The F-Word: A Sexy Romantic Comedy

by Sandra Marton

  “That’s one of the amazing things about smartphones, Case. All you have to do is look at the screen and you can see who’s calling.”

  Casey gives a deep sigh. “I know. But Jenny’s pre-school called this same time yesterday and the day before, and I just figured—”

  “So what happens when this juvenile delinquent finger-paints my niece? If the little so-and-so makes her cry—”

  “Only the first time. Now she marches straight to the water colors, grabs a container and dumps it over his head.”

  I laugh.

  “Don’t laugh, Matt. It isn’t…” That’s as far as she gets before she laughs too. “Welcome to my world, brother dearest—and hold on a sec while I wipe up some puppy pee.”

  I wait while my sister does her thing. She leads a busy life. A big house. A toddler. A puppy. A husband who owns a technology company. And she loves it all, wants it all, and not even the husband she adores and who adores her can figure out how she manages to deal with everything while still running her online business, Casey’s Quest. Yeah. She’s that Casey, the one whose site helps busy women locate stuff like antique perfume bottles and antimacassars, not that I really know what in hell an antimacassar is or why anybody would want to locate one.

  “Okay,” she says. “I’m back. Hey. Is everything okay? You don’t usually phone me during the day.”

  “Everything is fine.” I run my hand through my hair. “I just, uh, I just need a little advice.”

  She laughs again. “On what? Potty training? Puppy train—Mongo! Mongo, put down that slipper. Bad puppy. Baaad puppy!”

  “Mongo? You named a two month old Golden Retriever Mongo?”

  “Talk to your brother-in-law. He’s seen Blazing Saddles more times than any human being should.”

  Now I’m the one who’s laughing. It almost—almost—makes it a little easier to get to the reason for my call.

  “Case?”

  “Mmm?”

  “That advice I need…It’s more like a favor. You got a couple of free hours today?”

  My sister doesn’t just laugh, she guffaws.

  “I guess not,” I say glumly.

  “At least tell me what the favor is. Who knows? Maybe today’s when I figure out how to turn twenty-four hours into twenty-five.”

  “It’s a favor for Bailey.”

  “Bailey? The woman who should get the Croix de Guerre for putting up with you all these years?”

  “See, she’s got this wedding to go to,” I say, ignoring the comment. “A family thing. It’s a three day job, Friday through Sunday.”

  “Three days in the bosom of her family? Wow. I hope she doesn’t have an Uncle Harry.”

  Uncle Harry is a man whose views on virtually anything you might foolishly mention are enough to empty a room.

  “Close enough. She has a Cousin Violet.”

  “Ah.”

  “Violet’s the sort who pulls wings off flies. And if Bailey doesn’t show up looking like a fashion plate, she’ll end up being the fly.”

  “Poor Bailey. I admit, she doesn’t exactly, you know, wear the things she should. I mean, if she did, she’d be a knockout because, basically, she’s a really pretty girl.”

  “You see that too?”

  “What do you mean, do I see that too? Who’s the ‘too’ in this equation?”

  I close my eyes. I am absolutely not taking the conversation in that direction.

  “What I mean is, you have an excellent eye. And you always look great.”

  “Puppy pee and baby drool will do that,” my sister says. “So forget the compliments and get to the favor. What is it you need from me?”

  “I need you to take her shopping.”

  “Bailey?”

  “Yes.”

  “To buy some clothes for this wedding?”

  “Right.”

  “How does she feel about that? Shopping is a personal kind of thing.”

  “I see packs of women in stores all the time.”

  “What you see are friends,” my sister says, a little coldly, “not packs. And they’re just bonding.”

  “Whatever. The question is, are you willing to do it?”

  I feel a tug at my sleeve. I pivot and there’s Bailey, staring at me and shaking her head frantically from side to side.

  “Take Bailey shopping?”

  “Yes.” I glare at Bailey. “Take Bailey shopping.”

  More head-shaking. I turn away. No good. Bailey turns with me.

