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

by Whitney Dineen

  I snap a picture of myself and text it to both T and Byron. They both respond within seconds.

  T: BUY IT NOW! The man doesn’t stand a chance!

  Byron: You know how I said there’s no way I’d ever go for a girl. Well, honey, I felt a definite twitch in my trousers when I saw that picture. I don’t care what it costs, that’s the one.

  I’m so giddy I’m practically popping out of my skin. I pay for the dress and then hurry down the street to Marcum where I made an appointment to have my hair and makeup done. I’m leaving nothing to chance.

  Unfortunately, I get there to discover that some socialite walked in and took my appointment. “I was forty-seven seconds late,” I complain to the snooty receptionist. “Which actually means I wasn’t late because the minute hand hadn’t moved yet.”

  She looks at me vacantly. “Carlos can see you after he’s done with Mitzy.”

  After? After?! “I guess I’ll have to wait then. What other choice do I have?” I sit down on the overstuffed hot-pink tufted stools and do the math on whether I can make it home and back downtown by seven. There’s no way.

  AiméeT: My hair appointment got postponed and I won’t have time to go home and change. What do I do?

  Byron: Don’t be silly. Come up to my office and get ready here. I’ll make sure the BM sees you and then he’ll surely follow you down to the bar on his own accord.

  AiméeT: You’re devious. Having I mentioned that I love you?

  Byron: You have, but you have my permission to say it again.

  AiméeT: I love you, Byron. You are the best!

  After washing, trimming, and drying my hair, Carlos maneuvers it into a low french roll at the nape of my neck before releasing a few soft tendrils up. He loosens a couple more on either side to frame my face. “Sooooooooo sexy,” he croons in an Italian accent. “You look freshly tumbled, yes?”

  “Excuse me?” I ask, shocked while still absolutely appreciative of the compliment.

  “Is that not the word?” He looks confused.

  “No, no, I think it is.”

  He rotates the chair after taking the cape off my shoulders. “Gigi is waiting at the counter to do your makeup.” As I walk away, I hear him say, “I pity the man who has to resist you.”

  Gigi is a six-foot four-inch black drag queen that I love on sight. After examining my face, she says, “I’m thinking smokey eyes with neutral skin tones and the barest hint of lipstick.”

  “I trust you fully,” I tell her. And for some reason, I do.

  “The idea is to give you that rolled in the hay look without actually coming in contact with hay.” After performing her magic, Gigi turns me toward the mirror and says, “Sex kitten, party of one.” I marvel that I’m really me. Once I put my dress on, I’m not sure I’ll even recognize myself. After paying my bill and over-tipping the dream team of Carlos and Gigi, I walk back to the subway heading downtown to the Liberty Bank Building.

  If the appreciative glances I receive are anything to go on, I look every bit as good as I think I do. By the time the elevator doors open, leading to Fitzwilliam & Associates, I’m feeling confident enough to take over the free world.

  Byron takes one look at me and stands up from his desk and starts to applaud. “Mr. DeMille, your star is ready for her close up.” Then he hurries toward me to grab my arm. Pulling me in the direction of Noel’s office, he says, “His Highness stepped out for a minute. Go change into your dress in his bathroom. I cannot wait to see the final product!”

  Back in Noel’s bathroom, I feel like I’ve come full circle since the day I was forced to wear Cindy’s tiny wet pants. Once the dress is on, I slip on a pair of knock-off Jimmy Choos I bought because I didn’t have time to go home and get my own shoes. This day has cost me a fortune, but one glance in the long mirror behind the bathroom door tells me that it was worth every single penny and then some.

  Temporarily leaving my things in the bathroom, I hurry out to show Byron how I look. But it isn’t Byron I see. No, sir. Once again, I fly straight into the arms of Noel Fitzwilliam. The look on his face is one of priceless awe. When he doesn’t move me out of his arms, or say anything for that matter, I offer, “Noel. How are you?”

  “Aimée?” His tone is rife with his shock, disbelief, and appreciation.

