“Aimée,” Noel starts to say. He’s not rubbing though, so I kick my feet at him to give him the idea. He gently takes my foot in his hands. “I think you might be a little tipsy.”
I shake my head back and forth so wildly; I can feel my supper start to rebel. “Not tipsy,” I tell him. “I’m drunk. I don’t drink a lot and when I do it’sh never more than a glass.”
“Oh, I see.” He looks like he’s about to stand up, so I dig my heels into his lap and order, “Rub.”
“This is just … rather … I think maybe I should take you home.”
“Why? You gotta bed right here.” I pat the couch sharply like I’m trying to kill bugs. “Don’t wanna go,” I tell him as I pull the blanket up and roll over. “Can’t walk when I’m drunk. I jus’ need a little nap.”
“I don’t know. I think I should really help you home.” He’s a persistent bugger.
“You could but I don’t remember my shtreet number.”
“Surely you know what your apartment building looks like.” He’s rubbing my feet in earnest now.
“Ooooooh, yeah, right there,” I moan loudly. “That’s shoooooo good.”
My brain is kind of floating in the clouds and I’m not sure who he’s talking to, but he says, “Down, boy!” Does he have a dog?
“Wanna rub my back?” I ask while sitting up. I decide it will be easier for him to rub my back if my shirt isn’t on. That, of course, is why I try to take my shirt off. Unfortunately, the motion of sitting up too quickly makes me woozy all over again and the next thing I know …
Chapter Sixteen
Noel
“Oh dear, you appear to be caught in your shirt,” I say, trying to avert my eyes while her arms dangle above her head and her—oh wow, that is an unbelievably sexy bra. It’s lacy and pink and really doesn’t leave much to the imagination. I’m temporarily frozen, just gawking until my frontal lobe kicks in and I realize she needs help.
“I can’t shhee!” she slurs. “Itsablackout.”
“Don’t panic. I can fix it.” Reaching up, I take hold of the bottom of her shirt and do the very last thing I want to—tug it back into place. I should be up for sainthood for this.
Her face is beet red and slightly damp. “Oh, that’s better. Thanks, sexy …” she says, running her fingers over my nose and mouth in a way that I’m sure she thinks is alluring but is actually kind of rough and awkward. “Look at you,” she whispers. “You are … like the hottest man ever. Wow.”
“Well, thank you.”
She runs both her arms up her sides and straight into the air. “Let’s do this, mmkay …”
Weaving a little, she tries to focus on my pants, reaching for my belt buckle. I quickly stand so I’m out of the danger zone. Aimée gives me a pouty look. “Where are you going? I thought you liked me.”
“I do. Very much, which is why I am absolutely going to get you home safely rather than taking advantage of you in your current condition.”
She stands and drapes her arms over my shoulders. “It’s snot takin’ advantage if I’m up for it.”
“Yes, yes, it would be and only the worst sort of man does something like that.” I gently remove her arms from my neck and sit her back down on the sofa. She snuggles into the blanket and closes her eyes with a dreamy smile. “Schmeer’s nice too.”
A second later, she’s out cold. Oh, bollocks. Now what do I do with her? I carefully position her on her side, then cover her with the blanket. She lets out a snore so loud, I wince. Yikes. I hope that wouldn’t be an every night thing. But even if it is, I could invest in ear plugs.
What am I talking about? You’re not going to have a relationship with her. Do you hear that Noel? No Relationship.
Okay, now to tackle the problem at hand. I have a passed out drunk woman who has a van parked in a loading zone on my hands. I have no idea what her van looks like or where she lives. Glancing around for ideas, I spot her purse. That bag holds the answers. I quickly stride over to it and dig around for her cell phone. Huh, so this is what women keep in these things—there’s two tubes of lipstick and some other cosmetic-type items I can’t identify, plus lady products, crumpled up tissues, a wad of receipts, gum, mints, and saffron threads? I’m suddenly more pleased than I should be that she treated herself. Finally, I come across her mobile at the very bottom of the bag. I swipe the screen. Bloody hell. Facial recognition. Let’s hope it works with her eyes closed.
