I hate myself for feeling a similar stir.
She reaches up for him, and just as I think her eyes are rolling back in her head in hushed delight, they go too wide, too glassy. As if in slow motion, she staggers backward, stiletto boots desperate to find purchase, but all they find is the jagged terrain of books—books she spilled herself. Her ankles quirk, and suddenly she’s yanked this knight in shining Armani right down with her. He lets out a yelp as the entire contents of his coffee drink projectile out of his cup, and just—everywhere. The whole of the store is watching, mouths agape at the scene—another unison oh! at the sudden rip of her gorgeous cream-colored garment. So stylish, so on point, so put together only moments ago that everyone stopped to admire the way it hugged her hourglass figure.
And now?
We’re all staring because she’s practically ass over head.
She pretzels herself into the fetal position, her hair tousled, wet with coffee.
“You heard her—nothing to see.” I’m shoving JT away. He’s all right. We’ll comp him a coffee, I’m sure. “Gordon?” I bark. And before I utter another syllable, he’s materialized, helping clear away the book debris like a flippin’ firefighter.
We’re on our hands and knees in the rubble, and I feel a breeze. This tornado of a woman has disappeared. Perhaps she’s just darted by me, vanished into the ladies’ room like a deer you just hit with your car and you don’t know if you just clipped it or if it’s run off to go die in the woods.
I venture in to look for the carcass.
“Hello?” My voice echoes through the crack in the bathroom door. I can hear a faint sniffing, but there’s no answer. So I wait a wordless moment and then slip my way in. Check out the disaster that is my own appearance, although at least I didn’t rip my $400 jumpsuit.
I wince at my reflection in the mirror. Maybe it would have been better if I had. I’m pretty sure they paid me to take this blouse out of their sight at the store.
“You all right?” I ask.
She emerges from the stall, and she’s one of those chicks who still looks gorgeous even when she’s crying. The type who’d only gain twenty pounds of adorable baby bump if she were pregnant. Her ass wouldn’t spread. Her feet wouldn’t swell.
Her eyes don’t get puffy when she cries either; they glisten. Snot doesn’t drip down her face. It’s like she has an understanding with her body that, no matter what, her looks aren’t a thing to be messed with.
Her gaze wide as a Disney Princess’s in her reflection, she finally says, “I’m fine. I just—shouldn’t have come here.” A pout to her glossed lips. She examines herself, still avoiding eye contact with me and digging in her Coach bag. “I can’t go out there until I know he’s gone.”
“Who?”
“That guy. You know who.”
I laugh. “I suppose I do. But he’s the reason—do you know him or something? Is he an ex-boyfriend?”
She scoffs. “Please. As evidenced by my ridiculous tumble out there, I can’t even get within twenty feet of someone I find attractive without making a huge ass of myself.” She dabs at her wet lashes with a tissue and then waves a mascara wand over them.
I curl a lip at her in the mirror.
“And don’t give me that,” she snaps. “It’s a condition.”
“WebMD diagnosed?”
“Yes, but—”
“Well, I call bullshit, but that’s okay. Look, you finish that”—I indicate the improvements she thinks she’s making to her flawless-even-in-catastrophe self—“and I’ll make sure he’s gone.”
I can see the hint of relief break through the sadness around her eyes.
I have misjudged her. Pretty people have problems too.
Gross.
But still.
I’ve underestimated her—not taken what she’s had to say seriously because of how she looks.
I’m the asshole.
What’s new.
Just as I turn to go, she stops me with a gasp. “Oh my God, you’re her, aren’t you?”
“Uh…”
Her face lights. “You are! You’re the one I came here to see!” She turns her face upward, the fluorescent lights bouncing off her smile, and gives a little wiggle as she clutches my arm. “My friend Kelly sent me. You’re the one with the”—she narrows her gaze and lowers her voice—“business.” She hooks an eyebrow on that last word, and I feel like I’m in the midst of a drug deal on an after-school special.