  “When?” Casey asks.

  “Today.”

  “The wedding is this weekend?”

  “Right.” Bailey digs her fingers into my arm. I mouth Stop that! and shake free. “I know it’s last minute, but—”

  “I’d have to leave all this pee-and-poop behind, bribe Mongo with a butterscotch cookie so I can corral him into his crate, ask Liam to leave work early so he can pick up Jenny…”

  “Yeah. Right. I understand. I should have figured—”

  “Where am I meeting Bailey and when?”

  “You mean you’ll do it?”

  Casey gives a very unladylike snort. It’s a nice counterpoint to the punches I’m taking in the biceps. Turns out Bailey has a pretty good right.

  “Of course. I love Bailey. If she needs me, she’s got me. Just give me ten minutes to shower and change into something that won’t make people scream and run.”

  “Where?”

  Bailey is shaking her head from side to side the way Walter did this morning, after he came in from the rain.

  Casey names a mall maybe twenty minutes from my office.

  “It’s upscale,” she tells me. “Lots of good stores. Small ones. Big ones. We can find everything we…Uh oh.”

  “Uh oh, what?”

  “This is going to be an expensive afternoon, Matt. I’m sure you pay Bailey well, but…Maybe you’d better ask her to give me some parameters.”

  Expensive. I think back to last night. The shoes. The purse. The scarf. Yup. This trip is gonna be pricey, and way outside what even a well-paid PA can afford.

  “Don’t worry about cost,” I say briskly. “It’s on me. Her annual bonus—ouch!”

  Bailey’s glare is as hard as her punch. I grab her wrist. She starts to come at me with her other hand so I drop the phone and grab it too.

  She’s furious. Fiery with anger. I haul her closer and she loses her footing and tumbles against me. For a heartbeat, her body is pressed to mine and I flash back to last night, that doorway, that kiss…

  “Matt? Did I lose you?”

  I swallow hard, let go of my PA, and scramble for the phone on the floor.

  “Thirty minutes,” I say briskly.

  “Make it forty-five,” my sister says. “Tell Bailey I’ll meet her at the main entrance to Nordstrom’s.”

  “Will do,” I say, but it’s a lie.

  I don’t have to tell Bailey anything. Considering how things just went, I’ll have to go on this little trip with her.

  * * *

  She sits as far from me as she can in the ’Vette. She’s not just angry, she’s totally pissed off.

  “You had no right to involve your sister in this,” she says coldly.

  “You involve people in conspiracies,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “This is a simple shopping trip.”

  “There’s nothing simple about your sister knowing that we’re going to—that we’re going to—”

  “Spend the weekend in a suite-that’s-not-really-a-suite together?”

  Okay. The look she shoots me makes it clear bad jokes are not the way to improve her mood.

  “Look,” I say, “all Casey knows is that you’re going to a family thing and you want to knock their eyes out.”

  Another look that could kill. “I am not that kind of person,” Bailey says,” nor do I wish to become one.”

  Nor do I wish to become one. I can almost hear my Mom applauding.

  “And you’re leaving out the fact that you’re going to the we
dding with me so you can pretend to be my—my lover.”

  She says the word as if it’s a synonym for leper. I want to laugh, but sanity prevails.

  “Casey doesn’t have to know anything about that.” I shift a little behind the wheel. Truth is, I don’t want my sister to know the full plan. There’d be too many questions and raised eyebrows and jokes and speculation when there’s nothing to speculate about. “All she needs are the basics. You’re going to a family function you don’t really want to go to, and you want to make the whole crew sit up and take notice.”

  “Not everybody. Just my cousin.”

  “Venomous Vi.”

  If I hoped for a laugh, I don’t get one. All I get is a hmpf and a narrow-eyed glare.

  “And how do I explain your presence today?”

  “You don’t. I’ll just say I’m along for the ride.”

  “And why, exactly—just for my own information—are you insisting on going with me?”

  “You’ll hold back on what you spend if I’m not there,” I tell her bluntly. “And we cannot let that happen.”

