by Emily Snow
Like Jamie, Bella is a nurse, but that's about the only similarity between the Armstrong twins. I've known them since my family moved to Massachusetts when I was nine, but I've always been closest to Jamie. We bonded right away over a mutual obsession with Hansen (we had the same book bag and lunch box), and the rest is history. After I found out about Tom's infidelity, it was Jamie, and not my mother, who talked me into coming home.
Of course, it hadn't taken much convincing. At the time, I was living in a small studio apartment. I was quickly running out of what little money I had left and being turned down for position after position because my once pristine job history had taken a dive after I left Java Org.
"You never know," I say at last, clearing my throat uncomfortably. I grab my mojito and press the cold rim to my lips. "Baby fever is contagious. Bella will catch it sooner or later."
Jamie murmurs a thanks to the bartender when he delivers her shot of tequila then she turns to me, her brown eyes full of concern. "Since you redirected the conversation, I'm taking it you haven't heard back from anyone else.”
"Zilch.” An image of steely blue eyes and golden, inked skin forces its way into my thoughts. Damn, I hate myself for getting my hopes up. About the job at EXtreme. About Jace giving me a chance to prove myself. About finally being able to move on with my life. “Not even that interview with Jace Exley earlier this week, and—”
Jamie’s eyes bulge. She holds up her hand, takes a moment to catch her breath, then twirls her finger in a backwards motion. "Wait a second, you lost me there. Are you talking about dark hair, blue eyes, British-accent Jace Exley?"
"That’s the one, and I haven’t heard a word back from him.” Saying that aloud pierces the center of my chest. “The British-accent has faded, though.”
"Jesus, wow." Gliding her fingertip around the rim of her shot glass, Jamie tips her head to one side and wrinkles her nose. "What exactly did he interview you for? A pot farm?"
I nearly choke on my drink. "A metal-working shop here in Boston. He's very...." My thoughts wiggle back to his comment about being good with his hands, and I squash the shiver threatening to ripple through me. “He’s very talented.”
Her head tilts even further to the right, and I swear it'll start spinning around at any second. “I bet he is. Did he recognize you?"
I take another drink, nodding as I swallow the watered-down cocktail. Callback or not, it’s still a shock to my system that he knew who I was. Jace had always been popular with girls. I have no doubt the number of women willing to throw themselves at his feet has multiplied over the years. The fact he remembered me, wielder of Brainiac sorcery as he so smoothly pointed out, is bewildering. And depressing since my witchcraft clearly wasn’t enough to get a job offer.
"Nice. So ... is he still ... Jace-y."
"Jace-y?" A smile tickles my lips, the first since I sat down at the bar and ordered my drink. "We're making him an adjective now?"
"I haven't seen the guy in eight or nine years, but yeah.” She fans her face with her hand to make a point and blows out a dramatic breath. "He deserves his own adjective."
"Yes. He's still ... he's very nice to look at."
"Very nice to look at?" She scoffs. "Please, the guy was gorgeous, all capital letters, underlined, bolded, and italicized." She throws back her shot and makes a sour face. "Does he still have all that hair? I still remember that black beanie he wore whenever the weather sucked. Every time he pulled the thing off it was like a damn shampoo commercial."
I offer her a vague shrug. "He cut it." But he still runs his hand through it when he's speaking and witnessing that still drives my pulse from zero to one hundred in three-point-five seconds.
It's almost as if Jamie can read my thoughts. Her dark eyes taper and she drums her fingertips together wickedly. "Aww, you're turning red. I don't think I've seen you blush in years—not even when Bella got strippers for your bachelorette party."
Yes, well, she’s also never seen Jace Exley all grown up and looking like he stepped out of all my lumber-fantasies—complete with tattoos and facial hair my fingers itched to touch. And that’s exactly why it’s a good thing I didn’t get the job, I tell myself, trying to soothe my ego, which has taken a hit every time I checked my phone over the last few days. Because wanting to stroke the boss’s beard is a hard no.
"Ugh, I can’t believe you didn’t mention you interviewed with him! Did he say when he’d get back to you?"
