Straight from the Hart

by Tracie Banister

  “And you’re so sure of that because _____?”

  “Jaz loves Jax and only Jax; he’s her ‘destiny’ or so she often says. Like you, she’s a romantic who believes in true love, soulmates, and happily ever afters, so she will be inclined to forgive Jax for his transgression at some point. And fortunately for Jax, he has you, his secret weapon, to help speed that process along.”

  “Secret weapon, huh? I like the sound of that,” I declare before picking up my Yuzu Drop and downing the rest of it. “I just hope I don’t disappoint . . .,” I almost say ‘you,’ but substitute, “anyone.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible. You’ve only ever exceeded my expectations,” Alex tells me very earnestly, and I feel a surge of pride.

  I must be doing something right if my ex is impressed by me, right?

  This potentially warm and fuzzy moment is cut short when our waiter arrives with our lunch. He asks if I’d like a refill on my cocktail, but I decline and request a Perrier as I want to keep my wits about me this afternoon.

  Alex cuts his Thai short rib burger into two portions, then slides his plate across the table, signaling that I should take half, which I do. My lobster burger is smothered in Gruyere and a green chili dressing, which looks and smells amazing, but there’s still one very important element missing.

  “Fries on a lobster burger?” Alex chuckles throatily as he watches me pile the crispy strips of potato atop the lobster. “I can’t take you anywhere.”

  “I don’t care how fancy this place is. A burger needs fries on it,” I proclaim, then squish the toasted sesame seed bun down on top of my creation. “Still want your half?”

  “You’ve made weirder things that tasted good, so why not?” He picks up half of the lobster burger and holding it aloft says, “Bon appétit!”

  Bumping my half of his burger against the one Alex is holding, I repeat the good wish for an enjoyable meal and we both dig in.

  CHAPTER 19

  Heading into this lunch, I feared it was going to be awkward since Alex and I no longer have any common ground other than the task at hand with Jaz, but to my great surprise and relief, the conversation flows very naturally while we eat. We chat about our jobs, share funny stories about our clients (no names, of course!), recommend TV shows we think are binge-worthy, dream out loud about the summer vacations we probably won’t have time to take, and catch up on what our families have been up to.

  Alex laughs so hard he has to put a hand in front of his mouth to keep from spewing his last bite of burger across the table. “Bad in Bed?” he repeats the title of my mother’s work-in-progress in an incredulous tone once he’s lowered his hand. “God love Victoria Hart. The woman never shies away from an embarrassing topic. I can only imagine the types of questions she’ll be getting from people who call into Love Is on the Air once the book is out.”

  With a smirk, I say, “Good thing her show has a broadcast delay. I can’t believe you actually listen to it.”

  He shrugs and steals a fry off my plate since he’s already finished all of his. “I’m in the car a lot with this job and I find talk radio to be more soothing than music. I usually catch part of the Love Is on the Air live show on the way in to work, and one of the reruns in the afternoon when I’m out and about. I’ve gotten some strange looks at stoplights when people have seen me yelling, ‘You’re better than that!’ at my stereo.”

  I chuckle. “I do the same thing. It’s a reflex when you’ve listened to the show for a while.”

  “Is your mom going to start using a different catchphrase when she releases Bad in Bed?”

  “Good question. I don’t know. I suppose the old catchphrase could still work with the subject matter of her new book.” Affecting my mother’s smart, no-nonsense tone, I say, “As long as you allow your wife to emasculate you outside of the bedroom, Gary from Glendale, you’re never going to be able to perform well in it and you’re—”

  “—better than that!” Alex completes the catchphrase with me, and we both chortle.

  “Poor Gary,” Alex sympathizes with the browbeaten, sexually ineffective man I just made up. “He should leave that harpy wife of his.”

  “She might be a harpy because Gary’s such a disappointment as a husband,” I counter.

  “Fair point. Divorce court’s the only answer then.”

  “Dr. Hart would advise therapy.”

  “Not all marriages can, or should, be saved. My sister, Tammy, is a whole new person since she got rid of her deadweight husband.”

  “I never did understand her attraction to Clark. She’s such a go-getter, and he’s just . . .,” I trail off, trying to think of a nice way to categorize the man.

