That Wild Player, page 5
Sammi raises both eyebrows. “Fancy. Where did you find a decent sushi restaurant that delivers?”
I don’t want to talk about how these nigiri really ended up on my desk, so I sip my coffee. Then, as my gaze falls on the picture again, I seize the topic and turn to Sammi. “Where did you get this?”
“From the company intranet.”
“What?”
“You know. The social forum.”
“Yeah, I know. It was HR’s idea.”
“You mean yours,” Jan says, firm on giving credit where it’s due.
“Yeah, it’s supposed to be a place where people share their personal lives with others in the company.” As a way to foster greater bonding and a sense of community among the workers. This doesn’t really qualify.
Jan cringes. “It was under a new thread, ‘Dry-Humping on the Ninth Floor.’”
I cover my face with a hand. “Oh my God.” Fucking Izzy. We all know who the real dry-humper is at every company function.
“If it makes you feel better, I didn’t think you were dry-humping him,” Sammi says supportively, then ruins it by adding, “Because it looks like you already did him at least once.”
“No.” My denial is immediate and swift.
“There’s no shame in admitting it.”
“I’m going to kill Izzy.”
“I’ll be your alibi,” Jan says.
True friendship. She doesn’t even try to stop me.
“How many people saw this?” I ask, bracing for the tsunami of judgment.
“Two. Actually four—you, me, Jan, Izzy.” Sammi grins. “I happened to be screwing around in there, so the minute it popped up, I hacked into the database, pulled the picture down and corrupted Izzy’s login. She won’t even be able to retrieve her password.” She chortles softly.
I press my lips together. I should remind Sammi about our policy on cybersecurity and how she just violated that in the sneakiest way possible. Then I should tell her she shouldn’t have…and shouldn’t in the future. But all I can manage is: “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Sammi grins, then leans forward. “But now you owe me. So spill. Who is this guy? And more to the point, how hot is he?”
Jan props her chin in a hand and looks at me expectantly. No help from that direction.
I look down at the photo again. CJ’s face is hidden by my hair. Lucky him.
I finish my sushi. “That’s CJ.”
Then I tell them what Alexandra asked me to do.
“Wow, Alexandra the matchmaker! Woohoo!” Sammi says, her eyes bright. “That’s awesome. And you’ll be seeing more of him with the wedding planning and all.”
“We’re not allowed to do interoffice dating.”
“So? He doesn’t work here, does he?” Jan asks.
“If he’s helping out with the marketing campaign, he sort of does.”
She frowns. “I’m sure that doesn’t count.”
“It most definitely does not,” Sammi says. “Let’s have Matt confirm.”
I sigh. As the company’s in-house counsel, Matt would know, but… “That’s not the point.”
Jan blinks. “Why not?”
“What happens when people hook up in the office, and then things don’t work out?” I ask.
Sammi considers for three seconds. “They break up?”
Jan nods her assent.
“Yeah. And then they have an unbelievably awkward office life, which messes up their careers. I’ve heard Mom talk about it. It’s worse if one of them moves on with another coworker.”
“So? How is that relevant to you and CJ?”
“He seems pretty tight with Alexandra. What if he sticks around? What if he decides to work here?”
“Get him to sign an agreement saying he’ll never work here,” Jan says.
She’s been with Matt for too long. Starting to think like a lawyer. “Uh, I don’t think…”
“Don’t you want to get married?” Sammi says.
“I’m looking for a guy I can see myself having a great, loving future with, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to marry, like, tomorrow. I’ve got time.”
“Sure. Of course.” Sammi nods, but her eyes are bright with mischief.
“No shenanigans. No interrogation. And no weird cyberstalking,” I say, raising a finger each time.
“Don’t worry, Ms. HR.” Sammi winks. “I won’t.”
Chapter Eight
CJ
I pull my Ferrari onto Matt’s street, and then into his driveway next to the metallic red BMW there. Most of my attention, though, is on the townhouse next door—the unit where Michelle lives.