"By yesterday." This time, I down a hearty gulp of my drink. I sure as hell need it. “I royally screwed up the interview.”
Jamie frowns. "How so?"
"For starters, I was totally thrown off my game when I saw him. Then he asked why I left Java-Org and my dumbass blurted out that Tom cheated on me."
"It’s good you told him the truth." She nudges my shoulder with hers. "Better than let him blindly call the asshole who’ll only feed him half-truths and a load of shit. What Tom’s doing to you is wrong on so many levels.”
I have to agree with her.
On so many levels.
It had taken me six months to figure out why the staff around Java-Org called me the bearded dragon behind my back. And while half that title was thanks to what my ex always referred to as my "overachieving, ball-busting attitude," I soon discovered the other portion of my nickname was due to my husband's extracurricular activity.
The one everyone knew about but me.
The one that ended my marriage.
The same damn secret that made me regret putting my name on a contract that bound me to Tom and his business partner/lover.
After I had found out about the affair, he had suggested marriage counseling. I refused. He asked me if my response would have been different if Shane was a woman, but I told him it wouldn’t have mattered. That it wasn't his sexuality that hurt me but the fact he was a lying cheater and that's why I was done.
He hadn't been pleased with that answer and had retaliated by pointing out that, lying cheater or not, he still owned me for the next year and a half. So, I made a move that was completely uncharacteristic for success-driven, ball-busting Lucy Williams-Duncan.
I walked away from not one but two of my commitments.
Then Tom contacted his attorney and threatened to sue.
And he’s been making my life hell ever since.
Closing my eyes, I push out a hard sigh. "Damned if I say anything, damned if I don't," I mutter. I finish my drink and slide the glass next to Jamie's, shuddering at the resounding clink. "The other night I laid in bed wondering if I shouldn't just suck it up and finish my time."
"You'd hate your life."
Once again, she’s right. I'm a dweller and a worrier—it's my worst habit—so if I weren’t at work hating Tom, I’d toss and turn all night hating my situation. It's a lose-lose scenario, but at least I'll be able to move on. Eventually. When I tell my friend this, she sets her mouth in a harsh line.
"I'm the first person to tell you if I think you're making a mistake, but leaving Tom was a necessity. He tricked you, used the money you both earned to make a name for himself, and now he wants to screw you over? It doesn't work like that." She's slightly winded when she stops preaching and her slim shoulders shake with conviction. "He can find someone else to market his shitty coffee, and I hope that bitch’s name is Karma."
"Hey!"
"Oh come on, the coffee is overpriced and tastes like compost, and you know it. The only reason it's done so well is because you're a marketing genius.”
I laugh bitterly. "Maybe that’s why he's giving me so much shit."
“Look, Luce, I know you're tired of hearing this, but be patient. I know you’re going to get a new job and soon." She sounds like my father for a second, and I feel an ache in my chest just thinking about him. He always knew just the right words to say, always knew just how to calm my worries, and I miss him like crazy. "When you get that job, then you can tell Tom and his over-privileged ass to kiss it.”
"I'll try," I
promise. "Not to tell Tom to kiss it—I'll do that now—but to be patient."
"That's my Lucy." I know the job discussion has finally met its end when her gaze wanders again, this time to a shorter guy with a shock of dyed green hair. He’s good-looking, but he's also a one-eighty from her usual type—tall, dark, and business-suited.
"Seriously?" I tease. “In the mood to try something new?”
"Um, that’s a negative." She groans, waving down the bartender and mouthing a request for our check. "All right, let's get out of here before I make bad choices I'll regret in the morning."
I open my mouth to speak, but she grins and shakes her head.
"Don’t worry, I'm not releasing you to your momma just yet. It's eighties night at The Inferno, and you are going to loosen up with dance and shitty music. Then I'll let you go home to stress and stare at your phone until you fall asleep."
The bartender plunks our bill on the counter between us, and I reach for my wallet. I glower at Jamie, but she purses her lips and gives me a pointed look. "I don't stare at my phone until I fall asleep, thank you very much."
