by Kendall Ryan
“Be right back,” I say, heading into the private restroom connected to my office.
Once inside, I crumple the sheet and set it on the counter. I quickly slip back into my nude-colored bra, crisp white button-down shirt, and gray tweed pencil skirt. Then I take stock of myself in the mirror, fluffing up my flattened hair and wiping away the smudge of mascara from beneath my right eye.
I take a step back and give myself a once-over.
My shiny dark hair is threaded with golden strands, thanks to regular appointments with my colorist, and my cheeks have a healthy glow. My breasts, while full, aren’t exactly where they’re supposed to be. Gravity has shifted them a couple of inches lower than I would prefer. But I’m relatively fit and take good care of my skin. Thank God for SPF. It’s something, I guess. But even as I look myself over, I noticed that my features look more relaxed than usual. I smile. Maybe Griffin was good for me.
When I step into my office again, Griffin is exactly where I left him.
He turns, a confident smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll bet you have a great view of the sunset from here.”
“Unbelievable, actually.” I wander closer to where he’s standing.
He turns to meet my eyes. “I know a spot with an even better view. How about I take you there sometime?”
Wait. What?
Did this infant just ask me out?
My stomach does a backflip, and for a second, I’m flattered. But the reality of the situation hits me quickly—and hard.
Is he even legal drinking age? Regardless, he’s clearly several years younger than me. If this kid would have been my kryptonite in my twenties, now, in my thirties? He’s jailbait. I don’t know what kind of mommy issues he’s looking to work out, but I don’t have time for any of that bizarre Freudian stuff.
“Oh, uh, you’re kind, and it’s very sweet of you to offer, but that’s not necessary,” I say, uncharacteristically stumbling over my words.
He blinks, and then an amused smile overtakes his face. “Are you single?”
I clear my throat and then lick my lips, which have suddenly gone dry. Maybe that water he suggested is a good idea. “Well . . . yes, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
He takes a step closer and I suck in a desperate breath and wait for whatever this weird feeling in my stomach is to fade. “Come on, you can’t tell me that you’re so out of practice that you can’t tell when a man is asking you out.” There’s a hint of a smile on his full lips.
I stay quiet. This is absolutely none of his business.
“You’re gorgeous,” he says, his voice dropping low, “and you’re obviously very successful. I think we could have some fun. Unless you’re not attracted to me? Is that it?”
Ha! The most devout nun on the planet would be attracted to him. But he’s not my type. I’m looking for someone stable, someone my own age, someone ready for marriage and babies, sooner rather than later. These eggs of mine have an expiration date, a little fact I’m acutely aware of, unfortunately.
“I’m flattered, honestly, but I’m too busy, and too old for a fling with my company birthday present.”
“You sure about that?” he asks, his lips still tilted in a smile.
I nod. “I’m very sure.”
His gaze lingers on my lips as I speak, and my stomach does this weird twisting thing again. And, wow, he smells good. Like fresh laundry and lavender and man.
Since I’m not sure what else to say, I go with the obvious. “You do realize I’m a lawyer, right? Aren’t we supposed to maintain some level of professionalism here?”
“Based on what I’ve seen in this building, you do corporate law. So, unless you’re about to facilitate the acquisition of the company that pays my rent, I think we’re good here.”
I chuckle, taken aback by his awareness of what I do. Something tells me there’s more to him than meets the eye. But that doesn’t mean I’m about to stick around to find out what.
As I watch, he efficiently folds up the table and gathers the discarded sheets.
“If you change your mind, you know where to find me.” He shoots me one last smile, setting his card on my desk before walking out of my office, and lets the frosted glass door shut behind him.
What the hell just happened?
Pushing my fingers through my hair, I sit back down at my desk and desperately try to remember what I’m supposed to be doing. But, honestly? I’m having a little trouble focusing.
Do women in their mid-thirties really get asked out by twenty-something hunks in tight black T-shirts? The longer I try to push it out of my mind, the more the whole thing seems like a weird dream—or a bad porno with me being the lead actress.
But before I can imagine how that particular scenario might play out, my phone beeps once and Sabrina speaks over the intercom.
“Layne, I have Susanna from Fir Industries on line two for you.”
Taking a deep breath, I roll my shoulders and center myself. I need to get back in the zone. I’m a lawyer—a damn good one—and I refuse to let a sexy as hell distraction distract me from what I do best.
“Thanks, Sabrina. I’m ready, you can connect me.”
The rest of the day goes by in a blur of conference calls and contract negotiations, but I’d be lying if I said my thoughts didn’t keep wandering back to that massage. Every time I move my arm to pick up the phone, I get a waft of the lavender-scented body oil he so expertly used, sending me right back to that table.
As I’m packing up my things, Sabrina pokes her head in my doorway, a nosy, sheepish smile on her face.
“So . . . how did it go?”
“The contract is almost finalized. We just have a few more tweaks to make in the morning.”
“We both know I’m not referring to the contract. The hot masseur, how did that go? I’ve heard rumors about the kind of hunks they employ over there, but wow, your guy was something else.”