  “. . . a lazy bum,” Alex assists me, not bothering to be nice about it.

  I wince. “Yeah. And Tammy definitely deserved more than she ever got from him. It’s good she finally realized that and moved on.”

  Our waiter appears tableside to ask if we’re through, and we give him the go-ahead to remove our plates. While he’s doing that, I glance over at Jaz whom I’ve been trying to keep a surreptitious eye on throughout lunch.

  “Maybe the Js would benefit from some couples counseling?” I muse after the waiter leaves us.

  “We’re on the clock with this reconciliation, so there really isn’t time for that. Besides, it’s not like they had issues prior to Jax’s cheating that they need to work on. They’ve always been on the same page about money—they both like to spend it; sex—they can’t get enough of each other; and kids—they want two and don’t care about the genders. They get along well with their in-laws, have good communication skills, and are very supportive when it comes to their careers. If it hadn’t been for this little slip-up Jax had with Georgina—”

  “Little slip-up?” I query with a distinct edge to my voice. “He stuck his penis in another woman, which is the ultimate betrayal, and not something that can be easily dismissed or forgiven.”

  “If we were talking about regular people, I’d agree with you, but celebrities have a very different lifestyle than the average Jane and Joe. Actors in particular are separated from their significant others by work for months at a time, so cheating is pretty much inevitable, and allowances have to be made for that.”

  “How jaded this job has made you!” The Alex I knew and loved would have never condoned infidelity no matter what the circumstances. He was always so proud of the fact that his parents had been married for thirty-odd years and neither of them had so much as looked twice at anyone else in all that time.

  “Not jaded, realistic, since my work makes me privy to what really goes on with relationships in this business.”

  I purse my lips with disgust. “The special snowflake mentality so many celebrities have is precisely why they often spin out of control and ruin their lives and careers. I don’t care how rich, famous, attractive, or talented someone is; the rules for being a decent human being should still apply to them, and they should be held accountable when they screw up.”

  “If you feel that way, why are you helping a lowdown dirty cheater like Jax win back the woman he wronged?” Alex asks, leaning forward on his elbows to show how interested he is in my answer.

  Because I was panicked about Quinn’s raid on Straight from the Hart and I really needed a high-profile client like Jax so that I could come out on top of this war she started—not that I’m going to admit any of that to Alex! Besides, it’s not the only reason I took the job.

  “After meeting Jax, it was clear to me that he wasn’t a serial cheater and was truly sorry for what happened with Georgina. He loves his wife, and now I see that the feeling is mutual.” My eyes dart sideways to Jaz’s table again. “She hasn’t eaten one bite of the salad she ordered, she’s only been giving monosyllabic answers to the questions her team’s been directing at her, and she looks like she might burst into tears at any moment. The poor girl is quite obviously miserable and heartsick and would rather be anywhere else but here. I think she’s lost w
ithout Jax and vice versa, and it’s my solemn responsibility as an advocate for true love to bring the two of them back together.” Also I feel like I owe the universe a marriage since Ezekiel and Bree would probably still be happily hitched if I hadn’t introduced Quinn, the temptress, to him.

  “Uh huh.” Alex gives me a searching look as if he knows there’s more going on than I’m saying. “Very noble of you.”

  “Ooooo, it’s happening!” I’m so excited I instinctively grab Alex’s hand. “The waitress is asking everyone at Jaz’s table if they’d like dessert, and she just shook her head no and cast her eyes down.”

  Alex frowns. “That’s bad, isn’t it?

  “No, it’s not bad! It’s precisely what Jax said she would do.” I realize I’m still holding Alex’s hand, which feels deliciously warm and familiar, and I immediately yank my arm back. “Now, we wait and see how she reacts to what comes next. I love this part!”

  I really do. Other people may get their thrills from jumping out of airplanes or playing the stock market, but my biggest adrenaline rush comes from witnessing the response to one of the romantic surprises I’ve planned.

