by Becky Monson
“Hmph,” I mutter through closed lips.
“But,” he looks up, his eyes meeting mine, “that’s kind of your thing.”
“My ‘thing’?”
“Making the easy stuff harder,” he says.
“What? That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
“Yes—yeah. I don’t do that.”
His lips pull out into an even line, that normal facial expression of his. He sits back in his seat and studies me.
I shake my head, feeling so very odd. Like the first day of school when you were a kid. Almost out-of-body. “Logan, you have no idea what my ‘thing’ is.”
“Sure I do,” he says, a smug expression on his face.
“Oh, I get it,” I dip my chin to my chest. “You’re one of those guys who thinks they have women pegged.”
He shakes his head in slow and small movements, his eyes on me. “I’ve never claimed to understand women.”
“But you think you know me?”
“Well, we’ve been around each other quite a bit.”
“Yeah, but it’s not like you’ve had any real conversations with me.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “It doesn’t matter if we’ve had long conversations; I’ve been around you enough to see.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Okay, well, let me ask you this. When’s the last time you did something spontaneous?”
“Well . . . I . . .” I stop so I can think for a second. “I came here on a whim,” I say after a few seconds, feeling quite smug by my answer. Because I did come here without thinking about it. Mostly to avoid work.
“Here?” He scrunches his forehead.
“Yeah. Here.”
“Ooo,” he shakes his hands, palms facing me, “how daring.”
“Shut up,” I say, half-irritated, half-laughing. Logan made a joke and is now teasing me? He chuckles too, through a closed-mouth smile. His laugh is low and guttural and his whole body moves as he does it. My insides twist and turn in strange ways seeing him like this.
“How about something bigger,” he says.
I struggle to come up with an answer, and I really want to come up with one—to prove him wrong. I know there’s one, I have one. I just need some time.
“Well . . . I can’t think of anything right now,” I say.
His lips curl up smugly and I feel a sudden burst of irritation. This whole situation is ridiculous. Talking to Logan, opening up to him . . . him acting like he knows me at all. Which he doesn’t. The whole thing is silly. And stupid. And annoying.
I go to stand, scooting out of the booth, which is never as easy as scooting back a chair and standing up. There’s maneuvering and probably some awkward facial features and noises as the skin on my leg moves along the fake leather seat. I finally get myself out of the booth and grab my coffee.
“Well, thanks for your thoughts,” I say, making sure that through my tone, it’s very obvious I’m not thankful, nor has anything he said been helpful. Because I’m not. And it hasn’t.
“Anytime,” he says with a lift of his chin.
With that, I turn around and leave.
~*~
“Knock, knock!” a sing-song voice says from outside my office door, paired with a couple of light knocks.
I should have left for the day rather than coming back here after the Lava Java.
“Come in,” I say wishing I had some sort of trap door I could disappear through.
“Holly,” Tiffany says, a smile on her face. Today she’s wearing a royal blue dress that hugs her curves perfectly.
“I just popped in to see how today went,” she says, standing in the doorway. She probably wants me to invite her in to take a seat, but I don’t.
“Today?” I ask, even though I know exactly what she’s talking about.
“Yes, your team training?” She comes in and takes a seat anyway. She sits with her butt perched on the edge of the chair, as if ready to spring off at any minute. Oh, if only she would.
“Oh, yes,” I bat a hand around in the air. “It went great,” I lie.
“Oh, good,” she says. “It’s so hard to manage these kids, am I right?” She laughs a super annoying laugh. And kids? I think Brad is like five years older than me.
“Sure,” I say, only capable of mustering up half of a fake smile.
“Of course, when you train them right, they just do their job. Like my team,” she says, echoing my fake smile and adding a patronizing tone to her voice.
I see Tiffany has decided not to spar and go straight for the gut-punch. I’d say the B-word is quite fitting right now. I can’t say it out loud, but I shall say it repeatedly in my head.