I blink trying to find the right thing to say without giving too much away. “He was . . . young.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me there wasn’t some part of you that wanted to take him home and show him who’s boss.”
I pause to arch a brow at her.
“With his consent, of course,” she adds quickly.
“Glad to see all that HR training is really taking root.”
She shrugs and crosses her arms. “I know you’re this high-powered businesswoman, and don’t get me wrong, I’m the first to support you being all ethical about how you use your power.”
“Sabrina . . .”
“But you’re still allowed to have some fun, you know.”
I don’t respond, instead giving her a knowing look and slinging the strap of my leather tote over my shoulder. “Good night, Sabrina. I’ll see you at the meeting tomorrow morning.”
“Goodnight, Layne.”
As I walk through the parking lot toward my car, I can’t ignore the nagging feeling that Sabrina has a point. It doesn’t matter if the massage therapist is young, or less than settling-down material. He was freaking hot, and surprisingly smart and kind. Plus, he asked me out, which meant he was into me too.
But just because Mr. Hottie Pants has a secret MILF fantasy doesn’t mean I’m going to abandon my master plan. I know exactly what I’m looking for, and he definitely isn’t it.
3
* * *
LAYNE
Once I’ve pressed SEND on my last email of the day, I check the clock in the bottom corner of my screen. It’s a few minutes after five already.
Shit. I’m going to be late.
After quickly packing my things into my black leather tote bag, I check my reflection in the dark computer screen before leaving. I mastered my everyday lawyer-lady makeup look years ago—a clean, classic, no-fuss eye paired with a natural rosy lip. But lately, I’ve been wondering how well it transitions to the Friday night happy-hour scene.
I fish a slightly deeper red lipstick out of my bag
and tap some onto my lips, blending the pigment with my finger. It doesn’t make a huge difference, but at least it’ll look like I put a little effort into my look.
It’s not until I’m sitting in my car, on my way to meet my friend Kristen for happy hour, that I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s Friday, and I’m sure as hell glad this week is over. Not that it was any crazier than any other week, I’m just thankful for a couple of days to sleep in and regroup. Although, if I’m honest with myself, there’s no way I won’t spend at least three hours a day this weekend catching up on paperwork.
Mostly, I’m excited to see Kristen. We met several years ago at a spin class and instantly hit it off. As a couple of single girls in their twenties trying to make it in Los Angeles, we instantly bonded over the horrors of the LA dating scene and the struggle of trying to fulfill our dreams in this town.
I wouldn’t have made it through my twenties without her, but once I quit my big fancy corporate job and opened my own firm, it became increasingly difficult for us to find the time to get together. To make matters even trickier, just as my schedule began to even itself out, she started a new job as a consultant for a handful of boutique firms downtown, helping them keep up with new trends while still maintaining their faithful clientele. She has an eye for that perfect balance between on trend and classic when it comes to fashion, and has been a godsend as I’ve worked on building my business wardrobe.
At this point, we haven’t seen each other in at least three months, so when she texted me last week to see if I could meet up for happy hour after work today, I jumped at the opportunity. We agreed to meet at our regular spot, a cute, low-lit bar a few blocks from my building where we used to down tequila shots and dance the night away in our twenties. Now in our thirties, we discovered it has a killer happy hour, complete with half-off cocktails and free bowls of popcorn.
By the time I walk through the door, I glance at my phone to check my timing. Five thirty. Lucky for me, Kristen knows my workaholic tendencies, so she won’t be surprised when I show up fifteen minutes late.
I scan the high-top wooden tables, quickly spotting Kristen’s signature auburn curls. She’s tucked them loosely behind her temples with gold bobby pins, coordinating with the small gold hoops hanging from her ears. As always, she looks on trend without being too trendy, her straight-legged light-wash jeans perfectly accentuating her waist, with a black-and-white striped sweater artfully half-tucked into the waistline. Her green eyes light up when she sees me.
I set my tote bag on the table, leaning it against the wall. “Sorry I’m late,” I say, pulling her in for a hug.
“Don’t worry about it. I haven’t been here long.”
She’s lying, based on the fact that all that’s left in her glass are a few cubes of ice and the remnants of a yummy-looking pale pink cocktail, but I’m grateful she’s so patient with me. Something tells me most people wouldn’t normally be quite so willing to wait around for a friend they only see a couple of times a year.
“All right, what are we drinking?”
She orders us a round of grapefruit palomas, and we get straight to catching up.
“So, last time we talked, the dating scene was looking pretty grim. How are things looking now? Have you met anyone interesting?” she asks, resting her elbows on the table and scrunching her freckled nose.
My mind immediately goes to the hot massage therapist from the other day. My birthday present. It’s like the harder I try to stop thinking about him, the more he seems to keep popping up. I keep replaying his attempt to get me to go out with him, and I can’t forget the feeling of my stomach becoming wishy washy every time his penetrating eyes collided with mine.
I’m a thirty-three-year-old woman with everything going for her. You’d think by now, my steamy daydreams would include something more substantial than rippling biceps and the faint outline of washboard abs through a thin cotton T-shirt. I should be weighing a man’s date-ability based on his more grown-up qualities, like the size of his 401k or how often he calls his mother and not on my fantasies of how his fingers would feel on other parts of my body
I push all thoughts of the hottie aside, determined to tuck the whole embarrassing scenario away for good because what could honestly come out of it?
