CLAM JAM

by RC Boldt

  Stepping closer to him, I accept the wine and look down at the label with pleasant surprise.

  “It’s a Chardonnay. I hope that’s okay since I noticed you had a little wine cooler there with some in it.” He gestures to the cooler I’d splurged on when it was on sale a few Black Fridays ago.

  “Thanks, Ry.” I smile up at him, noticing the way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles down at me. “That’s really sweet.”

  “I’m going to head out.” Sarah draws our attention, and I realize I’d forgotten she was there.

  Stop being mesmerized by the hot gay guy, Maggie. Stop it.

  When Sarah steps out the door to leave, she turns with a mischievous grin and whispers at the last minute, “If there’s anyone who can turn him straight, it’s you.” With a quick wink, she skips off to the elevator.

  Locking the door, I lean against it for a moment, baffled by her silly words. Because that’s exactly what they are: silly. I know that and so does she. She’s just harassing me.

  But the idea—the thought—that he could be straight and be with me? It’s far more intriguing than I care to admit.

  Chapter Four

  Ry

  November

  There’s a knock on my bedroom door while I’m pulling on some clothes. I’ve just gotten home from work and wanted to change and chill for the night after a hellish day at the office.

  “Hold on a sec,” I say through the soft, worn cotton T-shirt I’m pulling over my head. Tugging it down quickly, I pad over to my door, opening it to see Maggie standing there, looking a bit nervous.

  “Hey.” She flashes me a shy grin as her eyes gloss over me, my hair likely ruffled from carelessly getting dressed. Running a hand through my short hair, I notice a quick flash of something across her face, but it’s gone before I can decipher it.

  “Hey, Mags,” I say, returning her smile. Don’t ask me why, but I just feel like she’s a Mags, and she clearly doesn’t object to me calling her that nickname. “What’s up?”

  “I wanted to see if you were interested in going to a hockey game with me tomorrow night?” Her head tips to the side, her long, brown hair shifting, and one thick lock drifts near the outer corner of her eye. Without thinking, I reach out and brush it aside.

  The moment my fingertips graze her soft skin, I feel it. I feel that tingle—the intense awareness. The widening of her blue eyes tells me that she feels it too.

  “I’d love to.” My voice comes out huskier than normal.

  Clearing her throat, she discreetly shifts out of my reach, making me realize I haven’t moved my hand from her face. “I already have tickets. I won tickets to the Albany Devils game through a raffle at work. Sarah was supposed to go with me, but she has to work, so …”

  “So I’m second best, huh?” I tease.

  She playfully shoves at my chest. “Stop it.”

  “I’d love to. What time should I be ready to go?”

  “Four o’clock. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to check out a new place nearby afterward that’s supposed to have pretty decent food and,”—she draws out that last word with a flourish—“some seriously awesome microbrews on tap.”

  “You had me at microbrews,” I offer, grinning.

  * * *

  Today marks three weeks since I’ve moved in with Maggie, and if I weren’t already convinced that she’s the one for me, I would be by now. Case in point—she asked me to go see a hockey game down in Albany. Hockey.

  We’ve nearly made ourselves hoarse from yelling along with other fans, at the refs, and at the opposing team’s players who started fights and are presently digging in to our food at Rutherfords. After trying the sampler of six beers first before choosing what we wanted to drink with our dinner, Maggie orders fish and chips while I decide to go with the bison burger.

  When Maggie falls quiet, I follow her line of sight and see that it’s resting on a couple sitting a few feet away. There’s a wistfulness in her gaze that can’t be missed.

  “You miss him?” I ask quietly. It pains me to pose this question, but I want to—need to—know her answer.

  Jerking her gaze to mine, appearing startled, she hesitates, “I …” before flashing a sad smile, “no, actually.”

  “But you miss having someone around.”

  I get it—I understand where she’s coming from. It’s hard to separate yourself from someone after being together—regardless of the circumstances—because you get used to having them around. You tend to miss their physical presence.

