Text Me On Tuesday: All is Fair in Love and Texting ... (An Accidentally in Love Story Book 1)

by Whitney Dineen

  “Aimée who? There’s no Aimée that works here.” He looks confused. Dear Lord, I do not look forward to this conversation.

  “Aimée the caterer,” I tell him.

  He rubs his hands together in gleeful enthusiasm. “Oh, this is going to be good. Should I pop some popcorn for the occasion?”

  I roll my eyes at him. “Do whatever you want, just be in my office in two minutes.” My brother walks down the hall so closely behind me, you’d think we were still sharing a womb.

  I head right over to the sofa and start pulling the cushions off. “It’s actually all your fault,” I accuse, hoping he’ll feel some responsibility for my idiocy and take it easy on me with all the laughter that is sure to ensue once he knows what I’ve been up to.

  “Passing the buck is no way to garner my sympathy. Spill it.”

  So, I do. “Remember that Post-It with my number on it that I told you to give to Walter Junior?”

  He shrugs.

  “Well, it somehow wound up in the envelope with Aimée’s pay. She assumed it was from you.”

  “So?”

  “So, like every other young heterosexual woman who meets you, she’s decided you would be the perfect addition to her friend collection.”

  I can see the wheels turning in my brother’s head. His face morphs from confusion, to enlightenment, to utter hilarity in all of three seconds. “Hand me your phone,” he orders.

  There’s no getting around it, so I do. He spends the next twenty minutes rereading Aimée’s and my conversations out loud with much theatrical gusto. Too much.

  After he’s finally done—it’s got to be nearly midnight—he gives me a brief recap. “You’ve got the hots for Aimée the sexy caterer, and you’re wooing her—Cyrano de Bergerac -style—pretending to be me.”

  “In a nutshell, yes.” I feel as low as the worm I am.

  “Well, obviously, you can’t keep doing that,” he says while throwing his hands up in the air.

  “Obviously.”

  Byron picks up my phone once again and types something in. Before I can ask what he’s doing, he sticks one finger up in the air indicating that I should hold my horses. Then he hands me my phone and announces, “I’ll be in charge from now on.”

  I read his text.

  Me: Darling, I’m switching phones. Please text me on this number from now on. I have some wonderful ideas about how to get you and my boss together and I can’t wait to share them with you.

  “Byron, no! I don’t have time to have the relationship with her that I want.”

  Getting into bed, my brother replies, “If that’s the way you want it, I’ll turn her on you so quickly she won’t even be able to look at you.”

  I crawl under the covers silently. Damn, that’s not what I want either.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Aimée

  As much as I want to send Teisha to Fitzwilliam & Associates alone today, there’s no way I can miss their first staff appreciation luncheon. I need to make sure things flow so smoothly that I’m their go-to caterer for the next decade, even if it does mean putting myself in the same room with my dream man.

  Once again, I take great pains with my appearance. I need Noel to know exactly what he’s passing up. I put on a petal pink A-line dress with a cinched waist that enhances my hourglass figure. Then I jazz up my makeup more than usual, tie my hair into a soft low ponytail, and slip my feet into some sexy high heels. Eat your heart out, Mr. Fitzwilliam.

  Teisha walks by me and whistles. “Girl, you look like sex on a plate! Gonna get you some, huh?”

  “Just trying to impress the client with my professionalism.”

  She gestures at my neckline and asks, “Is that what the kids are calling boobs these days?” Then she laughs. “Go get ’em tiger. I’m not judging you.”

  “Is it wrong that I want to make him sorry?”

  “Honey”—she gives me one of her famous head waggles while making a Z with her pointer finger—”you wouldn’t be normal if you didn’t want him to suffer. I’m all aboard that train.” Then she adds, “Put some flats on while we load up.”

  The van is fully packed by ten and we arrive at the Liberty Bank Building at a record eleven thirty. As soon as the elevator doors opens to the forty-second floor, Byron jumps to his feet and comes running. “Petal!” he calls out what I’m assuming is my new nickname.

  I throw myself into his arms. “I’ve missed you!”