It takes three attempts for me to get into her phone. Then I scroll through texts looking for the last person she’s been in touch with. Me as Byron. Okay, second to last is someone named T-bag. This feels like such a violation, but I call the number anyway. A couple of rings later, a woman answers. “Did you do him? Tell me you did him and it was ah-maz-ing. I’ve heard those stiff Brits can really turn up the heat between the sheets.”
Ah, she’s been talking about me. I smirk a little to myself, then say, “Umm, hello, this is Noel Fitzwilliam calling. Is this T-bag?”
“It’s Teisha. Only Aimée gets away with calling me that,” she answers. “Wait. Why are you calling? Did something happen to Aimée?”
“Aimée’s fine. She’s here with me at my office, but I’m afraid she’s had a little too much to drink and she’s … gone to sleep without providing me with her address. Might you know where she lives so I can get her home?”
“She lives with me,” Teisha answers, sounding like she’s ready to jump through the phone and murder me. “Did you roofie her? Because I swear to all that is holy, I will end you if you roofied her.”
“No! Of course not,” I say. “I would never do such a thing. We had a business dinner and she had three or four glasses of wine, give or take. Then she passed out.”
“Oh yeah, she’s a real lightweight when it comes to booze,” Teisha says.
“Apparently so,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck while I watch her sleep. Not in a creepy way, more in an “oh she’s lovely” way. “Listen, I’d really like to bring her home and do something about her van. Can you give me the address?”
“Sure, but she doesn’t park that thing here. She’s got a temporary spot up in the Bronx.”
Bugger. “Okay, I’ll find suitable overnight parking down here and then bring her to you.”
Teisha gives me her address, describes the van (old, rickety, and white with the words Nibbles and Noshes on the side), then we ring off. I go over to my desk, grab the wastepaper basket and take it over to Aimée. Setting it down in front of her, I say, “Aimée. Wake up, okay?”
She grunts and shifts a little but doesn’t open her eyes.
“Aimée,” I say a little louder, gently shaking her shoulder. “I’m going to go move your van. I’ll be back in a few minutes to get you. Just stay on your side, okay? And if you need to vomit, I have a bin right here.”
She nods and murmurs, “Sure bin soft.”
It takes me close to thirty minutes to find an overnight parking stall that looks as though the van will still be there by morning, during which time I come close to causing three separate accidents by veering to the wrong side of the road. Well, the right side, if you ask me, but that’s beside the point, there were several near misses.
My knuckles are pure white by the time I step out of the beastly thing, and I need Google maps to help me find my way back because I’ve circled around so many times, I’m completely lost. Great. It’s a ten-minute walk back to the office and it’s starting to spit rain. I’m about two minutes from my office when a loud clap of thunder bounces off the buildings and the sky opens up, dumping everything it’s got on me. When I finally reach the lobby, I’m drenched through. Even my socks are saturated. Lovely. Just how I hoped this evening would turn out.
By the time the elevator whisks me up to the forty-second floor, I’m in a bit of a panic after having left Aimée for so long. What if she woke up and tried to find me and got lost? Or she started to vomit but she was on her back and she choked?
So many possibilities roll through my mind that by the time I see her peacefully asleep on my sofa, I’m the tiniest bit angry at her for being fine, which makes no sense at all.
I call for a town car, then grab some dry clothes out of the closet and turn my back on her while I quickly change. I don’t bother to go into the bathroom. She’s sound asleep, and besides, this way I can keep an ear out for her in case she needs me.
“Oh, yay,” I hear from behind me. “Are we doing this? Comeon over, shailor.”
“No, no, no,” I answer, yanking up my jeans and turning to her. “I already called a car and found out where you live. Teisha is expecting you, so we have to go.”
“Okay,” she says, nodding, then closing her eyes. “Just let me shleep for a minute. Then we’ll go.” She drops back onto the couch and her head lolls to the side.