  Pulling out my phone, I send a quick, two-word text, then drum my fingers impatiently on the table as I wait for the waitress to come back with the desserts for Jaz’s party. When the uniformed girl does return, she’s got a cherry tart with some sorbet for Jaz’s publicist and an apricot floating island for her agent. It appears that Jaz’s manager didn’t order anything sweet, which makes me roll my eyes because it’s totally obvious that this show of solidarity with his client is all part of Nick Delucca’s master plan to woo her away from Jax. Not on my watch, Casanova!

  Finally, when I can’t stand the suspense any longer, the waitress sets down a plate with half a slice of chocolate malted cake topped with a toasted marshmallow frosting in front of Jaz who protests that she didn’t want dessert. The waitress smiles and relays the message, “Your husband said he’ll take half the calories for you. Enjoy!” And no, I can’t read lips, but that’s what I coached the waitress to tell Jaz who stares dumbfounded at the dessert.

  At that precise moment, Jaz receives a text (again, I know this because I orchestrated it). Picking up her phone, she reads the incoming message, and her whole face lights up.

  “She just got Jax’s text and she is beaming,” I report to Alex, feeling very pleased with myself.

  Remember how I advised Jax to do something simple and meaningful to let his wife know how much he cares and misses her? Well, this is it. According to Jax, Jaz loves chocolatey desserts, but refuses to order them at restaurants because she was a chubby kid before sprouting up and she’s paranoid about eating anything that might make her gain weight. Knowing how much she craves chocolate, Jax always orders the dessert for himself, then slides half of it over to Jaz so that they can share the calories and she won’t feel any guilt. The text he sent her is a photo of him sitting in his hotel room, eating his portion of the cake she was just served. I told him not to include any words, simply add some floating hearts to the photo to convey his love and that he’s thinking about her.

  “She’s happy because he sent her a half-piece of cake?” Alex asks, sounding perplexed.

  “It’s their thing, a sweet, romantic gesture that doesn’t seem important to anyone else, but means everything to the people involved, something special that connects them. All couples have a thing, maybe even several of them. We did. Oh, Jaz just ate a bite of the cake and she’s still holding the phone, which means she wants to reply to Jax’s message. Why is she hesitating? Come on, Jaz! Text him. Text him. Text him,” I chant the words, hoping they’ll travel across the restaurant and compel her to acknowledge what Jax did.

  “Our thing was me bringing you a blueberry muffin with cinnamon sugar crumble on top once a month to commemorate the day we met, right?”

  I’m surprised Alex remembered that since it was many years and many girlfriends ago.

  “That was a thing, but not the thing I was thinking of. Dammit,” I crinkle my brow at Jaz’s table, “why won’t she text him back already? Throw him a bone, girl!”

  Pointing at me, Alex says, “I’m the only one who calls you Nessa. That’s definitely a thing.”

  I make a face. “I never really liked it to be honest. Makes me sound like the Loch Ness monster’s girlfriend.”

  “Liar,” he retorts. “You loved that nickname.”

  It wasn’t the nickname so much as the way he always said it in this husky, possessive tone that felt like a caress on bare skin. Shiver.

  “Ha! I’ve got it!” Alex snaps his fingers as a light bulb goes on over his head. “Our thing was the halftime kiss at my soccer games.”

  “Give the man a prize,” I say dryly as a memory of the smooch that started this tradition comes rushing back to me.

  It was the first game of Alex’s I attended a couple of weeks after we started dating. Even though he was playing in an amateur league and his surgically repaired knee wasn’t what it used to be, he still approached the sport like a professional and sincerely loved everything about the game—the physicality, the strategy, the competition, the camaraderie with his teammates (they called themselves the “Strikers”). I really didn’t know much about the sport other than what I’d seen in Bend It Like Beckham, but I certainly enjoyed watching my boyfriend run around, doing fancy footwork, in a sweat-drenched jersey and shorts that showed off his muscular legs. Aside from the very pleasing aesthetics, that particular game did not go well for the Strikers. There were errors made and the other team got a penalty kick that resulted in a goal right before the whistle was blown.