  She wrinkles her nose. “It’s stupid, isn’t it?”

  “Not at all.”

  Maggie lets out a tiny sigh, pushing her nearly empty plate aside before leaning toward the table. “He actually told me that one of the reasons he did what he did was because I let him see me without makeup.”

  “What the—” My voice is loud, and upon noticing glances from nearby patrons, I lower it, leaning forward, “hell, Mags? That’s bullshit.” I want to wrap my hands around this moron’s throat so badly right now.

  Shrugging, she looks down, running her index finger over the cool moisture on the outside of her beer glass. “I just want a guy who will love me even when I have no makeup on and still tell me—and believe—that I’m beautiful.” Her eyes meet mine, lips twisting in a sad smile. “Is that so wrong?”

  God, she looks so beautiful yet vulnerable right now. That doubt in her eyes is killing me because Mags is gorgeous, inside and out. She’s one of those women you can meet and chat with for five minutes and just know in your gut that she’s a genuine person. She’s real; nothing about her is fake or pretentious.

  Her hair is wrapped up in a clip, tousled and sexy looking atop her head. Her jeans mold her curves perfectly—and when she bent in her seat earlier, her jersey shifted, and I caught sight of a G-string.

  A fucking G-string. She’s trying to kill me.

  Shaking off my errant thoughts, I hold her gaze. “Get out a pen, please.”

  She stares at me in confusion. “Um, o-kay,” she answers slowly, rummaging through her small purse. Finding a pen, she holds it up. “Now, what?” The corners of her lips curve upward slightly as if she’s amused.

  Reaching across to the plastic bin holding the small, square napkins, I pluck one from the top. Sliding it across the table to her, I tap my index finger on it.

  “Write that down.”

  “What?”

  “Write that down. What you just said.” When she doesn’t make a move, I raise my eyebrows. “Didn’t you ever hear that saying, ‘If it is written, so it shall be’?”

  Shaking her head slowly, her lips curve up as her eyes dance with amusement. “Never.”

  “Well, it’s true. So,” I tap the napkin again, “write it down.”

  Her head cocks to the side. “Only if you do it with me.”

  “Deal.”

  She writes exactly what she told me.

  I want a guy who will love me even when I have no makeup on and still tell me—and believe—that I’m beautiful.

  She slides the napkin my way, holding out the pen for me. When I accept it from her, I feel that same tingle of awareness when my fingers graze hers.

  Looking down at the napkin for a brief moment, I decide what I’m going to write and choose to be completely honest.

  I want someone who will be cool with hanging out and watching movies we’ve seen a million times. Just to be with me.

  Capping the pen, I hand it back to her before bellowing dramatically, my voice booming throughout the bar, “If it is written, so it shall be!”

  Maggie laughs and reaches out to slide the napkin around so she can read what I wrote.

  “Hey,” her eyes light up, lifting to mine, “I do that with you. Even though I know I don’t count.” She winks at me, her smile bright—real—and I can clearly see that she’s happier than she was moments earlier.

  And it takes all of me to resist telling her that she counts.

  That she’s re
ally the only one who does.

  Chapter Five

  Maggie

  I never realized it could be so easy and … fun living with a guy. It feels like Ry and I have been friends forever. It’s like the big guy upstairs knew I needed someone in my life to get me through this really rough patch of everything pertaining to Shane. And, man, did he deliver.

  “Stop hogging all of the damn popcorn,” Ry grumbles good-naturedly when I snag an enormous handful from the large bowl he’s holding and drop a few in his lap.

  “Oops.” I shovel it into my mouth before reaching over to grab the strays I dropped on him. As soon as my hand hovers over his lap, he snags my wrist, drawing me to a halt. When my eyes meet his, my breath hitches. Because I swear, there’s heat in the depths of those hazel eyes …

  But just as quickly, it’s gone, and he’s flashing me an easy grin. “Don’t you be going downtown, now, or Jack’ll get jealous.”