  “Darling, I’ve missed you too, but now we’re together again. Two peas in a pod! Two front teeth on a wee babe! Two bangers in a bun!”

  Teisha interjects, “Two nuts in a shell …”

  Byron shoots her an air kiss before helping us haul everything back to the kitchen. He sidles up to me and declares, “You look positively edible today. I could take a bite out of you!”

  “What about your boss? Do you think he’ll want to take a bite out of me?”

  “I think he wants more than a bite,” he says conspiratorially. “The object of this afternoon is to throw yourself at him while keeping your distance.”

  “I’m lost. How exactly do you envision me doing that?”

  He stands back and mimes a performance like he’s pretending to be me. He picks up a tray and sashays around the kitchen with such a hitch in his giddy-up I’m afraid he’s going to dislocate a hip. Then in a much higher voice, he leans over Teisha and asks, “Mr. Fitzwilliam, can I offer you a cocktail wiener?”

  T lowers her voice and answers, “Only if I can offer you a jumbo frank in return.” Then the two of them laugh and laugh like my sorry love life is the funniest thing in the world.

  “Forget you guys,” I yell. “This is not funny. I know I shouldn’t be acting like I’ve broken up with the man I love, but cut me a break, will ya?”

  “Do you love him?” Byron asks, sounding serious for the first time this morning.

  Avoiding a direct answer, I say, “How could I possibly love him? It’s not like it’s you and we’ve been texting our deepest, darkest secrets.” Then I shoot my new gay best friend my saddest puppy dog eyes and ask, “Are you sure you don’t want to be straight for me?”

  “If only it were possible for this leopard to change his spots, sweetheart. Alas, I’m a confirmed hot dog man, but don’t give up hope. I think you and my persnickety boss still have a future.”

  Byron looks at the clock on the wall. “I’ll leave you to it. Prepare to face the masses in T minus thirty minutes.” Then he hurries out the door.

  Teisha and I set up a variety of chafing dishes and platters that hold everything from soup to pasta to an assortment of sandwiches and salads. Cindy, of all people, is the first one to come in. She sidles up to me with a sneer on her face like a skunk just sprayed directly up her nose. “Is there anything that won’t make me fat?” When she says “fat” she looks me up and down making it clear that she’s calling me fat.

  Teisha overhears, and offers, “I could pour you a nice glass of water if you’d like?” Her tone is so sickly sweet it’s all I can do to keep from giggling.

  “No, thank you.” Then she looks at me and orders, “I’ll have seven penne noodles and a large salad with no dressing. No cheese.”

  The buffet is set up for people to serve themselves so obviously there is some kind of power play afoot here. But I don’t care, I’m making more today than I make in two weeks at the bakery. I pick up a plate and begin to serve her when Noel walks in. He takes the plate out of my hands and gives it to Cindy, before turning to me. “May I speak with you privately for a moment?”

  I shoot T a look of panic before offering Cindy a smug smile. Then I answer him, “Of course.” I follow him into his office like a lost puppy, or a sex-starved pirate, depending on how you look at it.

  Noel shuts the door and gestures for me to sit in a chair across from his desk. Then he sits down and opens his desk drawer. “I think it would be easier for all if I went ahead and paid you for a month
of lunches at once. I’m going to be extremely busy for the next several weeks, so I don’t want to have to write more checks. How does that sound?”

  “Good,” I tell him while pushing my shoulders a little closer together and leaning forward to give him a better view of my assets. “Do you have any special requests?” My voice is all breathy like he just called 1-800-SEX-MEUP.

  “I, um … well … yes … I …” Oh, the power I feel! “I like a good curry and I’m fond of bangers and mash.” I give him a look that says, everyone enjoys a good banger, do they?

  “How about Toad in the Hole or a nice Spotted Dick for dessert?” I don’t know how sexy spotted dick sounds—it sounds like VD. Just let it be known, I’m not a pro at the sexy talk.

  Noel doesn’t seem to notice. He just answers, “Yes, to everything. I trust your culinary judgment explicitly.” His eyes are still trained on my cleavage.

