismiss her words. “But you don’t need to hear about that.”
“I’m sorry you’ve had a rough go of it,” I say lightly. I did hear of her divorce. Or rather, my Aunt Jane did, and she told me before the appointment. Since I hired her a few months ago, Jane’s job has been not only to staff the reception desk and manage the office, but also to stay abreast of every iota of gossip.
“It’s better now. Or it will be soon,” Geneva says, stiff-upper-lipping it.
“It will be,” I reassure her. I don’t know all of her situation, but I do hope it improves.
“And on that cheery note, I’d better be off,” she says.
I rise, escorting her to the reception area, where Jane beams from her post at the desk. “You already look happier,” Jane tells Geneva. “Like I told you when you arrived, Ollie has a way of setting everyone at ease.”
“Oliver,” I say low, in a friendly warning.
Jane gives us an oops grin. “He’ll always be Ollie to me.”
“Ollie,” Geneva says, laughing. “It’s a very sweet name.”
Sweet.
An adjective no corporate attorney wants assigned to him.
“Would you like Jane to call you a Lyft?” I steer the conversation away from nicknames. “An UberX to whisk you home? Horse-drawn carriage, maybe? On the house.”
Geneva’s lips quirk at the over-the-top suggestion.
“I wasn’t sure ‘on the house’ was in an attorney’s vocabulary.”
“Shh. Don’t tell the bar he said them,” Jane whispers.
“I’ll keep it quiet.” She seems to be enjoying the banter—a good sign for business. “But I must know—does the carriage come with a footman?” she asks with a smile.
That smile is like a signature on the client roster. It tells me she has all the faith in the world in my firm, which is how I want her to feel.
That’s how I want all our clients to feel. Absolutely reassured.
“But of course,” I say, not sure where I’d find a footman but still playing along.
Geneva, though, gestures to the lift. “I like to walk in the spring. But thank you so much. I appreciate it.”
When she leaves, Jane gives me an approving nod. “Try to be a little less charming next time, dear.”
“That would be impossible.”
“I know,” she says with a wink.
“Also, you should try to call me Oliver.”
“I will, Ollie,” she says with a wave.
I return to my office, make a few initial calls to the other attorneys involved in Geneva’s business, then shoot her a quick email letting her know I’ve begun the work. I lean back in my office chair made of old tires. I had my doubts when Jane ordered it—finding recycled replacements is another passion of hers—but the chair is not only kinder to cows than leather, it turns out it’s also pleasant on the arse.
As I gaze out the window, I picture the deal coming together, imagining what it could do for this firm. How it could shoot us to another level, raise our profile, allow us to attract bigger clients and pay our staffers even more. It’s an enticing image, being able to provide for those in my employ while sticking it to her ex.
Well, not directly to her ex.
I simply have zero tolerance for bad legal advice.
And zero tolerance for lateness.
I grab my phone, lock up my office, and head out, chatting on the way with Jane about her weekend plans. No surprises—they involve snuggling cats, gardening, and reading the gossip blogs, much like they always do.
“Thank you again for the job, love.” She plants a kiss on my cheek. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d still be working for that wretched temp agency.”
“What? You didn’t like shuffling papers for bond traders who spent the day shouting into phones when not cursing and punching things?”
“Shockingly, I did not,” she says with a smile.
We say goodbye on the street, and I turn to walk uptown. As I reach the crosswalk, a text pops up.
Logan: Tomorrow night. Paintball. Be ready. I need you operating at 110%.
Oliver: Everything I do is at 110%.
Logan: That’s not what she said.
He rings. I pick up, faking an over-the-top laugh. “Haha. Never heard that from you before.”
“Listen, if you give me low-hanging fruit, I’m going to pluck it. But about paintball—” Logan wastes no time and minces no words. “I’ve got some new strategies to go over. We have to beat those fuckers at Lehman.”
His two speeds: intense and hyperintense. It’s my job to remind him of life’s niceties. “You do know the paintball league events are to raise money for charity, right? Not for obliterating other teams.”