  “Sorry.” I smile, my cheeks heating up. Pulling my hand back, I direct my attention back to the movie we’re watching. It’s one of our favorites: Pretty in Pink.

  “I really think she should’ve ended up with Duckie,” I murmur, tossing a few more kernels of popcorn in my mouth.

  There’s a pause before Ry responds quietly. “Really?”

  I nod, still watching the movie. “He’s her best friend, right? Totally had her back the entire time. And goes to prom with her when she gets crapped on by Blane.”

  “But she still chooses Blane in the end.”

  Something in Ry’s voice—almost like a hint of sadness—makes me turn and face him. His eyes are on the television, and there’s a tiny crease between his brows. Without thinking, I reach out to smooth it with my index finger. His eyes dart to mine.

  “There shall be no frowning, Mr. James,” I say softly with a gentle smile, trying to draw him back from whatever troublesome thoughts he’s having. “Not on my watch.”

  He holds my gaze for a brief moment before his face brightens, smiling down at me. Leaning my head against his shoulder, we resume watching the movie.

  And I don’t even register it when he wraps an arm around me, shifting my head to lean on his chest.

  All I know is that today is one of the best lazy Saturdays I’ve had in a while.

  * * *

  “How much time do you think I’d get for stabbing him in the jugular?” I hiss quietly into my phone. My office door is closed, but I still don’t want to risk “Sybil” overhearing me. No doubt about it, my boss is being moody as hell today and on the warpath. I overheard him complaining to one of the other partners about the fact they used a different colored highlighter on the paperwork.

  “You wouldn’t be able to make it, Mags. They don’t let you binge watch eighties movies in prison. Not to mention, you’d likely become someone’s bitch.” Ry’s voice is husky in my ear, and my eyes fall closed. God, his voice is so sexy. It just isn’t fair.

  “Oh! Better open your eyes and look like you’re hard at work. Looks like you’ve got incoming in five, four, three, two, one, ze—”

  There’s a knock on my door and—literally—no wait time whatsoever before my boss pushes the door open abruptly.

  “Finegan, where is that building inspection file for …” He finally registers that I’m on the phone as I hold up a finger. Nodding my head and writing down ambiguous notes on my small pad of paper, I pretend the person on the other end of the line is informing me of something.

  “All right, now if I can just confirm the building code for that site, please?” I ask, my tone completely business-like.

  “It’s coded for, You’re too sexy for that shirt,” Ry sings softly in my ear, to the tune of Right Said Fred’s classic song “I’m Too Sexy.” It takes every ounce of restraint not to grin like a fool.

  “Thank you, again, sir. We’ll be in touch.” I hang up the phone, giving my boss my full attention. “Sir, I left the file on your desk—”

  “I can’t find it.” God, his surly attitude is getting really old. If the pay and the perks weren’t so great, I’d look for work elsewhere.

  Rising from my desk, I walk around to the door, calling over my shoulder. “I’ll show you where I set it.”

  Of course, the file is in the same exact place where I left it. Right on the left corner of his desk in the spot he’d requested I set it. Douche bag.

  And do I get any apology? Of course, not. But I escape quickly, leaving him to pore over the thick file and returning to my office to finish my work.

  My phone rings within a minute of my butt hitting the seat of my desk chair. I look at the caller ID display on the office phone. Turning to face my office windows overlooking Broadway, directly across from Ry’s offices, I place the phone to my ear.

  “Care to tell me how you knew my boss was about to enter my office, Mr. James? Suddenly psychic?”

  “We got a brand-new pair of binoculars in the other day. Just testing them out since they’re supposed to be the latest, most high-tech model.”

  I make a face. “Are you serious?”

  “As serious as that little crease between your brows, young lady.”

  I laugh, and he instantly says, “Now, there’s the smile I love.” The way he says it makes warmth unfurl deep inside, and I wish—certainly not for the first time—that something was possible between us.

  That we could actually be a “we” someday.

  “How about happy hour after work at Max Londons?” His question draws me from my inner yearnings.