Sighing, I finish dressing, grab my wallet, keys, and phone, stuffing them into my suit jacket pocket. Then I gather her purse, sling it over my shoulder, and pick her up, fireman-style. She makes a ‘wee’ sound and I say, “Just tell me if you’re going to vomit, okay?”
“Sure thing, schmexy.”
And so, I spend the entire elevator ride being groped on my buttocks by the woman I’m carrying who I can’t do anything with. Pretty great evening all around, really.
Once we’re nestled in the back of the town car, I have the driver turn up the heat, and Aimée snuggles into the crook of my neck and sighs happily. “You shmell like a man.”
“Thank you?” I think.
“It’shnice,” she says. “You’re not who I thought you were. You’re not a cold a-hole. You’re a true gentleman.”
I turn my head toward her and inhale the scent of her hair. God, how could someone smell so heavenly?
“I could fall in love with you, you know,” she murmurs. “I practically did when you were holding me that first day after showering in your office. Or maybe I did. Does that sound crazy?”
“No,” I say, and oddly enough it’s true. “It doesn’t sound crazy at all.”
Chapter Seventeen
Aimée
I wake up staring at a water spot on Teisha’s bedroom ceiling, wondering a variety of things. Least of which is, who in the hell is playing drums? I force my eyes closed again and throw a pillow over my head, causing the hectic rhythm to lessen slightly. That’s when it hits me. Those aren’t drums, that’s my heart pounding and blood shooting through my extremities. Hurts. Hurts so bad.
“Well?” my friend yells at me so loudly I’m pretty sure she’s using a Mr. Microphone.
“Stoooooooooooooop yelling,” I hiss. “Head hurts.”
“I’m not surprised. I understand you had yourself a little too much to drink last night.” That’s either judgment or approval in her voice. With T it could go either way.
“What day is it?” I ask, sounding like I’m begging for last rites.
“It’s Tuesday. Now wake up and tell me what happened last night.”
My brain is so foggy that I have to go through a series of mental exercises to figure out what day yesterday was. Counting on my fingers, which are currently wrapped around my head to quiet the pounding, I mentally recite, “Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday. Monday, Tuesday.”
Okay, I’m on fire now. Yesterday was Monday which means I catered a lunch at Brown, Brown, and Green. What happened there? Walter Brown Junior asked me out. Please say I didn’t go out and get drunk with him. How unprofessional!
No, wait. I remember leaving that building and driving over to Fitzwilliam & Associates. Yup, there I am returning Cindy’s pants. There I am getting my dress from Noel’s office. Then I’m eating the most delicious meal that has ever crossed my lips. I’m drinking wine. So much wine. And oh, no, please let that not be me. In my mind’s eye, I see someone who looks a lot like me propositioning Noel.
And he’s passing on the invitation.
“Oh, my god, T, I got drunk and threw myself at Noel, but he didn’t go for it.” Humiliation rages through me like food poisoning.
“That gorgeous hunk of man called me to find out where you lived, and he brought you home. That’s a class act right there.”
“It’s Tuesday! It’s street sweeping day which means my van has been towed!” I sit up so quickly I have to hold onto the sides of the mattress like a white-water raft to keep from being hurled into the abyss.
“Good lord, you’re a lightweight. And don’t worry, the King found a parking space for your van downtown, so it hasn’t been towed.”
“The King?” I squeak.
“I think that’s what we should call him from now on. He’s got the bearing of royalty about him. I, for one, wouldn’t mind being his loyal subject.” A little shiver of what appears to be delight runs through her.
While I wait for her moment to pass, I say, “T, he offered me a weekly luncheon for forty-two people! But now there’s no way I can take the job. Things were said. Things I should have never even thought.”
“Oh, psh. Any man who’s willing to park your van and carry your sorry ass home without molesting you first isn’t going to judge you for getting drunk. He didn’t take advantage of you, did he?”
“Not for my lack of trying.” I see myself petting him and rubbing up against him, and—please, say it isn’t so—grabbing the buckle on his pants. Oh, the shame. I can never, ever, ever see Noel Fitzwilliam again.