  “Yes.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Oh, sorry about that. Byron told me I could use your office to get ready.”

  “What are you getting ready for?” he demands.

  “I have a date tonight and I didn’t have time to go home and change. Byron told me to come here.”

  “I just bet he did,” he says in a low growl before adding, “What date?”

  Smiling prettily, if not smugly, I answer, “I’m meeting Walter Junior for drinks downstairs at Bull Market.”

  “The hell you are.” He pulls me even closer like he’s trying to protect me from a mauling.

  I push him away. “Actually, I am. You don’t have any objections about me going out on a date, do you?”

  His face turns so red I’m half expecting his head to blow off like a cartoon character’s. Schooling his expression, he manages, “No, of course not. I just think you can do a lot better than Walter Junior.”

  “I’m not sure I can,” I say, knowing full well that’ll make him mad. “Not only is he a real gentleman, he’s handsome, and he’s an upstanding member of the real estate development community. Plus, if he’s good enough for you to do business with, surely, he’s good enough to date your caterer.”

  Noel runs his tongue over his teeth, then says, “In my experience, the best businessmen make lousy boyfriends. I suspect that would be the case with Junior.” He adds a little extra emphasis on Junior.

  “So don’t date him.” I look at my wrist even though I’m not wearing a watch and add, “I’d better get going. I don’t want to keep him waiting.”

  With those words, I sway my hips right on out of his office.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Noel

  Standing in the doorway to my office, watching Aimée make her way to the elevator, is excruciating. Especially when she stops to give Byron a tight hug that he most certainly does not deserve. That dress with the fringe? She could be a stand-in for Marilyn Monroe in Some Like it Hot. She looks so delectable I’m actually biting my knuckles. Who does that outside of bad television shows? Me, apparently.

  After Aimée steps onto the elevator, the doors close, and she’s presumably whisked down to the main floor where Walter the Wanker is likely rubbing his hands together in anticipation like some Three-penny Opera villain. Shaking my head, I go back to my desk. Anything that is happening outside this office tonight is none of my concern. I need to stay the course and get back to work. People are depending on me.

  After grabbing my laptop, I trudge to the conference room where the team is waiting. The wall of windows overlooking the East River serves as a crappy reminder that it’s well past quitting time. That’s somehow made harder by the fact that it’s a warm spring evening. I take my usual spot at the head of the table and try to get my brain in the game.

  Byron looks over at me and puts on his most innocent expression. “Hey boss, would you like me to run out and get dinner for everyone? Maybe some of Bull Market’s famous sliders?”

  Not only does the bastard know what he’s doing, he knows I know what he’s doing. I glare daggers at him, refocusing every ounce of the frustration pouring through me after seeing Aimée in that dress.

  Cindy, who’s leaning her cheek on her arm with her eyes closed, mumbles, “I’ll have a side salad, hold the dressing.”

  “Cheeseburger and sweet potato fries,” Jack groans while holding up his hand like he’s in primary school.

  Byron starts to write down everyone’s orders when I stand up. “Forget it. Everybody go home.”

  The room goes dead quiet.

  “Take the night off. We’re all exh
austed. We can get a fresh start tomorrow morning. Just be here by seven.”

  “Really?” Ali bolts out of his chair like I just announced free college tuition for four to the first person on the elevator.

  Nodding my head to their retreating forms, I say, “Really, you’ve more than earned it. Now get out of here.” Of course, most of them are already gone.

  I’m left alone with my brother. Byron asks, “So, no sleepover tonight?”

  “Pack up Big Louis and go home,” I tell him, gesturing with my head to the door.

  His smile is so toothy, it threatens to take over his entire face. “Mmm hmm … I knew it.”

  “Don’t start,” I say, while standing up and collecting the papers in front of me.

  Byron follows me down the hall. “You like her. You like her so much you can’t stand the idea that she’s on a date with some other guy—a rather handsome, not to mention rich as sin one, I might add. They’re downstairs in this very building at this exact moment, while you’re up here pretending to be a martyr.”