  “Ah, Ry …” I smile, shaking my head with a little laugh. “It’s only Wednesday.”

  “All the more reason to have a drink. Sybil would want you to,” he teases before adding, “Well, one of the personalities would. I’m sure of it.”

  When I hesitate, he goes in for the kill. “The white sangria will be on me tonight.”

  This man already knows me too well.

  “Fine.” I smile, gazing out my window and wishing I could see him in his office. The glare of the sun is reflecting off the windows of his building, but he’s likely sitting in his chair, watching me with those binoculars and a huge grin on his handsome face. “I’ll meet you as soon as Sybil leaves the office at five.”

  “I’ll wait for you in the lobby.”

  “See you then, handsome.”

  “Later, gorgeous.” Hanging up the phone in the cradle on my desk, I can’t help but smile at the way he calls me “gorgeous” and how his tone gets low and sounds huskier.

  Sigh. I need to get a grip and quit lusting over my roommate.

  Chapter Six

  Ry

  These binoculars are the devil.

  What the hell was I thinking, accepting a pair to test out from one of the other guys in the office who oversees product samples? And now, when I should be working on the expense budget, I’m watching Mags as she’s talking to someone on speakerphone while she simultaneously types on her computer. Her hair is twisted up into a clip, a few tendrils loose around her face, with what appears to be no fewer than three pens stuck in her hair. It makes me chuckle, knowing she’s likely forgotten they’re there. And that concentrated expression of hers, the way she nibbles on her bottom lip just so …

  I’m a goner. Not to mention, I’m veering into the realm of being a Peeping Tom. Damn it. But she’s just so beautiful.

  Dragging my eyes away, I swivel my chair back around to face my computer, setting the binoculars on the far left corner of my desk. I need to get my shit together and stop spying on my roommate.

  Glancing at the time on the bottom right corner of my computer monitor, I mentally calculate how much time I have before Maggie and I meet for happy hour.

  And it’s depressing how long I have to wait.

  * * *

  One of our servers had something screwy going on, and I had to get my best people on it, trying to determine what the hell the deal was. Turns out, someone decided to try to hack into our data network, and it ended up being—shocker—a disgrun
tled employee. Needless to say, hacking into a company’s data isn’t exactly small peanuts. This former employee will now be dealing with a whole hell of a lot more than just being unemployed.

  This is why I’m sprinting out of my building, willing the damn crosswalk to hurry the hell up and light the signal for pedestrians. As soon as that sucker lights up, I dart across Broadway, weaving in and around the slow, leisurely walkers to Maggie’s building. Tugging the heavy door open, I heave myself inside, breathing heavily.

  Letting out a sigh of relief when I don’t see any sign of her, I pull my phone from my pocket, sliding onto the large bench inside the lobby. My phone says I’m barely a minute past five o’clock, but I hate being late. It’s one of my pet peeves, like the other person’s time isn’t as valuable. Thankfully, Maggie and I share this viewpoint on tardiness.

  Glancing down the hallway to where the two quiet elevators sit, I worry that maybe Sybil has piled some last-minute work on her. Maybe I should head up and see if I can’t rescue her—

  Ding!

  One elevator opens, presenting Maggie, and the instant she sees me sitting, waiting for her, a wide, carefree smile forms. The same kind of smile that makes my chest tighten, makes it hard to breathe, and makes me not ever want a day to come when that same smile doesn’t grace my presence.

  I tsk with an expression of sham disapproval. “You’re late.”

  Her heels click on the floor, echoing throughout the lobby, and my eyes can’t resist slipping down to take in her legs and those heels of hers. She’s wearing a fitted, pinstriped skirt and a matching jacket over a silky cream-colored blouse. With the entire picture she creates, I know I’ll be thinking about her later. I’ll imagine bending her over my desk, drawing her skirt up to see what kind of panties she’s wearing beneath it.

  “Ry?”

  Shit. I’ve been staring. Attempting to shake off the cloud of horniness that’s hanging over me, I offer her a smile and stand, gallantly offering my arm.