  “We cannot?”

  “That’s right. We. As in, I’m in this with you. Because I volunteered. I wasn’t shanghaied or coerced.”

  “What you mean is, you’re my boss. And you think that gives you the right to make the rules.”

  I don’t hesitate. All you feminists out there, take a breath because you’re not going to like my answer.

  “Yes,” I say. “It does.”

  11

  My sister is right where she said she’d be, standing outside the main entrance to Nordstrom’s. She looks a little surprised to see me, but she doesn’t say that. Instead, she says ‘Hi’ to Bailey, gives her a quick hug and then does the same for me.

  “Thank you for doing this,” Bailey says, in pretty much the same way you’d thank your dentist for skipping the Novocain and going straight in with the drill. “I told Mr. O’Malley he shouldn’t have bothered you, but—”

  “It’s no bother at all.” Casey smiles. “In fact, I’m delighted to spend a few hours doing girl stuff.” She looks at me. “No reason to wait here, Matt. I can run Bailey back to the office when we’re done.”

  “No problem,” I say. “I’m going to tag along with you.”

  Casey stares at me. “You are?”

  I shrug my shoulders as if to assure her that I do this kind of thing all the time.

  “It’s a quiet day at the office. I figured I’d join the party.”

  From the look my sister gives me, my answer sounds as lame to her as it sounds to me. In fact, I can almost see her filing it away so she can pull it out later and try to make sense of it.

  “Mr. O’Malley doesn’t trust me to spend his money wisely,” Bailey says.

  “Your money. Not mine. Your bonus money. And would you do us both a favor and stop that Mr. O’Malley crap?”

  This time, Casey stares at both of us. Yeah. Okay. I shouldn’t have said that—but how can a woman who burned in my arms not twelve hours ago go back to calling me Mr. O’Malley? Why would she be so damn intent on building a wall between us?

  “Sorry,” I mutter. “I guess I didn’t get enough caffeine this morning.”

  Casey nods. Then she links arms with my PA and smiles.

  “Okay,” she says, her voice even brighter than her smile, “how about we get started? We have lots to do and not much time to do it in.”

  She heads into the store with Bailey marching beside her. I wait a couple of seconds before I fall in behind them.

  And I remind myself that I am going to have to be exceedingly careful of what I say.

  * * *

  Man, the things dudes don’t know about women’s clothing.

  You’re a guy, shopping is easy. Shirts? You go to the Shirt department. Tees? In the same place as shirts, except in their own little area. Pants are in—what else?—the Pants department. And right there you can locate khakis and jeans and what my Mom always calls trousers, the kind of pants you wear with a sports jacket. I could go on like this for a while—suits are in the Suit department, ties and socks are in the Accessories area—but you get my drift.

  Men’s clothing is sold in logical, easy-to-figure ways.

  Women’s stuff…You don’t just need a map, you need a compass, a sextant, and a translator.

  My sister has drawn up a list. She’s come up with a plan. She’s figured out what Bailey will need for a three-day weekend and she’s prioritized it, meaning she’s ranked things in their order of importance. So numero uno on this list is Something to Wear to the Saturday Night Wedding.

  I think this means we’re going to the dress department.

  We’re not.

  Well, we are. Sort of. Where we go is to Evening Wear, and after a swift look through the racks, Casey shakes her head and we hunt down Cocktail Wear. Another rack check and we have to ferret out Separates. Not Sportswear Separates. Not Business Separates. Separates, as in long skirts and short ones, velvet pants and silk ones, tops that look like they’re made out of gauze and others with enough beads to throw off your vision.

  Nothing is right, Casey decides,

  “I wanted to get Saturday night out of the way,” she says, “but there are other shops in the mall for that, so let’s just see if we can get some of the other things we need while we’re still here. Something to wear Friday, for instance.”

  This turns out to mean that we’re going to Sportswear and then narrow our search even further, from Sportswear to Designer. After some exploration, she determines which designer does clothes that will work best for Bailey. She accomplishes this even though, at first, it becomes a cross-examination.