I lose it in laughter. “Ohhhhhhh. Yes. That’s me. I’m the Godfather.” I make like Marlon Brando and start brushing the sides of my face with the back of my hand.
This is probably one of the many reasons I’m single.
“I was thinking more like Fairy Godmother,” she corrects.
I laugh again and draw back my hands. “That’s one way of putting it, but I never make any promises. That’s Rule Number 2. But listen, uh—”
“Ansley.” She makes an attempt to straighten her damaged clothing like I’m suddenly important and she’s on a job interview.
“Ansley. Right. Well, I’d like to help you, but I’ve never really dealt with something like what you’ve got, you know?”
“I’m sure you haven’t!” She giggles behind long dainty fingers. “Would you believe I’m actually banned from the Smithsonian?”
I squint at her, as something about that sounds familiar. And then those words register behind my eyes, wrenching my mouth open once again. I take a step back, lean against the sink. “You aren’t the girl who knocked over the stegosaurus display last summer, are you?”
She does ta-da hands. “In the flesh.”
“Holy shit!” I gasp. “I’m sorry! Well, I mean, my services are usually just for women who aren’t good at picking men or who aren’t getting matched up with the right ones. Not those who almost kill them with dinosaur bones or scald them with hot coffee.”
Her lips turn down a bit. But then—lightning strike.
A snap of her fingers. “I’ll pay you double your normal fee.”
A girl after my own heart.
I have to swallow. Double my normal fee would mean I could finally pay down my credit card. Not feel bad about a Target shopping spree. Not get that cereal that comes in a bag this month.
I mean, dream big.
I get lost for a second in the one Big Thing I could potentially use it for…but then, one job—no matter how much money this chick throws at me—isn’t going to buy me my own store. So I shake that thought from my head and come back to reality.
I take in her bright blue eyes, and they hold all the hopefulness in the world. They hang on one little word from me.
“Oh, come on,” she says. “Money’s not a thing for me. And it’s the least I can do for probably ruining a couple hundred bucks’ worth of your merchandise.”
“Meh.” I toss it away with a carefree wrist. “No one was going to buy that book anyway.”
As we both crack up, I feel like I’m laughing with an old friend.
“Okay, I’ll do it.”
“You will?”
“Sure. I could use a challenge.” I shrug.
“Fantastic.” She throws her arms around me kinda gawky, and I’m laughing again. She’s like a golden retriever.
“I’ll go hunt around for some safety pins,” I say with a pat to her shoulder. “And deal with the aftermath of Hurricane Ansley.”
She winces.
I wink.
When I reach the floor, Gordon’s already cleaned up the bulk of it. There are five salvageable copies, five Glenn Becks grinning up at me from the display; and as for the rest, Gordon is already affixing 50% off stickers to the front covers.
“She okay?” He shoves some Maria Shriver cookbooks over and makes room on the discount table.
“I think so,” I say.
“It’s too bad because I thought that delectable piece of eye candy was going to be your first lay in—how long’s it been again?”
I smack him in the ch
est.
“But alas.” He frowns. “He’s gone.”
“Alas.” I deadpan. “It wasn’t a total loss. She’s enlisted my”—I drop my voice to a whisper—“services.” We both bug our eyes and then chortle.
“This chick has more problems than I do,” I say.
“How is that possible?” He squishes his face—and I slap a 50% off sticker to his forehead.
“Get back to work.”
“Ooh, I can’t wait!” He does a bunch of little claps.
Chapter 5
I walk in El Matador’s, and it’s peak happy hour time, young professionals deep in their first pitchers of margaritas. I spot Ansley in a corner booth. All business once again. The epitome of Ann Taylor in a skirted suit.
The way she fiddles with the thin rose gold chain around her neck tells me she’s the type of girl who can’t be in a restaurant by herself. Her gaze flits from menu to clock, TV to phone. She chews at that bottom lip. Doesn’t make eye contact with anyone. But when I manage to catch her glance, her whole expression eases—a familiar face to rescue her from looking like a loser who eats alone, I suppose.