“Yeah, sure, that’s awesome. That’s totally why I do it. But I also have to crush Lehman, and you know why.”
“Fair enough.” I do know he has his reasons. Perfectly valid ones. “But don’t worry. I’m brilliant at paintball, as you know.”
“Humble too.”
“Because humility is the trait you lead with as well?”
He scoffs. “Never. Anyway, I’ll email you and Fitz and the rest of the team the strategy guidelines later. I’m going to the boxing gym now. I’ve got to blow off some steam. Want to join me?”
As I walk up the avenue, I shake my head, though of course he can’t see me. “I know you can risk things like having an eye that looks like a meat pie or a nose that’s out of whack, being an ugly git already, but I can’t take those chances. What with this face and all.” I scrub a hand across my jaw as I stop at Sixtieth Street.
“Right,” he says, the word having about ten syllables. “You don’t want to risk your next appearance on Buzzfeed’s New York’s Most Eligible Bachelors.”
“Of course not. I’m hoping to make it five years in a row.”
“I cannot wait till the day you fall off that list,” he says, and I can hear that he’s practically salivating.
“They say all good things come to an end, but this one seems like it’ll last forever.”
“You’re telling me.”
“In any case, I’m almost at Melt My Heart to meet your sister.”
“Say hi to my twin for me. Also, why don’t you two just—”
A bus rumbles to a stop, the sound drowning out Logan’s words. “Didn’t catch those last few words.”
“Marry her. It’ll be easier.”
“What would be easier? I don’t follow.” My brow furrows. What he said doesn’t compute. There are a million reasons why Summer and I shouldn’t get married. First and foremost, we’re great friends. Second, despite her being quite lovely to look at, I can’t think of her that way. Third, I like having her in my life, not out of it, and since relationships always go belly-up and exes always go rogue, it’s best to keep this one on the level.
“Kidding! I’m kidding,” Logan says. “Just like I was that time I told you to propose when you took her to that asshole’s wedding.” His other line beeps, and he groans.
There’s another reason too. “Let me remind you, your sister is well-known for having the worst taste in men. Just bloody awful, and well, I’m delightful.”
“I beg to differ on your levels of delight. But the devil is calling, so I have to go. It’s my night with Amelia after boxing.”
“Tell Amelia her favorite person will swing by this weekend. We have to catch up on Game of Thrones.”
“You are not showing Game of Thrones to my six-year-old.”
“Sex Education, then? It’s brilliant.”
“Goodbye. The devil waits for no one.” He hangs up to talk to his ex, who is evidence that exes GO wrong.
Tucking the phone away, I head into Melt My Heart to wait for Summer, a woman who fits into a highly specific category among the people in my life. And that is the most important reason we can never be a thing.
Because Summer is a dependable person.
She’s reliable in a world where far too many people aren’t.
And frankly, those are the people you don’t risk losing by messing with a proven formula.
4
SUMMER
Things I love about New York City.
1. The people. New York thrives on a Las Vegas-style buffet of humankind. There’s no type of person you won’t find on the menu here, and it’s awesome. I love talking to strangers, talking to friends, talking to anyone.
2. Central Park, and everything else. You can literally never be bored in New York. If you are bored, you’re boring. There’s always something new, exciting, innovative, or even traditional to participate in. I’m all about participation, so this suits me. Museums, parks, sports—there is a league for everything, a class for anything, and a desire to move, move, move. Plus, there’s that huge oasis in the middle of the city, and I could spend all my days there.
3. Specialty shops. This city is the Land of the Niche, with shops for pickles, for mayonnaise, for pencils, for grilled cheese, and for cookies—like my friend Stella’s cookie shop.
As I head across town to meet Oliver, I make a detour at Stella’s Cookie Shack, since she messaged me earlier asking me to pop in.
With her hair in a messy bun, her purple glasses sliding down her nose, and an apron tied around her neck with an illustration of two cookies high-fiving each other on the front, Stella is a model of charm and efficiency. She slides a box of a dozen cookies to a curly-haired woman, then tells her it’ll be thirty-six dollars.