  “A martyr? That’s pretty dramatic, Byron.”

  He points to the ceiling. “You’re up there hanging on the cross acting like you’re too important to the world to be normal and accept a little companionship in your life.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I tell him.

  “You’re going to go down there, aren’t you? As soon as I’m gone, you’re going to go and spy on them.”

  I audibly scoff at the idea, even though that’s exactly what I want to do. “I’m going to order something to be delivered and I’m going to get back to work. I’ll see you in the morning,” I say, while mock saluting him. If he doesn’t move fast, I’m going repeat the gesture with my foot to his backside.

  Tilting his head from side to side, Byron says, “You’re consumed by jealousy, I can tell. This is the same look you had when Penelope Smythe invited me to her knickers and kickers World-Cup party and not you.”

  “For your information, I am not a ball of jealous rage,” I tell him with my jaw clenched so tightly it actually hurts. I continue to lie, “That gorgeous woman who just sashayed out of here to go on a date with a complete tosser—the one who’s probably going to treat her like a prostitute—means nothing to me outside of her culinary acumen.” Am I raising my voice? I think I am. Clearing my throat, I add, “If you’re so worried about her, maybe you should go down and play chaperone in case Walter comes on too strong.”

  Byron folds his arms across his chest. “You lost her and you know it. It hurts like a cricket bat to the bollocks, doesn’t it? I don’t feel sorry for you though. You brought this upon yourself.”

  My shoulders drop and I let out a long, frustrated breath. “Just go home, Byron. Before I change my mind and make you stay. I’ve got another five hours of work in me, and nothing would please me more than causing you another night of lost sleep.”

  “Fine. I’ll go.” He narrows his eyes like he’s examining a slug under a microscope. “But I’m not going to spy on Aimée and her date. I trust she knows how to take care of herself.” Picking up Big Louis, he adds, “I’m going home to have a long, hot bath and wait for Aimée to text me. I told her to let me know how he is …”

  “Small,” I mutter, turning from him and making my way over to my desk.

  My brother offers his parting shot. “Sometimes small is better than nothing. At least she’s getting herself some.”

  Pointing to the door, I yell, “Out!”

  After Byron goes, I replay the texting session with Aimée where she told me (when she thought I was Byron) that she was going to give Walter Junior fifth date privileges tonight as a way to rebuild her flagging self-esteem. The same self-esteem I shat all over by turning down her advances. Maybe I should just head down to Bull Market and grab a bite to go.

  The longer I sit in my office attempting to reconfigure the cross-ventilation in what will become a four-story atrium, the clammier my hands become. Knowing Aimée is down there in that dress with that dickwit is making it impossible for me to concentrate. Especially as it doesn’t take a psychic to predict what Walter has in mind.

  And it’s not marrying her.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Aimée

  I spot Walter as soon as I walk into Bull Market, which turns out to be an impressively upscale establishment catering to Wall Street types. My date doesn’t see me yet, which is good because he appears to be hitting on a Cindy-clone. It’s not her though, thank God.

  When I’m fewer than ten feet away, I see him slide his business card across the bar to her before leaning in and whispering something. I can’t hear what he says, but I’m a thousand percent certain he’s not suggesting a business meeting. Gross.

  I would turn around and walk out of here right now if I wasn’t hoping with all of my heart for Noel to show up. Forcing a smile, I tap Walter on the shoulder. “Hey, I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

  He startles and turns around. Standing up, he slams back whatever that amber liquid is sitting in the glass in front of him. “Aimée, hello! I was just talking to my friend …” he gestures toward his barstool companion to fill in the blank. They’re obviously so close he doesn’t know her name.

  Instead of playing along and pretending to be his buddy, she blows him a kiss before eyeing me up and down. “Call me,” she purrs. Then she turns her back on us. She’s either a high-class call girl—oxymoron, party of one—or she’s looking for a casual hookup and Walter Junior is ticking all of her boxes.