  Alex looked so frustrated and pissed off when he jogged over to the sidelines with the rest of his teammates, and I just wanted to comfort him. So I broke protocol, which says that spectators should not interact with players during a game, and dashed downfield to where the Strikers were toweling off and gulping down bottles of water. Without preamble, I threw my arms around Alex, hugging him tightly while I told him how amazing, impressive, talented, and crazy hot I thought he was. He responded by dipping me back and kissing me hungrily. This PDA earned us rowdy cheers and wolf whistles from his teammates, and Alex was in a much better mood afterward. I returned to my seat, and the Strikers made a huge comeback in the second half, mostly thanks to Alex, who had a fire in his eyes, and scored three goals, including an incredible backheel. (I learned that and many other soccer terms later.)

  Athletes are a superstitious lot, so from that point on, Alex insisted I plant one on him at halftime whenever the Strikers played. He swore I was his lucky charm because the team only lost when I couldn’t be at a game because of work or another obligation. It was probably just a coincidence, but I was nonetheless delighted that my man felt like I was the secret to his sports success, and I never got tired of watching him in his element on the soccer field. I wonder if he’s still playing. I can’t imagine he has time for any leisurely pursuits now that he’s so busy with his high-powered job.

  “I always did say your kisses were magical.” Alex’s words snap me out of my reverie.

  Is it any surprise I was so crazy about him?

  But I’ve had enough of this trip down memory lane, especially since it’s been distracting me from the job I came here to do. “Jaz is done with her cake now, and she’s typing something on her phone, which has got to be a text to Jax. Yes!” Unfortunately, she keeps changing her mind about what she’s writing because she taps out a line or two, then I see her delete it.

  While this is going on, something strange happens. Jaz’s three companions lift up their phones at the exact same moment as if they’ve all received a simultaneous text. Whatever’s in those messages is not good because they’re met with a wince (publicist), scowl (agent), and clenched jaw (manager). Jaz’s team members share a look, which I’m not sure how to interpret. I realize a few seconds later that they were debating who should pass the bad news on to their client. Natalie must be the last one to silen
tly call, “Not it!” because she places a hand on Jaz’s arm and murmurs something to her.

  Jaz’s face instantly crumples, and tears begin to spill from her eyes. Everyone tries to comfort her, but she’s beyond their soothing words and sympathetic arm squeezes. Saying, “I can’t. I can’t,” she tosses her phone down on the table like it’s suddenly emitting a toxic substance, slides her chair back with a screech of metal, and runs away from the table. Naturally, her wannabe rebound guy, Nick, is hot on the bamboo heels of her strappy Cult Gaia sandals.

  “I don’t know what just happened,” I tell Alex, “but it was very upsetting to Jaz because she just had an emotional meltdown and took off.” My phone buzzes, and I retrieve it from my purse to find a text from Carmen.

  ‘NBC just announced Georgina Knight will be on Late Night with Seth Meyers tonight and she’s planning to “tell her side of the story in the recent cheating scandal with Jaxon Reid!!!!!”’

  I groan. This certainly explains Jaz’s hysterical reaction. I’m sure the last thing she wants to hear right now is more details about her husband’s hookup with his co-star, especially when they’re coming straight from the other woman’s mouth.

  “Read it and weep,” I say, sliding my phone over to Alex who turned off his own device when we got to the restaurant. “I need to go after Jaz and see if Nick takes advantage of this.”

  “Shit,” Alex mutters as he scans the text.

  “A great, big, steaming pile,” I concur as I stand and slide the strap of my purse over my shoulder. “Our jobs just got a lot more difficult.”

  With a grimace, Alex hands me back my phone, and I head off in the direction Jaz went.

  CHAPTER 20

  Upon exiting the restaurant, I discover a lovely walkway edged by beds of wildflowers in a riot of bright, springtime colors that runs along the glass-walled edge of the rooftop. So that no one slips and sues there are green carpet runners imprinted with the Waldorf Astoria logo placed at intervals along the walkway, which is concrete but looks like slats of hardwood. I have to maneuver around a pair of leisurely strolling lovebirds, several men in suits who are so busy yakking on their cellphones they’re completely oblivious to their beautiful surroundings, and some pretty young things taking selfies. The latter group inspires me to pull out my own phone. Not that I care about taking photos for Instagram, but I will need an excuse to get close to Jaz and Nick, whom I’ve just spotted down on the far end of the walkway, standing next to the big couch that’s nestled in the corner of the roof.