Game Changer

by Stewart, Sylvie

I shove the book back in its spot and give up on my mission, but not before covering the spine with a book on Italian cuisine.

  “There.” I turn to go and almost run right into a mannequin. But, of course, it’s not really a mannequin. We’re in a bookstore, for goodness sake.

  “Ms. James, I thought that was you.”

  Elle Valentine stands before me wearing a green halter maxi dress and sky-high strappy sandals. The woman doesn’t even have tan lines on her shoulders. Not that I have too much time to investigate because right behind her is the last man on earth I need to see right now and the one man who can set my stomach dropping with nothing more than a growl.

  Frack. My. Life.

  Despite what’s going on in my belly, I can’t screw this up again. I give myself a mental slap and paste on a smile as I take him in without looking directly at his face. He’s wearing jeans and a navy blue t-shirt, the arm holes straining around his biceps. His dusting of arm hair does nothing to hide the muscular forearms I want to run my fingers over.

  I force myself to blink. “Ms. Valentine.” My voice is almost convincing when I continue, “Mr. McKinley, it’s a pleasure seeing you again.” I resist the urge to pull on my shorts or smooth my halo of frizzed-out hair I earned from my day of walking the streets in the humidity. I can only imagine what they’re thinking looking at me like this. Give a girl some warning, would you?

  Despite my best efforts, my eyes dart up to glance at Angus McKinley’s face and, yup, he’s still stupid-hot. And he’s studying me with a frown.

  “You as well.” Elle smiles at me, unlike her compatriot. Would it kill him to crack a damn smile now and then? “What brings you here?”

  I hold up my loot, only realizing way too late that I just flashed them a cover of Alphas Do It Best: The Sinner’s Collection, complete with a shirtless man-chest and a nice happy trail. Good God, why couldn’t I have put the art book on top? My face immediately heats and I try conjuring up a massive city-wide blackout with no success.

  Elle rescues me and reaffirms her position as my new best friend by putting a hand on Angus’s arm and attempting to draw his attention away from my flaming face. “I dragged Angus here to buy a copy of a new furniture book. One of his chairs is featured.”

  I nod and smile, making the appropriate noises, but I’m all but pinned in place under his grumpy gaze. Intense much? What is he looking at anyway?

  I don’t have time to let him keep intimidating me, though. The chances of randomly running into these two is a gazillion to one, so I need to use this to my advantage.

  I clear my throat, making sure New York Poppy is the one doing the talking. “Well, it must be fate that brought us here. I’m still hoping we can make that interview happen. It would be nice to continue the momentum from the furniture book, don’t you agree?”

  One brow lowers and he watches me some more, those ridiculously penetrating brown orbs searing into me. Gah!

  For the first time, Elle doesn’t look directly at me when she speaks. “Yes, well…”

  King Kong finally lets his eyes fall to the side, having finished with whatever assessment he was making.

  He speaks in a deep rumble. “I’m sure you’ll find someone else.” And, with that, he turns and stalks away, dismissing me like a cat would a person eager for snuggles.

  “I’m… sorry.” Elle smiles weakly and follows in his wake, her perfect butt swaying back and forth as she goes after her moody boyfriend.

  She deserves better than him, not that it’s any of my business.

  I look at my stack of books, not really feeling in the mood for the romance novels anymore. It’s official, I screwed the pooch and screwed him good.

  I slump my way to the checkout and buy my art book before pulling out my phone and turning off the Do Not Disturb. The sooner I face the music, the sooner I can put all my messes behind me and move on.

  “Dammit, sis, why have you been holding out on me?” This is the first thing out of Iris’s mouth.

  I’m standing outside Strand with one hand on the back of my neck and the other holding the phone.

  “Oh, God,” I groan.

  “I swear, you’re the only person I know who would move to New York City and fall in love with a blacksmith… although, I will say I was almost ready to forgive that big sweaty guy for his bad taste in music. That man was scorchin’.”

  I laugh because I can’t do anything else. “Well, you’re in luck then because that big sweaty guy is the blacksmith.”