  “Let’s go find a booth,” Walter says, while sliding his hand around my waist in a proprietary fashion. An involuntary shudder of disgust shoots through my nervous system. After sitting down, I expect him to take the seat across from me, but he doesn’t. He scoots in right after me like he’s trying to make room for a third person. He’s practically on top of me.

  Walter flags down a cocktail waitress and lifts his empty tumbler, “Two more of these.”

  “I prefer a glass of wine,” I tell him.

  He looks back at the waitress. “Two more of these for me and a glass of the house white for my friend.” I start to wonder how many cocktails Walter had before I got here. He must be a serious drinker to order them two at a time.

  As soon as our waitress leaves, I ask, “Walter, would you mind moving? I need to use the ladies’.” It’s a good thing I don’t really have to go because he takes his sweet time. When he does get up, I practically sprint to freedom. Once I’m safely in the restroom, I have to resist the urge to give myself a bath in the sink to wash off the creepy crawlies. Instead, I lock myself in a stall. Pulling out my phone, I text Byron.

  AiméeT: If Noel isn’t down here in ten minutes, I’m out. Walter Junior is a disgusting pig.

  Byron: Oh no, what happened?

  AiméeT: He was hitting on another woman when I got here, he’s already pretty tipsy, and he isn’t acting like he’s ever heard of the term “personal space.”

  Byron: I’m in the lobby, do you want me to come to your rescue?

  AiméeT: No, just get Noel down here.

  Byron: I’ll text him that I just heard from you. I’ll tell him things are going so well you’re planning on taking your date up to Walter’s place. That ought to move him along.

  AiméeT: Hurry!

  After signing off with Byron, I leave the bathroom and stand out of sight of my date until I can flag our waitress down. She comes over as soon as she sees me. “Can you please replace my wine with sparkling water? I don’t want my date to know I’m not drinking.”

  “He’ll know when I bring the bill,” she tells me.

  “Not if you charge him for wine.” I share a conspiratorial look with her before adding, “I think you should charge a higher price than the house, though. What a cheapskate.”

  I pull a twenty out of my wallet and hand it to her. “This is for you. I’m guessing the guy I’m here with isn’t a big tipper unless he’s hoping to bu
y other privileges.”

  Pocketing the money, she says. “I know the type. Thanks for taking care of me.”

  “I’m a waitress too,” I tell her. “I know how horrible people can be.”

  With a shocked expression, she asks, “What are you doing down here with him?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Well, come back and tell me sometime. I’d like to hear it.” With a wave, she walks off.

  When I get back to the table, I sit across from Walter hoping he takes the hint. He doesn’t, He gets up and moves in next to me. Then he leans in and slurs, “What took you so schlong? I missed you.” Oh, for the love of God, how is this a successful businessman?

  “I’m here now,” I tell him, hoping I don’t sound as disgusted as I feel. I need him to think I’m into this as much as he is, at least until Noel arrives. I spread my knees slightly to force him to move over.

  “The minute I saw you at that meeting at Fitzwilliam I couldn’t think about anything else but getting you into bed.”

  Ew. “Really? You weren’t thinking about the pitch?” I’m offended on Noel’s behalf. I know how hard his whole staff has worked on that for an entire year.

  “Nah. We were always going to give the project to Lassiter and Sons. We just needed to make it look like we were considering other offers in the spirit of fair play.”

  Fair play, my Aunt Fanny! Who uses an entire firm like that with no intention of taking their bid seriously? “Are you still going with Lassiter?” I ask innocently. I can’t tip him off that I know all about Noel killing himself to make changes to his original design.

  “That’s the pisser,” he says while slamming his leg into mine so he can scoot closer. “Lassiter had a sure thing. All they had to do was give us what we asked for. After a closer look at their bid, we started to see discrepancies in the quality of material we specified. It spooked us into thinking they were trying to set things up to skim off the top. That’s a deal breaker for us.”