But I do.
I have been that way for months, but the sleeplessness has just gotten worse since I met with Jace earlier this week.
Knowing the night will end with me embarrassing myself through "dance and shitty music," I reluctantly follow Jamie when she leaves the bar a few minutes later.
To make a point, I don't check my messages the entire time I watch Jamie shake her ass to "Video Killed the Radio Star" and "Thriller" and a techno version of Lionel Richie’s “Hello.” I'll never admit it aloud, but she was right—dancing (badly) does take a huge weight off my shoulders, and I'm grinning like a fool by the time her Uber driver picks her up and I'm back in my Jeep. Waiting for the heat to kick in to warm my shivering legs, I find my phone and power it on, ignoring the umpteenth request to download the newest update which will surely crash the thing since that always happens.
I'm about to drop it in the center console and take off toward home, but then a new text alert appears from a number I don't recognize. My heart is in my throat as I scan the tiny print.
10:18 PM: Call me. And please, tend to your box. I'd like to be able to leave you voicemails, Williams.
There's only one person I can think of right off the bat who calls me by my last name, and he’s the same person who's turned me into a Moping Molly all week. My thoughts ping to tousled dark brown hair and piercing blue-gray eyes. "He wants to talk to me. Holy shit, Jamie was right, and now he wants to talk to me!"
"Yes, Williams, I want to talk to you," a low drawl booms from the speaker, and I nearly drop the phone on the floorboard of my Jeep. "Why the fuck would I ask you to call me if I didn't?"
Oh, sweet hell.
At some point, in between reading his text and squealing about said message, I've accidentally returned his call. Now he's on the other end, listening to me go on like an idiot.
I clench my eyes shut in embarrassment. Hesitantly, I raise my phone to my ear, my knuckles grazing my scalding cheeks. "Yes, hi. Jace?" I ask in a gritty voice.
"Jace?" The smartass grin he’s bound to be wearing drips from his tone. "You didn't know it was me? Is there someone else who has you screaming for joy at eleven-thirty on a Friday night? You must be a very busy girl, Ms. Williams."
"I—" But I pause. I flick my gaze down to the dashboard clock then bite the inside of my cheek. Dammit. He sent that text nearly an hour and a half ago. Which, once again proves how much I'm sucking at adulting lately. "I apologize. I had no idea what time it was, and I—"
"Stop saying sorry all the time. It's eleven-thirty, love, not four AM." Heat trickles through my veins. Nobody has ever called me that before—love—and although I’m sure he’s saying it just to try me, it hits me right where it hurts. Deep in the center of my core. I can’t remember the last time a single word did that to me, if it’s ever happened, but it takes me a second to steady myself.
“Still,” I breathe, “it was rude of me to call you so late.” Even if it was an accident.
"My evening is just getting started.” Now, his voice is almost suggestive, and I can imagine him getting dressed for the night. He’ll slide rugged jeans—the kind that are authentically distressed due to hard work and not a fashion trend—over his long legs. Button up some sort of flannel shirt that will make women fantasize about the bronze, sinewy muscles beneath it. I bet his chest is covered in tattoos, just like his arms and neck.
I tug at the neckline of my sweater and shake the image out of my head. "Big plans?”
He laughs. It's a deep rumble. Drawn out. Sexy. "Something like that. Listen, I was calling to offer you the job ... if you're still interested."
If I'm still interested? I'm so interested, I'm practically fist-pumping. Straightening my spine, I take a cleansing breath before I answer in a controlled voice, "Yes, of course. Thank you so much for the opportunity. I'm sure—"
"Yes, yes, I'm sure I will be happy with you, I don't think I'll regret my decision, and I think we'll get along fine—just so long as you learn what I like and don't like. You don't have to keep selling yourself to me. You already have. I've already decided I want you."
"I wasn't selling myself to you,” I say hotly. “I was just stating the facts. I'm excited to join your team, and I think we'll do great things together."
"Great things, hmm?"
