I stare at her, my head cocked to one side. "Todd is your cousin?" I pause for a second, processing this. "Why didn't you tell me that in the first place?"
She shrugs, leaning up against the edge of Ellie Kate's desk. She and I are the only two people left in the office, which is typical for a Friday afternoon, especially in the summer. Actually, I'm surprised she's still here.
"I knew he was just getting started and needed the work, and I know how particular you are," she says. "I figured if you knew it was nepotism you'd blow me off." She shrugs again. "And I knew he'd do a good job. Todd's good at everything he does."
That sentence pulls my mind straight to the gutter, and I blush, something Quinn doesn't miss. She smirks at me. It hits me that she might be trying to set me up with something more than a work referral, but I won't give her the satisfaction of going there.
"Well, you're right," I say, regaining control of my senses and digging for my car keys. "He did do a good job. I'm planning to call him again to help with the Sweeties installation."
Did I really just commit to that? Ah, well. It's inevitable that I will call him. Something about Todd—and we'll call it his magnetic personality—won't let me write him off. Just the thought of seeing him again, of talking to him on the phone, even, sends a weird charge down my spine, though I'm quick to ignore it.
"Good," she says.
I glance over at her as I start toward the door, and she's still watching me with a smug look on her face. I shake my head and move toward the lobby.
"Have a good weekend," I call over my shoulder. And then my thoughts turn to Brandon, and I feel weird and tingly and charged up all over again.
* * *
It turns out I have heels in my trunk.
They're tucked into a gym bag that I used last week not for going to the gym (my gym membership fee is pretty much a donation at this point) but for changing clothes at Carrie's house after work one day.
I remember them just as I'm pulling into a paid parking lot in Cooper-Young, and I debate with myself for a full two minutes before deciding to retrieve them and change out of my sturdy, closed-toe flats, which were designed more for comfort than style.
The flats are a "this is no big deal…let's get this over with" kind of shoe. The heels, on the other hand, are total "fuck me" shoes—pale pink, buttery leather with a strap that wraps around my ankle and up my leg. It might sound stupid, but somehow I feel that by choosing to put on the shoes, I'm choosing to make other bad decisions tonight. As if to punctuate the thought, I pull down the visor mirror in my car and spend another two or three minutes reapplying mascara and lip gloss.
All of this can lead to nothing good, I tell myself, but can't seem to make myself listen.
Outside the door to the restaurant, I pause and take a deep breath. Brandon is sure to be here already—it's 5:48. In fact, I feel a surge of guilt that I haven't texted to let him know I'm running behind. I'm past fashionably late now.
A group walks up behind me, and I'm forced to either step aside for no good reason or push into the restaurant ahead of them, so I choose option two. Here goes nothing.
Once inside, I spot Brandon immediately—in part because he's so damn cute that every woman in the restaurant is probably aware of his presence and in part because the place is not big and comprises one long, open room. He's sitting on the center stool at the long bar, chatting with a mop-haired bartender. A sign that reads, "Water is for washing" hangs on the wall behind the bar, and the TVs in the room are tuned to a St. Louis Cardinals game. I'm more attuned, though, to the jailbait blonde who's practically hanging off of Brandon's right arm. She's leaning toward him, ample cleavage visible in the deep V of her tight purple top. I kid you not—she's batting her eyelashes and laughing too loudly at something Brandon or the bartender has said.
For some reason, this quells my nerves. Game on.
I slide onto the empty barstool to Brandon's left and say, "Cracking up the room, I see. You haven't changed a bit."
I wink at him and then look to the bartender, who's already sliding a beer coaster in front of me. The blonde has a half-drunk fruity cocktail in front of her, so I say, "What's good on tap?"
Eh, what the hell? I think. And then, Carrie would be so proud.
Mop Man rattles off a list of beers I know nothing about, but when he mentions the one Carrie was drinking at SOB last week I stop him and say, "I'll take a Wiseacre Ananda."
He nods and turns, and only then do I brave another glance at Brandon. As hoped, he looks impressed. Also, cleavage girl is no longer touching him. She's turned and is now facing the girl beside her and talking in a low voice—about me, no doubt. I smile to myself.