  “Patterns?” she asks. “Or solids?”

  Bailey shrugs. “I’m not sure.”

  “Low slung pants or high waist?”

  Another shrug.

  “Favorite colors?”

  “I don’t have favorite colors.”

  I am sure she would show more enthusiasm in a dental chair.

  “Black and anything that looks like black,” I say. Both women look at me. I hold up my hands. “Sorry.”

  And I am sorry. I am in a bad mood. I’ve no idea why—or maybe I do. Maybe it’s because I can see that my PA’s heart isn’t really in this. Is she seriously upset about the bonus thing? Should I have let her go shopping alone? Am I pushing her too hard? Is she regretting that she agreed to let me go with her this weekend?

  Or is she sorry about that kiss last night?

  Because I am not sorry. Okay. I am. But what I’m sorry about is that I didn’t follow through, take it further because, hell, I wanted to, I still want to, and why isn’t she feeling what I feel…

  “…do you think?”

  I am leaning against a pillar, arms folded over my chest, staring into space.

  “Matt? What do you think?”

  I blink and realize that Casey is looking at me.

  “Sorry. What do I think about what?”

  “About this outfit?” she says, and points to the right, so I turn in that direction and I see Bailey, standing outside the fitting room.

  Bailey, in a white T with long sleeves and a V-neck. Bailey, in white pants that skim what are obviously long, long, incredible legs. Bailey, with her hair loose and hanging in soft waves. down her back…

  “For tomorrow,” Casey says into the silence. “The drive up to Schenectady. Add this blazer—” She holds out a jacket the color of a ripe apricot—“and a pair of white mules, and it’s a perfect look.”

  “Perfect,” I say, and to hell with why a woman would want mules on her feet. All I can see is my beautiful PA, her chin high, her cheeks the same shade as the jacket, and something inside me twists. “More than perfect.”

  “Great,” my sister says.

  And Bailey—

  Bailey lets out a long breath.

  And is that…?

  It is.

  It’s a smile.

  * * *

  It�
��s easier after that.

  The white outfit. The apricot blazer. A pair of white mules which turn out to be shoes without backs and I make a mental note to Google mules and find out why that’s what they’re called because there must be some kind of logic in this fantasyland called women’s clothing.

  Jeans. A couple of T-shirts. A pale blue dress. It’s the same blue as the butterfly-wing shoes we got last night, and I can already picture Bailey in the dress with the shoes.

  And Bailey’s participating.

  Turns out she has some definite ideas. Likes and dislikes. I begin to suspect that long-ago shopping trips with Vexatious Vi had left their mark, and now, with my sister’s gentle guidance, those memories are fading.

  I make two trips out to the parking lot to deposit bags and boxes in the car. When I rejoin my ladies, they’re sitting on a bench, Starbucks containers in their hands. Casey’s holding two; she hands me one.

  “Black,” my sister says. “Two sugars.”

  I nod. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me. Thank Bailey.” She sighs. “Liam and I have been together six years and I’d bet he hasn’t the foggiest idea of how I take my coffee. I guess working together day after day has made you guys pretty close.”

  Bailey and I look at each other. She blushes. I do the male equivalent, meaning I clear my throat.

  Casey’s eyebrows lift.

  I try to come up with something clever to say. Then I decide the best thing is to say nothing, so I all but bury my face in my cup and drink my coffee. Bailey does the same and after looking from one of us to the other, Casey gives what I’m sure is a mental shrug and joins us.

  After a while, we’re all holding empty containers.

  “Well,” Casey says, “we’ve only got one thing left.” She looks at Bailey. “Something for you to wear to the wedding. Any ideas?”

  Bailey’s been offering opinions for the past hour or so. This time, she shakes her head.

  “None.”

  “Well, what kind of wedding is it going to be? Afternoon? Evening? The party, I mean. Small? Big? At home? In a hotel?”