“Thanks for meeting with me,” she says in an awkward half stand, her lower body still trapped under the table.
“No problem.” I’ve already made myself comfortable, pretzeled my legs up under me, and I stick my nose in the appetizers section. Trace a finger down the choices. “I’m thinking the chicken quesadilla has Blanche written all over it,” I say and then look over my glasses at her. “Normally I handle this kind of thing over e-mail, but I can see from the other day that this isn’t going to be an ordinary job.”
She quirks her lips into a tight smile that tugs at my heartstrings.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” Her gaze drifts down to the empty bread plate in front of her.
When the server steps in with the specials, it couldn’t be a more welcome diversion, and I delight in ordering us a celebratory pitcher of sangria.
Over the course of fifteen minutes, I get some background on Miss Ansley Boucher, and I already feel like we’re going to be best friends. She’s the type of person you like right away—easy smile, self-aware, and concerned with propriety. With the truth.
She’s twenty-seven, she’s a fact checker for The D.C. Daily, and she hasn’t been on a date in two years.
When she’s rattling off the basics, there’s not a nervous bone in her body. She’s fluid yet intense as she talks with her hands. Punctuates as necessary. It’s hard to believe she has trouble with men, yet I saw her take a spill (quite literally).
“So how does this work exactly?” She swirls a tortilla chip in hypnotic circles around the bowl of queso, and then she takes a modest scoop with delicate fingers.
I curl my upper lip at her and snap my damn chip right in half so I can dip twice. Show her how it’s done.
“It depends on what you’re looking for,” I say.
“Truth be told, I’m looking to have an interaction with a guy where he’s not just staring at my chest—but also where he’s someone I could actually see myself ending up with. Someone I’m attracted to but not like he’s so attractive that I’m accidentally stepping on his feet all night—or kneeing him in the nuts.”
I stop mid-dip. “Has that actually happened?”
She starts in on her bottom lip again, so I drop it.
“Set your sights low. Got it! That’s Rule Number—”
“Well, not—”
“I’m teasing.” Crunch. “Let’s just keep it light. Do you have a Spark account?”
She squishes her perfect features at me, and I chuckle.
“Okay, we’ll start there.”
After two rounds of sangria and a basket and a half of tortilla chips (mainly consumed by moi), we’ve got her profile in order. Flattering but not “fuck me” pics, pithy little captions, and my personal favorite—the profile summary statement.
“All set!” I slide the phone across the table at her so she can see my handiwork, and she squints at the screen. “‘No prison tattoos?’”
One strong ha bursts out of me and a few patrons turn and scowl. I ignore them.
“Oh, I’m sorry—was I wrong in assuming that’s a no-no? Are you into prison tattoos?” I lift an eyebrow at her.
“No, but that’s my summary. Isn’t that a little…”
“Hilarious? Yes. You’re welcome. Look, we can tweak as we go. But we want to establish some personality, don’t we? You want a guy with a sense of humor, right?”
Her eyes say she’s terrified, but they also indicate she’s too afraid not to trust me.
“What do you think stands out more, ‘no prison tattoos’ or ‘I love to laugh’?”
I fold my hands under my chin and bat my eyes, and a grin tugs at the corners of her mouth.
“This is why you’re paying me the big bucks. Now, let’s do some window-shopping.”
I drop the burner phone into my purse and produce my notebook from the depths of it. Start scribbling away some notes on her background and such before my next sangria washes them right out of my brain.
“We’re not going to start using Spark right now?”
“Not yet, grasshopper. I need to get a feel for your type first. You don’t want me guessing and then end up setting you up with a bunch of uggos, do you?”
She nearly chokes on her drink.
“Scoot over,” I say, and I scan the crowd, which is mostly sporting the corporate casual look. Lots of slack ties and blazers draped over briefcases.