"How's your week going?" Brandon asks in a lazy, relaxed drawl, as if he's already two drinks in. For all I know, he might be.
I give him a wry smile. "I'm not really sure. I haven't had time to pause and ask myself that question."
"Well, that's good, right? Everybody wants you." A tiny hint of a spark comes into his eyes as he says this, which lights an instant spark in other places in my body. This is so, so bad.
"You tell me," I reply coyly, thinking What the hell am I doing? I'm acting like I'm in a competition with the blonde to see which one of us will take Brandon home tonight. I notice that she's facing forward again and sitting close enough to him that their thighs might even be touching. I shift on my stool so I'm closer to him, too.
The bartender sets my beer in front of me and then turns to her. "Another appletini?" he asks, even though her glass is still half full.
"Um," she says, and Brandon glances in her direction.
"Ah, come on," he says. "The night's young."
The night's young? Did he really just say that? Of course he did—how could I forget that Brandon can be such an asshat? I think about him dumping me for Missy Tompkins and shift on my stool again, moving slightly away from him. I pick up my beer and glance around the bar.
Cooper-Young is more of a nighttime spot than a happy-hour hangout, but the place is already about two-thirds full. In a few hours it'll be standing room only. Most of the people here are dressed in work clothes like me and like Brandon, who's wearing a navy suit with a pale pink shirt and no tie. Why am I attracted to the types of guys who wear pink? That's probably my problem.
Jeremy could pull off pink. Todd likely wouldn't touch a pink shirt to save his own life…unless he accidentally threw a red sock in the wash.
Wait. Why am I thinking about Todd?
I shake my head again and take a long pull on my beer and then another one. Carrie's right, actually—this stuff isn't half bad.
"What are you thinking about so hard over there?" Brandon elbows me lightly in the side, causing me to jump. Beer sloshes a little in my glass but doesn't spill.
"Eh, nothing," I say. "Just work." I smile at him. "How are things going with your ex-girlfriend mission?"
He smiles a lazy smile, clearly in his element now that I've asked him to talk about himself. "Stalled." He picks up his drink—something in a highball glass that involves whiskey, judging by the color—and takes a slow sip. "I haven't called anybody else since I talked to you."
This piques my curiosity. "Why not?"
He looks me in the eyes for a couple seconds before he says, "Because if all my other exes are as direct as you and Missy were about what a jackass I am, I might get more depressed than I already am." He leans toward me, and I can smell the bourbon on his breath. "And besides, I haven't wanted to talk to other women when I can't stop thinking about you."
I think my heart stops beating for about five seconds. As much as Brandon is a douchebag, he's a sexy douchebag who played a major role in my complicated history…and he makes me hungry in a way I haven't felt in a long time.
Brandon's blonde friend saves me from having to answer, which is good, since the only thoughts in my head involve things I'm not drunk enough to say. Things like, You know, I never got over you, and I haven't had sex in a very long t
ime.
It's as if she smells blood in the water and is circling in for the kill.
"Oh, oops," she says, falling out of her barstool and into Brandon's side. "I'm such a klutz." She flashes us a smile that shows more cleavage than teeth.
He barely looks at her, and she sulks off to the ladies' room. I take a long pull from my pint glass, wishing now that I'd ordered something that'd get me buzzed much faster than beer. If I'm going to survive this night, I need to catch up with Brandon. Then again…I'm still sober enough to know that's not a good idea.
He's staring at me, but my brain's repertoire of witty comebacks picks this moment to go on hiatus. "What have you been thinking?" I finally ask, feeling my cheeks go up in flames.
His voice grows husky. "I've been thinking that there's unfinished business between us." He pauses but doesn't drop his gaze. "Do you agree?"
Ohgodohgodohgod. I know all too well what our "unfinished business" entails.
"Some things from the past belong in the past," I say, mentally congratulating my brain for making a comeback even as my body language betrays me. I'm leaning toward him, and he's leaning toward me, and our cheeks are almost touching. When cleavage girl walks back into the room, I spot her in my peripheral vision motioning to the bartender for her tab.