  We both stop talking for several seconds, which feels kind of awkward. I decide to stand up and lean over his desk to give him a better show. “Can you make the check out to Nibbles and Noshes?”

  That seems to snap him back to attention. “Wouldn’t it be easier for you if I just made it out to you?”

  “That’s fine.” I didn’t suggest that because I didn’t want him to think I wasn’t totally professional. While he’s writing the check, I ask, “Would you mind if I used your bathroom?”

  “Um, er … no … not at all.” I love how nervous he sounds. I make sure to follow Byron’s example and glide slowly while adding a little shake to my money-maker. Then I look over my shoulder and offer Noel a smoldering glance before walking through the door. He is totally eating this up.

  Once I’m inside, I check my lipstick in the mirror, make a couple of sexy faces to confirm that I’ve got it down, and then I proceed back out into the office. Noel isn’t there. I walk over to the desk to find he’s left me a check for a substantially larger amount than we agreed upon.

  I hurry out of the office and stop at Byron’s desk. “Where did he go?”

  He looks up with mischief in his eyes. “Looks like the BM forgot an errand he had to run. He said he won’t be back until lunch is over.” At my crestfallen expression, he adds, “Don’t pout, darling. Everything is going exactly to plan.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Noel

  “You brought your snoozies to the office?” I ask Byron, pointing at his blue plaid slippers. He’s paired them with a navy-blue satin pajama set and a gold eye mask that’s currently resting just above his forehead.

  “Uh, yeah,” he answers, oozing sarcasm. “If I’m going to have to live here around the clock, I’m definitely bringing the comforts of home.”

  It’s almost one in the morning and the thought of going home to my own bed instead of having another night with Byron the sleep-talker sounds extremely tempting. But since I need to be up in five hours to get back to work, I’ll have to put up with it. He pulls a gold jacquard silk duvet and sheet set out of his giant Louis Vuitton suitcase (that he calls Big Louis) and starts making up the sofa bed. He smooths the duvet over the sheets, then returns to Big Louis and pulls out decorative pillows.

  “I’m drawing the line at decorative pillows.”

  He glares at me, “I don’t think you are, Mr. Integrity, because I’m pretty sure you need me to protect your big fat secret.” Swiping his phone off the coffee table, he holds it up and gives me a smug smile. “Or should I text a certain caterer you’re pretending not to love and tell her … well, anything I want, actually.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Remember the time you broke my CD player on purpose so I read your diary on the school’s PA system?” he asks, his eyes wide with delight.

  “This is hardly the same thing. They’re pillows, for God’s sake.”

  “Exactly,” he says, carefully positioning them on the bed.

  Rolling my eyes, I mutter, “Fine. Have it your way.”

  “You’re just cranky because you want Aimée and you’re too scared to go after her.”

  “Am not.” I sigh and wave off his comment, then turn and reach into my duffle bag for a pair of sweats and a tee to sleep in.

  “Yes, you are. I see the way you look at her. It must be how I look when I see a Stephen Curry ad for Degree body spray. You know, the shirtless ones?” He gets a faraway look in his eyes and I’m pretty sure I’ll be blessed with a few minutes of silence while he mentally scrolls through his Stephen Curry photo files. I start to think I’m in the clear when he adds, “Exactly the same.”

  Damn. “Hardly,” I say. “My relationship with Aimée is now and shall remain a professional one, my temporary lapse in judgment notwithstanding.”

  “Sigmund would have something to say about your lapse in judgment, you know?” he says, moving the useless pillows off his side of the bed and neatly stacking them on the coffee table before climbing in.

  “Sigmund?”

  “Freud, I assume you’ve heard of him …”

  “And somehow you’re on a first name basis with Dr. Freud?” I ask, raising one eyebrow.

  “Don’t try to distract me. You started texting her for a reason. Then you traveled like sixty-some blocks to a dingy basement spice shop for a reason. Then you offered her a regular gig, paid a huge dental bill for her—which is something you would never do for me, thank you very much—for a reason. And now, you expect me to believe it was all some random accident?” he asks, raising his voice. “You may be gullible enough to believe it, but I’m sure as heck not.”