She should’ve gotten the chocolate by now. I had it delivered to her place, since another gift at work would be sort of predictable. I haven’t seen her since morning—not by choice—and she hasn’t tried to text me to thank me for lunch. But just knowing she got fed something delicious that I bought is good enough. I’m sure she’ll thank me in person later for both sushi and the chocolate.
It’s tempting to go over—casually, of course—but nah. I’ve done everything I set out to do for the day. What did Dad say? It’s never good to rush.
I climb out of my car, clutching a bottle of excellent burgundy for the dinner Matt’s invited me to. I still can’t believe he not only gave up his apartment in Manhattan but moved to Virginia and got himself a fiancée of all things. Dozens of women tried to get him to commit, but nobody succeeded. Jan must really be special.
Assuming the “romance” lasts between them.
I’m a big skeptic when it comes to long-term commitment because it’s the end of whatever good thing you can have with someone. It acts like a ball and chain to tie you down, leaving you chafing and upset, and usually builds into resentment and anger until one of you wants to murder the other—or at least divorce in the nastiest and ugliest way possible. All you have to do is look at the statistics on failed relationships…or my parents’ marriage.
The really ironic thing about my parents is that they couldn’t have hated each other more while they were married, but as soon as they got divorced, they were fine. Like, scarily amicable. They would’ve been much better off if they’d just hooked up during all those years without the expense and hassle of engagement, marriage and divorce.
Matt opens the door when I knock. “Hey, man. Come on in.”
He looks happy, and the brightness of his smile jumps tenfold when Jan pads out of the kitchen, holding a margarita.
She’s got an odd look, studying me like we’re at a bar or something and she’s trying to decide whether or not to approach. At a bar I’d shoot her one of my killer smiles—I do enjoy female attention, and Jan has blossomed since I saw her last—but this is my best bud’s fiancée. Even if she jumped me buck naked, I’d push her away faster than a vampire bat.
I steal a glance in Matt’s direction, but he doesn’t seem worried, probably because he trusts me. I adhere strictly to the man code. But maybe he’s already reached the point where he just doesn’t care what Jan does… God, should I suggest he cancel the wedding if he feels that way?
Then I remember… Jan is Michelle’s close friend and housemate. No wonder she’s checking me out.
The tension drains. We all go to the kitchen, where I hand Matt the wine I brought.
“Nice stuff,” Matt says, checking the label.
“Got it in Paris.”
“Yeah?” He uncorks it and pours it into a decanter so it can breathe for a bit. A subtle scent of oak and berries wafts up.
Jan texts something on her phone, then chews her lower lip. “Um. How long do you plan to stay in the area?” she asks, looking up.
Matt groans softly. I give him a look, but answer the question. “Not sure yet.”
She taps something into the phone. “How about…do you plan to…” Her face turns redder than the lipstick on Michelle’s mouth today. “Oh my God.”
“What?”
Matt rolls his eyes then takes the phone from her hand. “Do you plan to marry? If so, how soon? What’s your type?” he reads, his eyes on the screen. “Do you have any diseases? Specifically, any STDs? Family history of medical issues?”
“What?”
Matt shakes his head with an indulgent smile. “It’s Sammi.”
Right. The black-haired one from last night.
He adds, “When she’s on a roll, she’s worse than a DA trying to break a hostile witness.”
“Oh, geez.”
“At least she didn’t ask you about arrests or criminal background.”
“That’s probably coming,” Jan mumbles, then takes two big gulps of her margarita.
“Seriously?” I can’t decide between laughter and dismay. I suppose it’s cute Michelle’s trying to get to know me through her friends…although she could just ask directly. I’m not the type to withhold information. Being against lifelong commitment doesn’t mean lying. Full disclosure is critical in a good hookup. “Why doesn’t Sammi just ask me herself?”
“She’s out of town this weekend with Luke. Otherwise, believe me, she would.”
We move to the living room, which has a huge window. I almost spit my wine as I see Michelle leaving her place, her thick brown waves of hair bouncing around and gorgeous, mouth-watering curves in a scarlet micromini dress. “Where is she going in that?”