“Do you have anything else for me, Tiffany?” Or are you here to rub your amazing training skills in my face? B-word. B-word, B-word, B-word.
“Actually, yes,” she says with an expression on her face that tells me this is the real reason she’s in my office and I find I want to be anywhere but here. Like on a beach, even.
“Do tell,” I say blandly.
She leans forward and splays her hands on my desk. “I have it on good authority,” she says low and quietly, “that Mike is leaving in July.” I go rigid in my seat, but keep my facial expressions in check.
“Really?” I say, trying to feign non-interest. I’m trying to figure out how she could have this bit of info. Marie said no one else but she knew about Mike leaving and about the job opening. I was told to keep it to myself until further notice. And now Tiffany knows and has a date, even. July? That’s like three months away. So soon.
“How do you know this?” I ask, not able to help myself.
“Oh, silly Holly,” she says with a cackle of delight. “I can’t tell you that.” She shakes her head, her face full of condescension. “Anyway, I just wanted to warn you.”
“Warn me?”
“Yes,” she says.
I tilt my head, looking at her through squinty eyes. “Why would I need a warning?”
She squints back. “Well, because clearly the job will go to either you or me.”
“You don’t know that,” I say. “They could hire from outside.” I’m just saying this. Marie has already told me they were planning on hiring internally.
“True,” she nods in agreement. She peers over her shoulder again, and then back to me when she feels confident no one is listening, “But I have it on good authority that it’s going to be an inside promotion.”
“Interesting,” I say, leaning back in my chair as I feign nonchalance. Inside I’m still trying to figure out how she would know. Did Marie tell her? No, there’s no way it was Marie.
“I also wanted to warn you about something else,” she says, her voice lowering even further, the corner of her lip twitching upward. “My source has told me that I’m the front-runner.”
This time I’m not able to hold back any facial expressions. My jaw drops in reflex, my mouth forming an O. And upon my reaction, her lip twitch transforms into an unmistakable smirk.
She thinks she’s the front-runner? She . . . her . . . Tiffany . . . the front runner for Mike’s job. Well now, isn’t that interesting. I kind of want to say I have it on real authority that the job is mine . . . if I can get my team to stop being such stupid freaking babies. I can’t tell her this since I was told in confidence by Marie, but, oh, how I wish I could rub it in her smug face. Pretty sure that would fix my chakras.
“Now, Holly, don’t you go worrying about all that,” she says, a sudden lightness to her tone, fakeness oozing from every pore. “I’m sure you still have a chance. But, you know, I wanted to give you a heads-up so you don’t get too excited about the idea.”
Oh, Tiffany. So helpful. So B-word-y.
“That is so kind of you, Tiffany,” I say, mustering up my best mocking tone.
“Well, what are friends for?” she says.
Oh, Tiffany. Tiffany, Tiffany, Tiffany. We aren’t friends and we never will be, is what I want to say.
“Well, I sure do appreciate it,” is what I really say. But I make sure it’s oozing with extra-thick patronizing tones.
With that, she excuses herself from my office and is off as quickly as her tinkling Manolo Blahniks can take her.
I slouch back in my chair, letting out a deep breath. This definitely changes things. Just like that, I have a deadline and competition.
There’s no way I’m taking a vacation now.
Chapter 8
“I leave you both alone for thirty seconds to find you molesting a cabinet?” Thomas asks, dramatically moving his hands around.
It’s Wednesday evening and Quinn invited Thomas and me to go antique shopping with her because she likes to have me there for a second opinion, and she makes Thomas come so he can help us load whatever she buys into her car.
Currently we’re in an antique shop in downtown Winter Park, and Quinn and I both have our hands on a light gray antique curio cabinet, feeling the fine detail and design that’s on the doors.
“Shut up, Thomas,” Quinn says.
“What do you want to do with it?” I ask.
