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.”
“It’s not a dating contest. It’s an essay contest—with prize money. And you’ve always been good at putting your crazy thoughts and wild ideas into writing. Remember the time you convinced the physical therapy company you worked for to institute Happy Heart Friday? You had that whole pitch for a midday walking break laid out beautifully, and they said yes. Boom—happy hearting at Home Health Solutions was born.”
I sigh contentedly at the memory. Too bad Home Health had to cut back last year, a decision that sent me to Sunshine Living. I don’t think Travis would approve stopping work for a walk, let alone see the benefits of disco bingo.
But that’s yet another reason why I’m trying to open the gym.
Hmm . . . That’s not a bad idea. I wiggle a brow at Stella. “What do you think about disco bingo?”
“For your essay?”
I shake my head. “No, for Sunshine Living.”
“Summer, focus. Just read.” Stella stabs the glossy sheet, and I scan it quickly. The theme is “Lessons Learned.” That does sound right up my alley. “Okay, that’s more interesting. I’m intrigued.”
The bell dings above the door, and a squadron of schoolkids rushes in.
“It’s the cookie lady,” the kids shout.
She warbles a songbird hello to the chattering throng, then in a low voice says to me, “You should definitely enter it.”
“Thank you, cookie lady.” I blow her a kiss, tucking the bag of cookies into my purse.
As I open the door, she waves goodbye, calling out, “Feel free to test Law Number Three of Stella’s Theory.”
I shoot her a sharp stare. She simply smiles and returns her focus to the kids, bug-eyed and gaping at the displays of yummy goodness.
I leave, hearing Stella’s voice in my head as I go.
Stella has a theory about men, and it’s based on her three so-called Immutable Laws.
Law Number One: funny men make great lovers.
Law Number Two: funny and smart men make even better lovers.
Law Number Three: good-looking guys make terrible lovers.
The way Stella explains it, being good in bed is work. It requires skills. It demands talent. It calls for an education in the ways of women.
“That’s why beautiful men are boring in the sack,” she explains when called upon. “I know because I conducted a comprehensive study before I married Henry. And my conclusion? The best-looking men waltz through life on their looks. They never have to work to get a woman in bed, so they don’t care about her pleasure. Therefore, you should never go above a five on the looks scale. And that’s Stella’s theory on how to have a happy vagina.”
As I drin
k my latte along the way to the grilled cheese shop, I wonder if Oliver’s ever had to work for it.
With those eyes, that face, and that accent, what are the chances? Women flock to him, especially since he’s on all those most-bangable-in-the-city lists. Several years ago, he went to a few galas and premieres with a TV actress, shooting him straight onto the seen-on-the-arm-of pages of the gossip rags. Since then, he’s been spotted with plenty of well-known women, and, come to think of it, he’s not even on the apps.
Hmm. Maybe he doesn’t have to work for it. I bet they line up at his door. Send him perfumed panties in the mail. Leave keys for their hotels at his reception desk.
My shoulders sag. I bet Oliver’s terrible in the sack.
Dreadful.
I bet he kisses like a bore, bangs like a jackhammer, and licks like he’s painting a house.
Then I berate myself for thinking about Oliver’s prowess or lack thereof. Who cares if Chantal the heiress, or Dardania the TV lawyer, or Angelique the model ring him up for dates? Who cares if he takes women to O-town or not? That has no bearing on our friendship.
And that’s what we are. I’ve known the man since we were fourteen, when my mom drove him, Logan, and me to school nearly every day.
I’ve known him since his sister and I helped the boys plan their prom-posals.
I’ve known him since that night a few years ago, when Logan, Stella, Henry, and Oliver took me out for a night on the town to celebrate my recent and nasty breakup. When Douchey Ex himself waltzed into the bar and sauntered over to me, and Oliver pretended to be my new boyfriend.
Draping an arm around me.
Dropping a kiss onto my cheek.
Playing with my hair.
Making me momentarily believe he was.
But that’s just what friends do—help each other out in a pinch.
I push those thoughts out of my mind as I reach Melt My Heart. When I open the door, Oliver stands and flashes me that familiar grin—one that sends an inappropriate tingle across my chest.
Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend (The Guys Who Got Away Book 1) Page 3