Jan glances out. “Work.”
“Work?” It’s Friday evening.
“She moonlights as a honeypot for a local PI, nabbing cheaters left and right. She’s very good at it.” Jan shrugs. “Been doing it for months now.”
Grinning like mad is probably not the best response here, but I can’t help myself. Michelle and I are absolutely on the same page when it comes to relationships.
Since she might not have the time to thank me for lunch and chocolate tonight, I need to come up with another move to ensure she and I get to spend some quality time tomorrow.
Chapter Nine
Michelle
When I open my eyes, the bedside clock says it’s exactly nine thirty a.m. If I want to make it to Saturday brunch with Mom and Dad, I’d better hurry.
They didn’t invite me over a week ahead of time like usual, but Dad texted me last night. I take extra care to look nice. I do every time I see Mom. It always feels like I need to present my best possible side so she’ll be reassured I’m not a total failure.
When I get downstairs, made up and in a casual teal top, denim miniskirt and sling-backs, I spot the box of dark chocolates from Switzerland on the kitchen counter. CJ sent them yesterday. The gift came with a thicker chain around it than the sushi, but I couldn’t bring myself to reject European chocolate. Such a treat.
I pop one into my mouth and close my eyes as velvety bitter-sweetness melts on my tongue. This is…oooh, yeah…at least as good as a vibrator orgasm. Wouldn’t a man who knows such excellent sushi and chocolate be excellent in bed as well? It’d be a shame if someone with such discriminating taste were lacking in that department. Oh, and I mustn’t forget his erection—sizable and hard as hell. Actually, I think it’s the biggest I’ve ever felt. I know a penis is basically as good as its moves, but surely size and hardness matter, maybe…fifty percent?
Sighing softly, I make a fresh pot of coffee and dump it into a travel mug so I can sip it on the way to my parents’ place. Mom is a divorce attorney, and Dad’s a PI. Despite his dream of doing more interesting surveillance work, his bread and butter is catching cheaters. Mom explained cheaters are at a unique disadvantage during divorce proceedings.
Despite their financial success, they live in a home they bought twenty years ago in Arlington. It’s a three-story house with a small yard, a detached two-car garage and lots of windows and hardwood flooring. My parents don’t have time to take care of the place, so they have a lawn guy and a house cleaner come every two weeks. I don’t ever remember the house being less than immaculate, always ready for a showing. Someone also comes over to decorate it for all the major holidays. It was the envy of every mom in my school, all the way up through high school graduation.
It smells like freshly baked cookies as I step inside. Mom must be in one of those moods. Every so often, she feels the need to be extra domestic, which means she bakes more cookies and pies than anybody can possibly eat. Instead of giving them away, she throws out whatever’s left after twenty-four hours. Dad never says a word about her wasteful habits.
Which just goes to show why their marriage is solid. They accommodate each other’s eccentricities.
“Mom, Dad!” I call out.
Dad comes out of the living room. The hair at his temples has a silver glint, but it makes him appear even more dashing with his long mane pulled into a ponytail. A brand-new Yankees shirt hangs over his rangy frame, and he’s paired his old home team T-shirt with denim shorts so worn they’re basically white now. He refuses to throw them out, even though Mom can’t stand the sight of them. He gives me a hug. “There you are. Your mother’s just finished her third batch of cookies.”
“Third? Did she lose a motion to dismiss or something?”
He shrugs. “You know she doesn’t talk about her cases.”
I lay a hand on his forearm. “Let me go see.”
Mom’s in the kitchen, placing a baking sheet on the counter. Despite the fact that she’s in her fifties, she’s still gorgeous, with lustrous honey-brown hair and wide-set hazel eyes. At the moment, she doesn’t look anything like a legal shark with her hair pulled into a messy bun and a spotless pink apron around her yellow summer dress. But even in her simple domestic clothes, she appears impeccable, as though she’s ready to model for some homey magazines for Martha Stewart wannabes. Even the stray strands of hair in her bun look like they’re exactly where they should be, which is a feat I’ve never mastered.