My attention lands on a trio of testosterone huddled around a pub table. They’re a veritable melting pot of men with such different styles, I half expect a Zayn Malik lookalike to step on the scene and complete the boy band.
“Okay, what’ll it be?” I gesture with a confident hand, and Ansley all but claws the skin off my arm.
“They’ll see you!”
I cut her a stare. “This isn’t seventh grade; that’s kind of the point.”
“I knowwwww.” She claps a palm to her forehead and she’s already half hyperventilating into her fried ice cream.
“So? We’ve got big and bulky muscles, head shaved, beard not, a poor man’s Idris Elba, if you will; tall and wiry Prince William prepster; and then—hello dolly—medium-build John Cho over there.”
She drinks them in and then shakes her head like I’m breaking her brain. “I don’t know. They’re all kind of good-looking, you know? Like in their own way.”
“Sure, they’d all get you through the night—no problem. But you don’t have a type?” I whisper “Idrisssss” out of one side of my mouth.
“Not really, I guess.” She doesn’t lift her stare from them, and her countenance melts into sorrow.
“Tell me about the last guy you’ve dated seriously.”
Still trained in the guys’ direction, her gaze glazes over like she’s picturing it happening right out in front of her.
“Seth. It was junior year at American. He was a business major; I was poli-sci. He wasn’t particularly tall, I suppose. Glasses. Curly dark hair. Kind of preppy.”
“At American University? You don’t say.” I give her an elbow, but she’s not ready to joke yet. She’s still picturing this dude.
I’m picturing a Menendez brother.
“I just don’t know how to explain it. I was so focused on school. I didn’t have much time to go to parties, to be fun. I was poring over notes, doing research projects; he was going to take over his father’s company. He didn’t have to work too hard.”
I give an eye-roll. “I know the type.”
I’m still listening, but I’m sizing up these guys across the way as she speaks. Trying to figure out which one I’d pick for her. Probably not the one with the toothpick in his mouth.
“He was always telling me I was sheltered, or that I wasn’t adventurous enough. That I needed to relax once in a while and blow off some steam. And he wasn’t wrong. But I have a very hard time, you kno
w? Letting loose?”
I give her fingertips a pat. “I know.”
“But I loved him, and he loved me, and so he’d plan these little adventures. These romantic excursions for us to do. And it got harder and harder to keep my klutziness in check.”
“He didn’t realize how much ‘pulling you out of your comfort zone’ would really pull you out of your comfort zone.”
“Exactly.” She smacks the tabletop. “But I was trying. I really was. I wanted to be everything he wanted me to be. One day, I came up with this idea to surprise him.”
“Oh no.”
She just looks at me.
“I wanted to plan something fun for us to do—something out of my comfort zone—”
“Something not Ansley,” I add, and she continues without a hitch.
“So I rented this Vespa. I was scared to death, naturally, of whipping around on it, but I really immersed myself in this idea. Really felt like I could handle it, if I were doing it for him, and that ramping up my sense of adventure was going to be good for me. For us. I asked him to meet me out front of his frat house this one afternoon, and I could see him there. Unsuspecting. Checking his phone and waiting for me, for whatever surprise I had in store for him, the wind blowing my hair this way and that, invigorating me, making me feel alive, my cheeks stinging both with the whip of the breeze and the rush that came to them as I rode.
“And then, all at once, he heard the scooter, I guess. He glanced up at me and our eyes met. And I just couldn’t control the damn thing. I hit a rock or something and tried to overcorrect—I can still hear the screech of the brakes on the pavement, still smell the tires melting beneath me, and still see the look on his face—as I crashed right into him.”
She squeezes her eyes tight and shudders.
My hands fly to my mouth. “You killed him?”
“Oh God, no.” She shakes her head. “But I did land him in a full body cast. And when I got to the hospital with him, once he was set up and finally calm, he told me he really cared about me, but he couldn’t take it anymore. He knew I didn’t mean to almost kill him, but he shuddered to think of what kind of damage I could do over the course of the rest of our lives together, and so—he was done.”
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