  “Shut the front door!”

  “Believe me, I wish I could.”

  She misses my sarcasm completely. “Details! I can’t believe you have a hot new boyfriend and you hid him from me.”

  “I hate to burst your bubble, Rissy, but we’re not dating. In fact, we’ve hardly even spoken. And I’m pretty sure he’s dating Charlize Theron. Oh, and he hates me.”

  “Huh? But Bobby Lee—”

  “Called and all but told me to come home and have his babies.”

  “Oh.” She blows out a breath. “So you don’t have a hot new boyfriend?”

  “That would be a no.”

  “Well, that sucks.”

  I have to agree with her on that. “But you know Bobby Lee can never find out. As far as he’s concerned I’ve been swept off my feet by one Angus McKinley.”

  “Believe me, my lips are sealed. I’d be the first to object at the wedding if he ever got you to the altar.”

  “And that’s why I love you.”

  Iris sighs. “But you gotta know he’s not just gonna take this lying down, Poppy.” I might whimper a bit at that, but it’s because I know she’s right. “I mean, Bunny doesn’t know yet, but it’s only a matter of time. And she’s not above gettin’ on a plane to defend her son’s honor and save you from a Yankee.”

  I bite my lip and stomp my foot on the sidewalk. “Dammit all!” My heartburn threatens to kick in, but I’m through letting Bobby Lee influence me in any way, shape, or form. “Since when is a girl not allowed to pick her own blasted boyfriend? Even if he is a giant brute who snarls and broods and hates my guts. If I wanna date a sweaty blacksmith, I’ll damn well date a sweaty blacksmith!”

  I pivot on my rubber soles, intent on getting on with the rest of my friggin’ glorious day as a New York tourist.

  “Damn straight!” Iris shouts in my ear.

  But my feet stick like molasses to the sidewalk and I hardly hear her as my eyes hit a set of muscled arms folded over a broad chest. I don’t even need to look up to know I’ll find a mouth set in a straight line and shrewd brown eyes picking up everything in their domain. But I do anyway, and my instincts are only confirmed. Except, looky there—both eyebrows are arched this time. I’m truly unsure if things could get any worse.

  “Iris, I’m gonna have to call you back.”

  * * *

  It goes without saying that I turned tail and ran after that fiasco. I believe I muttered something along the lines of, “Sorry. Just rehearsing for a play,” as I made my exit—in order to complete my full and utter humiliation.

  I didn’t get another look at his face to confirm it, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t buy my load of bullshit. I can only pray Elle wasn’t a witness, but I was too intent on getting the hell out of there to check.

  One upside to embarrassing the shit out of yourself is that it’s exhausting as hell, so I practically fall into bed when I get back to Kate’s. My sleep is fitful and my dreams are filled with chase scenes where I’m running away from dinosaurs and giant hamburgers. I can only assume the dinosaurs are a metaphor for my own bad choices. The hamburgers must be because I skipped supper.

  I spend Sunday scoping out some cheap odds and ends for my new place and returning calls and texts from home. I let Mama in on the fake-boyfriend secret since she’s on her cruise and won’t have reason to talk to Bunny for weeks. Otherwise I’d be asking her to lie for me and I learned way back that that shit doesn’t fly the time I expected her to cover for me when I
pretended to be sick so I wouldn’t have to dance at my ballet recital. The woman practically shoved me out on stage and I swear hers was the biggest smile in the crowd even though her daughter spent the entire routine scowling at her and missing almost every step. While Mama doesn’t necessarily think Bobby Lee is a bad choice, she trusts me to know my own mind and that’s good enough for me.

  Cookie is another issue altogether, so I just go with the tried and true, “I don’t really feel like talking about it,” and it works like a charm. She’s happy to chat about my adventures at work and around town, and she laughs like I knew she would when I tell her New Yorkers think oxtails are gourmet.

  By the time I hang up the phone for the final time, I’m missing home like crazy and wishing I were back in the yellow bedroom at the Violette Inn or fixing supper with Cookie while she gossips about her weekly ladies’ lunch and tells me I need to eat more.