“Ugh, I wish I had something good to report,” I say with a sigh, staring at my straw as I swirl it in the liquid in my glass.
“I’ll bet whatever you have is better than the guy who took me to his ‘favorite bar’ after dinner. It was a strip club.”
“At least he didn’t wait until the third date to tell you that he’s actually a polygamist and already has two wives.”
“You’re kidding me. Two wives? On the third date?” Her tone is filled with outrage.
Sing it, sister.
“Apparently, he wanted to clear his conscience before trying to take me to bed.”
“Wait, isn’t polygamy illegal?”
“Oh, it gets better. He’s not legally married to either of them. They took turns officiating their own ceremony as part of a sacred ritual of love and unity.”
“That’s fucking nuts.”
“He had a tiny man bun. I should have known.”
“A man bun? Oh, Layne, sweetie, why?”
“I’m thirty-three, Kris! If it’s taken me this long to find someone, clearly I need to start casting a wider net.”
“Or maybe you just need to throw the net in a different direction.”
“Listen, if any part of me were attracted to women, I’d already be married with a couple of kids by now.”
We both laugh, and my mind wanders to the man candy again. Something tells me a younger man isn’t what Kristen means by a different direction. But for a moment, I consider telling her about the whole ordeal, from the magic of his hands on my skin to the shock of him asking me out afterward. It was certainly the most interesting thing to happen to me in recent history.
But she launches into one of her latest dating horror stories—a guy who not only insisted on ordering the most expensive bottle of wine on the menu, but also expected her to pay for it—and I decide not to tell her. I can’t quite decide if the whole thing is flattering or embarrassing, and at this point, I don’t want help finding out.
Once she wraps up her story, a waiter comes by to see if we need another round. We’ve downed two bowls of popcorn by this point, but my stomach is still growling. Something tells me that one more drink will go straight to my head, and I have to drive home after this.
“I’m okay,” I say, closing the cocktail menu and glancing at Kristen.
“Me too.” She smiles as we hand the menus to the waiter.
He places our check on the table, and I barely beat her in grabbing it first, quickly slipping him my credit card before she can.
“Too slow, once again,” I tease.
She clucks her tongue and crosses her arms. “Well, that just means I’ll have to pay for takeout at my place. I was thinking Chinese?”
“This is why I love you.”
“Do you think you could give me a ride? My car’s in the shop, so I had to Uber here.”
“Only if you promise we can get at least two orders of spring rolls.”
“The things we do for our friends.” She sighs like it’s some great hardship while I grin at her.
By the time we pull up in front of Kristen’s building, we’ve already placed our order for delivery. She moved into an adorable apartment last year and has spent every waking moment since making it her own. The last time I saw it, she claimed it was still in progress. So now, almost a full year later, I’m excited to see what she’s done with the place.
“Welcome, welcome!” she squeals as we walk through the door, instantly greeted by the subtle yet calming scents of eucalyptus and lavender. We hang our purses on the iron coat rack in the corner, the first stop on the grand tour.
“It smells like a freaking spa in here,” I say, admiring the seascape artwork she has hanging near the entryway.
“Oh, that’s all my baby brother. I bought an aromatherapy machine ages ago but never got around to actually using it. He just graduated from Northwestern and is crashing with me for a few weeks while he looks for his own place.”
I follow her into the kitchen, which isn’t huge, by any means, but a good size for one person. Copper pots hang from a rack on the wall, giving the space a warm, homey vibe. We then move to the living room, with a plush cream couch and a warm sand-colored rug over the hardwood floors. She’s painted the one brick wall the same shade as the couch and strung some cool-looking yarn artwork across it.
The place is perfect for her, both in size and style, and I’m so happy she’s finally living where and how she wants. The only thing that doesn’t quite fit is the smell. The spa vibe fits with her style, but something about it feels a little . . . off.
“They teach the art of essential oils at Northwestern?”
“Not quite,” a male voice answers from around the corner. It’s low and calm, and eerily familiar, but I can’t place where I’ve heard it before.
A tall, dark-haired figure steps forward. I was so busy admiring Kristen’s artistic eye, I didn’t see him when we first walked in.
I turn to apologize for not noticing him sooner, but stop dead in my tracks when I lay eyes on his face. He has greenish-blue eyes, almost turquoise, and brown hair that’s close-cropped on the sides and longer on top. But more than anything, it’s his body I can’t get over—because I’ve spent the past few days fantasizing about it. Even without the black T-shirt, I’d recognize those biceps anywhere.
It’s him. the massage therapist. Here. In Kristen’s apartment.
Fuck.
“Hi, I’m Griffin,” he says, reaching out to shake my hand. “Kristen’s brother.”
Oh. Are we pretending we don’t know each other? Is that what’s happening here?
I close my mouth and twist it into a polite smile, returning his handshake and doing my best not to freak out. Suddenly, I’m overjoyed that I didn’t tell Kristen about the massage. I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but the last thing I was prepared for was to see him again.