“Fix it up. Sand down some parts. Paint it sky blue,” she says. We both continue touching the molding on the front.
“It’s hideous,” Thomas declares.
“I think I’m going to buy it,” Quinn says, and Thomas’s body sags in displeasure. He doesn’t just do the neck and shoulder sag, but rather a whole-body effort.
“I think it’s gorgeous,” I say.
“This old thing?” Thomas says, holding his hand in the direction of the cabinet. With its worn paint and sagging left door, it will need some help, but the potential is there. “Oh right, I forgot you like this kind of crap,” he says to Quinn.
Quinn doesn’t just like antiques, it’s her only hobby. And she’s fantastically talented at it. She can find some of the ugliest pieces and change them into something incredible. She even has her own online store, which is rapidly growing in popularity. Quinn Creates is what she calls it, and the items she puts up sell within days. Hours, sometimes.
“Nothing a little Quinn lovin’ can’t fix,” she says in response to Thomas, a smirk on her face.
“That’s what all the guys are saying,” Thomas says, earning a slap on the arm from Quinn and an eye roll from me.
“I think it’s a great piece,” I say.
“It’s a piece all right,” says Thomas.
“Why do we even bring you?” I ask.
“Well, obviously you need something pretty to look at,” he says, circling his face with his index finger. “I mean, look around you. Even the people who shop at these places are hideous.” He nods his head toward an elderly lady wearing what appears to be a house coat standing a few feet away from us, perusing through a basket of old door knobs.
“You’re disgusting,” Quinn says, when she sees who he’s referring to.
“Are you buying this piece of junk or not?” he asks. “I’m starving.”
After studying it for a bit more, she declares it worthy of her Quinn-ness and purchases it. We then decide to walk down the street to the Green Grill to get some dinner, the damp, warm evening air making my skin and clothes feel sticky during the short jaunt.
The restaurant—all organic—is packed tonight, which is strange for a Wednesday. But we put our name in and take a seat on one of the benches they have in the waiting area.
Thomas and Quinn are bickering about something when the door to the restaurant opens, wafting in the humid air, and I hear a laugh.
I don’t even need to see a face, I’d recognize his laugh anywhere. Nathan. Of all the restaurants in all Central Florida . . .
Nathan walks in all bright-eyed, his hair tousled like it always is. Hanging onto his arm as he enters is the blond girl from that night at Hester’s. The night Logan said was just a business dinner. Allegedly. But there’s nothing businesslike about the scene before me. Once they come in through the door, Nathan wraps an arm around the blondie’s shoulders and she snuggles into him, resting her head on him. He leans his head down and says something that must have been funny because she lets out a high-pitched laugh.
They waltz up to the host stand, an aura of happiness surrounding them. After a few words to the host, Nathan looks to his left and there I am. Sitting with Quinn and Thomas, who have stopped fighting to take in the scene I’m seeing.
“Holly,” Nathan says as he walks toward us, a big smile on his face.
“Nathan,” I say, giving him my best cheesy grin. The fakest one I can muster.
“And Quinn and Thomas. Good to see you,” he says, acknowledging my friends. “This is Christine,” he says, giving one nod to the girl he’s still got his arm around.
I can’t even muster up a hello, so I smile thinly. I was supposed to be marrying this man in a little over a month. Our lives were to be intertwined permanently. Now he’s standing here, his arm around another woman. It’s all so . . . weird. And I feel like I should feel at least a little heartbroken at the sight, but I don’t. Not at all. Awkward, yes. Heartbroken, not so much.
“And how did you two lovebirds meet?” Thomas asks. Which ups the awkward level to a fever pitch. Thomas is good at this. It’s one of his many skills—making things even more uncomfortable than they already are.
“Uh,” Nathan says, now appearing a little sheepish. The situation must have just dawned on him fully. He’s often a little slow on the uptake. Especially in social situations.
“Through work,” Christine answers for him. “My company wants to buy Nathan’s latest app.”