  It’s not that I don’t think I can cut it in New York; I know I can—just behind the scenes instead of sticking my foot in my mouth with local celebrities and super models. Our prototype is gonna blow the socks off the board, I can just feel it.

  But I miss being comfortable in my surroundings. I miss daily hugs and knowing the guy I buy coffee from and chatting about The Good Place with the checkout girl at the market. I miss having a slice of sidewalk to myself. I miss the smell of magnolias and the Spanish moss dripping off the old live oaks. I miss the breeze off the Savannah River and the cemeteries that make me feel like I’m part of history in the making. I took a chance in coming here—a leap of faith, and I can’t give up on that now. I just need to figure out a way to merge old Poppy with New York Poppy, and try not to lose my soul in the process.

  Eight

  “When you find yourself in a pickle, just dill.”

  – Cookie Rutledge

  “Well, well, well.” Naveed leans against my door jamb wearing an electric blue button-down and grey trousers that look like they were tailor-made for him—and they probably were.

  It’s nice of him to come all this way. My temporary office is tucked back in a hallway off the main executive offices and takes a few extra minutes to reach. You have to really want to see me to come hunt me down here. Once the magazine is approved, I’ll move down to the ninth floor where the new design team will be, but most of its future members are still busy working on Warbey’s Home Living and reporting to its creative director who’s retiring in two months. Athena and company thought it best we don’t ruffle any feathers that don’t need ruffling for the time being.

  And given my anxiety about people questioning my qualifications, I’m happy to gain my footing before I storm in and take over as the department head. Of course, the fact that I can play music and take my heels off in my hidden quarters makes them even better.

  Naveed is studying me with his head cocked to the side, not allowing me to get a good read on him so I circle a finger in the air. “What does this mean?”

  He clicks his tongue once and shifts his lips to the side. “I’m not sure yet.”

  “Oookay.” I pretend to ignore him and type on my laptop but I’m really just typing gibberish into the search bar.

  Obviously I haven’t played into whatever scenario he was hoping for because he caves right away. “I just got an interesting phone call from one Jonathan Abernathy at McKinley Forge and Design.”

  My gibberish turns to exclamation marks and one long spacebar as I pretend I’m not panicking. “Oh?”

  Naveed slinks up to my desk and shuts my laptop right on my fingers. My eyes dart up to his face.

  “Cut the crap, sister, and tell me how you worked that miracle.”

  This time I’m speechless because I truly don’t know what in the world he means.

  “Don’t play coy with me, Miss Peach.”

  “I… I’m not. I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I pull my fingers out of the computer trap and rest my hands flat on my desk.

  “You got the interview.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes! Wait, how do you not know that?”

  I open my mouth and stammer again before regaining the power of speech. “That’s great. I’m so happy for you. For us.”

  He narrows his eyes at me. “I’ll get the details out of you eventually.” He taps the top of my laptop. “But for now, we’ve got some prep work to do.”

  “I’m sure you do. And, really, I’m ecstatic. I know you’ll do an amazing job.” I lean back in my chair and pretend this news doesn’t make my heart rate kick up a few notches.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, the interview. Wait, what are you talking about?” Am I in the Twilight Zone? Is he on drugs? Can he get me some? Wait, no—terrible idea.

  “The interview, little miss thing. We need to prep you so you can ask the right questions.”

  I’m sure my expression is equal parts befuddlement and horror. “Wh… what do you mean prep me? I’m not going.”

  He laughs and I can’t for the life of me figure out what I’m missing. “You sure as shit are. You’re the one doing the interview.”

  Noooo! “No. No. Why? That doesn’t make any sense.” My voice squeaks.

  “I don’t make the rules, I just follow them. Well, sometimes.” Naveed crosses his arms and I want to throat punch him to get that smug grin off his face. “Angus McKinley, heir to the smoldering crown of Scottish-American hotness, wants you to be the one to interview him or he’s not playing.”