While I’m bemoaning the loss of a fabulous future gig as well as a potential English hottie, the buzzer rings in the living room. Loudly. Teisha yells, “COMING!” which does no good because she has to press the buzzer to be heard by the person who’s currently several flights down.
I hear T ask, “Who is it?”
A disembodied voice mumbles something, and then there’s a high pitch buzzing and then finally peace until the doorbell rings. There are mumbled voices and an exclamation of excitement on T’s end and then nothing.
Moments later she comes into the room carrying a paper bag with handles. “You will never believe who that was!”
“Dr. Kevorkian here to help me pass pleasantly into the next life?” If it wasn’t him, I don’t care who it was. I can still feel the pain of that buzzer in my temple like I got stabbed.
“That was a delivery dude bringing you breakfast.”
“What? Did I order breakfast to be delivered before I passed out?” To be honest, it kind of sounds like me. I like my food enough to anticipate my next meal.
Teisha clears her throat and opens a piece of paper before reading:
Good morning, Aimée,
I hope you slept well. I thought you might benefit from the healing effects of a full-English this morning. Take care and let me know when you want to pick up your van.
Noel
Noel sent me breakfast? He’s a god among men! The aroma coming from that bag is causing my stomach to stand up and cheer. T drops the bag next to the mattress and says, “I’ll go get forks.”
By the time she’s back, I have no fewer than six different containers open. There’s bacon, scrambled eggs, toast, fried potatoes, grilled tomatoes, sausage, and baked beans. T hands me a fork and two aspirin while saying, “I put a fresh pot of coffee on.” Then she sits down and digs in with me. There’s easily enough food for four people here.
“I think you ought to marry the guy,” T announces between bites.
“I can never face him again, T. I was outrageous last night.” Bite, chew, swallow. “I was thinking that maybe you could pick up my van for me.”
Shaking her head, she answers, “Not if you paid me a million bucks. Well, okay, I’d do it for a cool mil, but you don’t have that, so it’s on you, girl.”
“T, pleeeeeeeeeeeeeease,” I beg, sounding like a two-year-old pleading for a cookie. Suddenly, I remember offering Noel my cookie. Make it go away! I silently pray to whatever god hates me so much as to let me make such an ass out of myself.
/> “Nope. The King is hot for you, and you need to face the music.”
“Hand me my phone,” I tell her, not bothering to use my manners and say please. What kind of best friend would bail at a time like this?
Once I turn my phone on, I see that I already have a text from Byron.
FitzAssoc: How are you feeling?
AiméeT: What did he do, take out an ad and tell everyone?!
FitzAssoc: Not that I know of. The state of his office was a little surprising this morning, so I asked. I hear you had yourself a little dinner date.
AiméeT: Oh, Byron, I blew it BIG time!
FitzAssoc: Fun!!!
AiméeT: Not that, you pig. Get your mind out of the gutter!
FitzAssoc: Pardon me, your ladyship. I didn’t mean to offend.
AiméeT: Noel bought me the best meal I’ve ever eaten. Then I got drunk on some fancy Beaujolais, and then … I made it clear what I wanted for dessert. -face of shame-
FitzAssoc: And? Was he any good? Because I have to tell you, I’ve thought about it extensively and I’m reasonably sure the man has some skills.
AiméeT: That’s the worst part. He turned me down.
FitzAssoc: Ah, the burden of a gentleman. You know they’re raised not to take advantage of ladies in a certain way.
AiméeT: Drunk women?
FitzAssoc: That would be the way.
AiméeT: I can never see him again, Byron. Never ever ever. Ever.
FitzAssoc: I don’t understand your reasoning. Clearly, he wanted to go for it but thought too highly of you to take advantage.
AiméeT: I couldn’t face him. What would I say?
FitzAssoc: How about, “Thank you for the nice meal?” or “Now that I’m sober, what do you say?”
AiméeT: Byron! Be serious!!
Text Me On Tuesday: All is Fair in Love and Texting ... (An Accidentally in Love Story Book 1) Page 9