Well, at least now I know Logan was telling the truth about that.
She peers up at Nathan after she says this, a look of pride in her face, and smiles. He smiles back. She reminds me of a garden fairy with her wispy blond hair and her cute button nose. She’s also several inches shorter than Nathan. And she’s dressed in skinny jeans and a tight cotton tank. Much more dressed down than the last time I saw her and also very different from how I dress. I don’t do cotton tanks. Unless I’m running. Nathan used to get on me about that, saying I always had to dress up for everything. But I’m not a jeans and T-shirt kind of girl.
The host calls out Quinn’s name and we say quick goodbyes and I throw out a “nice to meet you” even though it wasn’t all that nice.
We take our seats at a round table far off in the corner and I throw out a quick wish that Nathan and the pixie will be seated far away. But since the Universe or karma or whatever seems to have left me and has most likely grabbed a soda and some popcorn and taken a comfortable seat to see how this life of mine is going to play out, my hopes are low.
The server arrives and we order drinks and an appetizer to share.
Thomas sits back in his chair dramatically. “All right, Hols. Let’s talk about the elephant in the room.”
“I’d rather not,” I say.
“We need to talk about it.”
“We don’t,” I say.
He lets out a deep sigh and then smacks his lips. “What are we going to do about our parents getting married?”
I let out a small snort as Quinn’s eyes go wide with this bit of news.
I didn’t know he knew. And I hadn’t said anything because my dad had told me not to until Miranda had had a chance to talk to Thomas. I also know right away that Thomas doesn’t know there’s a date and a venue as well, because he would have led with that info. He wouldn’t be able to hold himself back.
“What?” Quinn says, stunned by this info.
“It’s true,” Thomas says, his face moving to hers. “Holly and I are going to be,” he gulps for emphasis, “siblings.”
“Are you serious?” Quinn says loudly, slapping the table in front of her. The older couple at the table next to us turns to look.
“Keep it down,” Thomas says to Quinn. “I’ve told you more than once, you have the voice of a banshee.”
Quinn rolls her eyes.
“When did you find out?” I ask.
“Your parents are getting married,” Quinn says, obviously having trouble wrapping her brain around this information.
“Yes,” Thomas says. “Unless we can stop them.”
“Why would we do that?” I ask. I’m not asking to ask—I really want to know why. Is there something Thomas knows that I don’t?
“Well, for starters, they haven’t dated that long.”
I nod my head—that was my initial worry as well. It all started on New Year’s Eve at a party that Thomas threw. I had invited my dad along because spending the night before the New Year together has always been a tradition. It was only about a half hour into the party that my dad and Miranda struck up a conversation, and that was the beginning of it all.
“And, I mean, well, you’ve seen my mom,” he tilts his head toward me.
“What’s that supposed to mean? My dad’s a catch,” I say, instantly annoyed that Thomas might think his mom is better than my dad. If anything, it’s the opposite.
“Yeah, Hols’s dad is a total babe,” Quinn says, and I give her a face full of disgust. Quinn has always said my dad is handsome and then usually adds some sort of “if I weren’t your best friend” clause. Which is gross on so many levels.
“But now my dreams of Mommy and Daddy ever getting back together are totally squashed,” Thomas says.
“Thomas, your dad has been remarried for years. That dream was squashed long ago,” Quinn says, her face full of confusion.
“Yes, but this is the final nail in that coffin,” Thomas says, a notable whining tone to his voice. “And anyway, her last name will be Murphy.”
“What’s wrong with Murphy?” pipes in Quinn, and I nod my head agreeing with that question.
He smacks his lips again. “It’s the whole double ‘M’ thing. Miranda Murphy.”
“But she’s Miranda Moore now,” I say.
“I know, and how sad for her. She did a disservice to herself with that, and now she’s doing it again. I just had higher hopes that if she remarried, she’d get a better monogram,” he hangs his head wearily.