"Wonderful, amazing things. By this time next year, we'll have your name out in every corner of the world." I'm breaking rule number one of marketing—big promises—but I don't care. I've seen Jace's work. I can, without a doubt, sell it.
"Right then," he says, his British accent momentarily coming out to play. It’s deliciously lovely, and I feel pathetic admitting to myself how I wish it was so prominent every time he opens his mouth. "You said you couldn’t start until Monday, but I'm meeting with one of my VIPs tomorrow night. I want you there."
There's a forcefulness behind his words that catches my breath and holds it captive for a long pause. He inhales, as if he's preparing to give me an ultimatum, so I hurriedly say, "Yes, of course. Anything you need."
"That's what I like to hear, Lucy." It's the first time he's called me by my first name—other than when he addressed me during my interview—and I'm not sure if I like it. It's almost ... intimate. Given that my thoughts have already strayed to the dark side where he’s concerned, that's not a good thing.
As of a few minutes ago, Jace Exley—former underachiever and object of my school girl fantasies—is my boss.
And boss-related filthiness is at the top rung of unprofessionalism.
"Meet me at the office tomorrow night—say, eightish? No need for fancy dresses or high heels or anything of the sort. And Williams?"
"Yes?" I breathe.
"Clean out your voicemail. I'd like to know you're available to me whenever I’ve a need for you."
"I will," I promise, my voice surprisingly firm despite the dryness in my throat.
He laughs again, that low, sensual rumble that causes a mass of butterflies to race through my chest. The inside of my Jeep is so warm now there’s no longer a need for my coat, but I shiver.
I pray Jace’s laugh won’t be cause for more trembling once I’m in the office.
"I’m going to enjoy this,” he says. “See you tomorrow night."
Enjoy what? Before I can ask, though, there's nothing but silence on the other end, and I'm left staring down at my dark phone screen.
FOUR
LUCY
5:47 PM: You should wear red. And don’t forget to send me a snap when you’re dressed. Holy shit, I still can’t believe you’re working for tall, hot, and British!
Jamie’s text comes through as I sort through unpacked boxes and my closet, searching for something to wear for my first day—well, night—at EXtreme. I promise her I will then toss my phone on my bed. Keeping Jace’s request in mind—no fancy dresses or high heels or anything of the sort—I finally settle fo
r business casual.
I don a fitted black blazer, a white button-down blouse, and slim lipstick red pants that I pair with black ballet flats. Feeling a bit adventurous, I ramble through my vanity drawers until I find the tube of red lipstick my mother gave me a couple of weeks ago at Christmas because the shade name, Saigon, made her think of home.
I take a photo of myself and send it to Jamie on Snapchat—before she texts me about it again, like she’s done three times in the last two hours—then I leave my room and find Mom. She’s in the living room, curled up on the couch with a crochet blanket pulled to her chin as she watches the episode of Dancing with the Stars she missed earlier this week. Mom's got a thing for the Chmerkovskiy brothers—she swears Maks reminds her of my father when he was young, but I don't see the resemblance since Dad was a green-eyed strawberry blond.
She adjusts the volume down a few notches but doesn’t glance up from ogling Maks. "Leaving now?"
"Almost. Have you seen my keys?"
She jabs her finger in the direction of the kitchen. Good grief, I swear she's another twirl and dip away from drooling all over her blanket. "They’re on the microwave. You shouldn't leave your keys and phone all over the house. It's careless.”
I sigh and back away from the doorway. Thankfully, she has her show to keep her occupied, and she probably won't bring up last month when I lost my old phone. If I’m forced to hear about how I came home after a night out with Jamie sans one shoe and my phone one more time, I’ll bang my head against the wall.
"You think red lipstick is good for your first day?" she speaks up when I return to the living room. Now, I have her full attention and her dark eyes appraise every detail of my appearance. “You should wear something plain.”
"Mom, relax." But I silently wonder if she's right. Knowing my luck, Jace’s client is some old guy with an antiquated belief that red lipstick is for loose women and strippers named Velvet. "If my boss thinks it's inappropriate, I'll wipe it off."
Her own lips set in an opposing line. "It might stain.”