The customer doesn’t bat an eye. Stella bakes the best cookies on the eastern seaboard, and there’s no reason she shouldn’t charge two arms and two legs for them.
When the woman leaves, Stella shoots me a grin, her brown eyes twinkling from behind her glasses. “Can’t stay away, can you?”
“No one can,” I say, proud of my friend and her business.
Her store opened three months ago to rave reviews. This momentary lull in customers is just lucky for me. In a few minutes, throngs of Manhattanites will pour in here, grabbing cookies for dessert, for a snack, for a meal.
Hell, cookies for anything is my mantra.
“It was a busy day,” she says, then crosses her fingers. “May there be many more.” She gestures to the display case and its mouthwatering array of designer treats. “In the mood for the chef’s choice?”
Setting my reusable drink mug on the counter, I give a crisp nod. “I’ll live my life on the edge. Bring on the mystery cookie.”
She bends down, dips a gloved hand into the shelf, and brandishes a treat. “Try the habanero chocolate chip cookie. I’ve just perfected the recipe, and it has all the zing and all the sweetness.”
I let my tongue hang out, my show of adoration for her talent. “Sounds perfect. But I’ll eat it later. I don’t want to have cookie crumbs all over my face when I see Oliver in a little bit.”
She sets her palms on the counter and stares harshly at me. “One, there are napkins for that. Two, that’s a given. You have to look perfect for Mr. Perfect.”
I wave breezily, making light of her comment. I do like looking good for Oliver, but it’s a “when in Rome” thing. The man always looks good, sounds good, smells good, making a woman want to do the same. “That’s not why I don’t want to eat it now,” I say, defending myself. “I just don’t want to look like a piggy when I see him in”—I stop, check my watch—“about ten minutes.”
Her eyes twinkle with a gotcha. “And counting.” I’ll be hearing someday about how I know in exactly how many minutes I’ll see him. Stella darts out a hand, reaching for my to-go cup. “The usual?”
“Yes, please, Goddess of Cookies and London Fog Lattes,” I answer, grateful for the latte and for moving away from the subject of Oliver.
She fills the cup, sets it down, and adds an extra cookie into the bag. “One for you, one for Ollie. Then you can be piggies together with all your crumbs.”
Amused, I shake my head, dip a hand into my purse, and offer her a ten.
She sneers. “Your money is no good here. Save it for the gym.”
“And that’s exactly what I need it for. I’m meeting with the bank on Monday. Here’s hoping for approval on a loan.” I have my savings for the lease on the space and for equipment, but I need a loan for the finishing touches and some great classes I want to offer. “Roxanne has me thinking that kickboxing would be a terrific addition to the class list.” I can picture it now. A class full of senior citizens learning to punch, kick, and defend themselves. The image fires me up. “What do you think? Kickboxing for seniors? Is that a thumbs-up or a thumbs-down?”
“Big thumbs-up. I’d send my grandpa to that class,” she says. “And that’s why I have all the faith in the world that your loan will come through.”
I segue to a text she sent me earlier. “You said you had something to show me?”
A giddy smile takes over her freckled face. She ducks behind the counter, grabs something from a shelf, then slides a glossy sheet of paper to me.
I arch a brow. “What’s that?”
“It’s from a magazine.”
“Oh, those things that used to be paper, but now are digital?”
“Yes, Miss Sassy Pants. I saw it at the dentist’s office. It’s basically an ad for the magazine’s online sister pub—The Dating Pool. It’s having a really cool contest that you should look into.”
“A dating contest? I don’t think so.” I shake my head so fast my hair whips. “Dating and me—we’re not really simpatico these days. Do I need to remind you of the last guy who ghosted me?”
Stella stares down the bridge of her nose at me. “That’s because you like bad boys.”
“Yes, because they also don’t get in the way of little things like, ya know, goals,” I counter. Bad boys have their place on a modern gal’s dating résumé. She just has to remember the heart can hurt just the same when they show their douche colors. “So, considering I’m waist-deep in opening-a-gym goals, I think I’ll avoid dating contests.”