  I open my mouth but the only thing to come out is a whimper which, let’s face it, pretty much sums it all up.

  If I thought it would be easy to talk my way out of this, I obviously underestimated the other players, specifically Naveed and Angus McKinley. Naveed’s response to every one of my protests is an elaborate mime production involving feigned deafness followed by a dramatic interpretation of me conducting an interview with the big blacksmith. There’s lots of chest beating and eyelash fluttering—I’m assuming I’m the eyelash character.

  At any rate, when he finally decides to use his voice again, it’s to tell me he’s already arranged the time and Angus McKinley is expecting me tomorrow afternoon. Then I’m drilled on the rules of conducting an interview where I’m told in no uncertain terms to never let my eyes waver from my subject, something I’ll never ever ever accomplish in this lifetime or the next. In fact, I’m pretty sure if you look Angus McKinley in the eye for more than five seconds you disintegrate into a pile of ash.

  “Now, remember, if you don’t actively listen to his answers, you won’t know which question to ask next. Do not, under any circumstances, let him think you’re focusing on your next question instead of the answer he’s giving.”

  I honestly can’t believe I’ve agreed to this—not that I have much of a choice. It’s in the best interest of the magazine. In theory, that is. In practice, I might show up and find that I’m the butt of a practical joke and will soon be appearing on a hidden-camera reality show. Anything is in the realm of possibility based on the nature of all my previous encounters with Angus McKinley.

  “Eyes on me!” Naveed snaps his fingers and my gaze shoots back to him. “That’s better. Now, what’s your first question.”

  “Um…” I glance down at the pad of paper in front of me where I’ve jotted down a list of potential questions Naveed suggested, but he snaps his fingers again and I don’t get a chance to pick one. “What made you want to become a blacksmith?”

  Naveed’s mouth splits in a melodramatic yawn. “Borrrring. Try again.”

  He tuts when I try glancing down again and I growl a little at him.

  “That’s good. Use your frustration.”

  I roll my eyes at him but try again. “What is your favorite piece you’ve ever designed?”

  Naveed nods in approval and then drops his voice a dozen octaves. “Well, Ms. James, I’d have to say it’s the bed of nails I sleep on every night.”

  The corner of my mouth hitches without my
permission and I hold Naveed’s gaze.

  “Is that right? And have you always slept on a bed of nails or did you have to work up from a crib of screws as a baby?”

  Naveed’s mouth turns down and he drops both hands to the armrests of his chair. “Nope. Not that I don’t appreciate the nice follow-up question, but you’ll only put him on the defensive if you ask about his family or past. He made it clear he won’t talk about it. Just his work, remember?”

  I sigh, but only because I’m frustrated I messed up again. Honestly, I’m thrilled I won’t have to ask Mr. McKinley anything about the awful events I glimpsed in those articles the other night. I’d feel like I was trying to open a door I have absolutely no business behind. And even more terrifying is the thought that he might actually answer.

  I’m not the type of person who can emotionally detach from heartbreaking circumstances for the sake of professionalism. If I were a real writer and doing an article on orphaned babies, I’d end up with a houseful of poopy diapers in no time flat. Which is why I’m a designer and not a writer. Or a doctor. Or a social worker. Or about ten thousand other things.

  “Right.” I stretch my neck from side to side like I just finished a grueling workout. My eyes go back to Naveed. “Um, what’s the difference in your creative process for furniture design versus your sculptures?”

  Naveed smiles and nods again and I’m disproportionately pleased at his approval. He drops his voice again and says, “I usually design my sculptures in the nude while the furniture requires more of a white t-shirt and ripped Diesel jeans vibe.”

  I slam my hand to the desk. “How do you expect me to take this seriously when you’re acting ridiculous?”

  He tries straightening his features. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.” He clears his throat and takes it down only a couple octaves this time before diving into a more appropriate answer. We continue in this vein for another hour until Naveed checks his watch.

  “Ah.” He springs up from his chair across the desk from me. “I need to fly. Didn’t realize it was so late.”