“That’s a lot of cookies. All for me?”
“Of course not. Nobody needs this many calories,” she says, her gaze dropping to my waist and hips.
I ignore it, since I have a date with my tape measure every Sunday morning and know where I’m at, hip-wise. “I’m sure Jan and Sammi won’t mind. The guys, either.”
“True. I forgot about them.” She looks speculatively at an unopened bag of chocolate chips.
“Mom. That’s plenty.” I filch a cookie from the cooling rack, still slightly soft from internal heat. One is safe. Two would earn me a slap on the back of my hand. Mom’s reflexes are faster than a mongoose’s. “So what’s going on?”
“Nothing some sugar can’t fix, dear.” She takes a delicate bite of a cookie. And I know for a fact that it’s the only bite she’s going to have.
Dad comes over to grab one as well, and she actually gives him another. “Think you need an extra,” she says sweetly, her gaze dropping to his still-trim belly.
“Right,” he says awkwardly before shoving an entire cookie into his mouth. A little of the warm chocolate smears his lips.
Mom shoots him a look of mild disapproval before turning to me. “You look pretty chirpy.”
“Why not be chirpy? The weather’s gorgeous and work is going well.” I hand Dad a napkin, then point at the brown streaks on his face.
He sighs and starts wiping the chocolate off, his gaze darting to Mom briefly.
But she’s focused on me now. “That’s good to hear. How’s your dating?”
I make a face as CJ pops into my head. So—don’t—need—that. “Looks like I’m going to be single. Or expand my horizons.”
Her eyes go bright, like a shark scenting blood in water.
Oh, crap.
“You met somebody, didn’t you?”
“Uh…no. Not really.”
“Oh, come on. I can sense it. Do tell.” She gestures regally.
“He and I are professionally involved. We can’t really do anything.”
“Didn’t Jan get engaged to a coworker?”
“That was before our new policy went into effect.
“Is your guy a Harvard-educated lawyer too?”
My stomach clenches, and I inhale deeply. This is the same kind of conversation we always have—my lack of amazing career (HR is a sad dead-end) and my needing a husband who’s better educated and capable of earning a higher income than me if I ever plan to have a decent life. She never, ever says anything overt, but the worried and mildly disappointed looks, the subtle sighs when she thinks I’m not paying attention…they’re more than enough.
“If not, you can always settle for Derek Darling. He’s quite acceptable,” she says.
Derek is one of Jan’s cousins, and he works for Sweet Darlings just like the rest of us. He’s gorgeous, as all the Darlings are, smart, and a complete gentleman. A great combination, except for the fact that I’ve never, ever felt any kind of chemistry with him. Not even static electricity wants to jump our gap. But Mom has high hopes for Derek as my backup because he and I went to a couple of business functions that required a plus-one together.
The doorbell rings. Dad scowls, and I have never been gladder for a door-to-door salesperson. Whatever junk they’re selling, I’m buying some to encourage future visits.
Dad answers it and returns with a huge bouquet of magenta and white orchids that look just like some Phuket wedding photos I liked on our app. A user who had a destination wedding there posted them.
The skin between Mom’s eyebrows scrunches for a fraction of a second, then a smile appears, although for some reason it seems a bit unnatural. But recently she’s been a little tense. “You shouldn’t have…”
“Actually, I didn’t. They, uh, aren’t for you.” Dad clears his throat, shifting his weight, then hands them to me.
“Me?” Why would anybody send anything to me here?
“Go on, see who they’re from,” Mom says.
There’s a card stuck in the middle. I pluck it out and read:
Thinking of you.
–CJ
Wow. I should consider it sort of…overly persistent, but I can’t. They’re just too gorgeous, their scent divine, and too much gooey happiness is welling up inside me. I run my finger over the delicate petals, recalling those amazing beach wedding shots…and feel Mom’s gaze boring into my face.