  “It’s really none of your business,” I say, turning toward the bathroom. “I’m going to have a shower. Feel free to fall asleep before I get out.”

  “I might, or I might see if Aimée’s up so we can talk about Sigmund …”

  My gut tightens at the thought. “You got to use the pretty pillows. You can’t go back on the deal now.”

  “That wasn’t a deal. It was a threat.”

  “Well, your threat worked, now go to sleep already.”

  “I might, but not because you told me to. It’s because I’m really tired,” he says, tugging his eye mask over his eyes. “My git of a boss is running me ragged.”

  “And paying you well for it,” I say, shutting the door behind me.

  I use the power spray to work out my knotted neck muscles and, after a few minutes, find myself feeling slightly less cranky than I have all day. Although since Aimée used this shower, I can’t help but imagine her in here, soaping up and washing her hair. That thought leads to me to one about her in that pink dress today, doing that thing with her chest that drained all the blood from my brain in under a second.

  Nope. I am not going there. I am a hyper-focused professional on the precipice of greatness. My design legacy is imminent, and I’ll soon join the greats like Zaha Hadid, Frank Lloyd Wright, and Renzo Piano. I’m going to think of nothing other than One Rosenthal for the next two-hundred and sixteen hours. And hopefully by then, I’ll have forgotten all about Aimée, the beautiful caterer who tugs at my heartstrings. Hopefully, she will forget about me too. Because that’s what will be best for her.

  Even if I do end up spending the rest of my life going home to my empty apartment night after night, never knowing the comfort of having a wife to love …

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Aimée

  AiméeT: You want to do what?! Please read that with the appropriate amount of alarm.

  Byron: Don’t be such a drama queen. All you have to do is tell Walter you want to meet for drinks at Bull Market here in our building. Then I’ll lure Noel down there and he can see you on a date with someone else.

  AiméeT: It’s not like it’s not a brilliant idea …

  Byron: Then what’s your problem?

  AiméeT: It’s just that I’m not some femme fatale and this definitely feels like a Mata Hari-level of machinations.

  Byron: You don’t need to impress me with big words. I
’m already totally smitten. Plus, you had that sex goddess thing soooo down on Friday, I’m pretty sure Noel walked with a limp for two days.

  AiméeT: What does that mean?

  Byron: Oh, you sweet, innocent flower. It means it’s easy to walk on two legs, but three is a little more difficult.

  AiméeT: Byron, I’m shocked! But do you really think so? -smirk-

  Byron: Affirmative, fair maiden. Yonder dragon is about to be slayed.

  AiméeT: Okay, I’ll tell him to be at Bull Market at seven.

  Byron: Wear something that screams, “Take me now, Tarzan!”

  AiméeT: I might have to go shopping.

  Byron: Do it, and remember, tarts get more action.

  AiméeT: I don’t want Noel to think I look like a tart.

  Byron: Like he’ll even be able to think without any blood in his brain. Now go! Shop! Unleash your inner Eartha Kitt and purrrrrr, kitty!

  AiméeT: Who’s Eartha Kitt?

  Byron: Just the most amazing Cat Woman who ever lived! You do know who Doris Day is, don’t you? Before you say no, you should know our entire friendship is based on your saying yes.

  AiméeT: Then of course I know who she is. Off to shop. I’ll send pictures from the dressing room!

  As soon as I get to the subway, I Google Doris Day. All I can say is, “Fabulous, much?” I feel a movie marathon with T and Byron coming up. I get out of the subway at Herald Square and plan to hit every department store within walking distance until I find the dress that will bring Noel to his knees.

  I locate said creation at Macy’s in the designer dress department, which I have no business being in. The prices are so shocking I almost talked myself out of the glorious creation I’m staring at in the dressing room mirror.

  It’s a simple black cocktail dress with a scoop neck and dropout back. There’s a beaded fringe hem that flips and flops with every step like I’m a flapper from the twenties. On the hanger, the dress wasn’t much to look at. In fact, I picked it up because I thought it looked classy, but on me? WOW! This thing hugs every one of my generous curves like a glove. I practice sitting in it, so I don’t have another seam-splitting moment. I. Am. Yummy.