Check. Mate. I think. But what have I won?
"Ouch, Dawson," Brandon says, moving his head away from mine. "Was it really as bad as all that?"
I lean away from him, too, placing my left elbow on the bar and resting my head on my hand. The question might have been rhetorical, but I feel like giving him a real answer. "You know, we were kids…" My voice trails off as I struggle to find words that won't worsen his depression or let him off the hook. Looking down at the bar top, I say, "You were my first love." I pause for a second and then look up at him, still not quite meeting his eyes. "But I don't think I was yours. You can see where I might have a little trouble with this." I gesture with my right hand between the two of us.
"Then why did you meet me here tonight?"
I smile. "Touché."
Brandon finishes the last swig of his drink, sets it down, and pushes it forward to the inner edge of the bar. When he meets my eyes again, his are serious. "I was in love with you."
I can't help it. At this, I actually snort. "Funny way you had of showing it." I pick up my own glass and toy with it. It's getting warm, and my new love affair with craft brew isn't strong enough to make me want warm beer. But I need liquid courage for this conversation, so I take a drink anyway.
I'm still not looking at him when he continues, "You were so serious all the time. I didn't think we wanted the same things."
At this my head pops up, and I give him a perplexed look. "We were sixteen. What kinds of things did we even want?"
He shrugs. "I wanted to have fun."
I take another sip to keep from snorting again. He had a lot of fun with Missy, based on the abortion rumors that shot through our school senior year. And then I feel guilty, because I actually like Missy now.
I can feel the first stirrings of a buzz as I near the bottom of my glass, and when the bartender stops in front of us, I motion for another. Brandon waves him off, which surprises me. "So you dumped me because I wouldn't put out," I say in a flat voice. "That's pretty much what I thought."
He gives me that same guileless look he gave me on our previous date—his trademark look and probably the one that usually gets him laid. "We were sixteen, like you said." He shrugs. "And I was stupid."
I roll my eyes. "It wasn't like we were headed for marriage or anything." I shrug too. "I got over it. I'm still over it, in case you're wondering."
He's quiet for too long, and then he says, "Well that's a damn shame," making me shiver in a way that causes me to wonder how much truth is in my statement.
* * *
Four hours later, I'm wishing I hadn't changed shoes. I mean, I'm glad I did, because the other shoes were beyond frumpy, but I've had enough to drink that my precarious balance has rendered the heels impractical.
"I've gotta call a cab," I mumble as Brandon holds the door for me. We're leaving our second bar of the night, which is across the street from the first bar. I've had more fun with him than I expected and am feeling glad I came, which I definitely didn't expect.
"I'm fine to drive," he says, and I shoot him a dubious look.
"No, really. I've had, like, four drinks over the course of six hours." He must see from my wrinkled forehead that I'm trying to do drunk math in my head because he adds, "I got to Sweetgrass at 5:15."
I gaze up at him, just sober enough to wonder if he's telling the truth or trying to get me in his car. Finally I decide I'd rather trust him than spend fifteen minutes standing here waiting for a cab when I could probably walk home just as fast—if I weren't wearing these shoes.
"I'm just around the corner," I tell him.
As we walk to his car, which is parked about a block north of the restaurant, he slings an arm over my shoulders, reminding me of letter jackets and Friday-night basement parties. It feels nice.
We're quiet on the way to my house. His car smells new and probably is. It's immaculate inside, too, like he vacuums it every other day. I don't think the inside of my car has looked this clean since I drove it off the lot.
The only talking we do is related to directions—"Turn left at the stop sign." "Go right on Cox." "It's just up this street."
He pulls up to the curb in front of my house and cuts the engine, kicking off that awkward moment I've been hoping all night to avoid. Having to accept a ride puts me at a major competitive disadvantage in our little flirtation. "I'll walk you up," he says, and since he's already opening his car door, I don't protest.
On my front porch, he takes the keys from my hands, unlocks the door, and opens it a crack. There's a light on in the living room that casts a warm, homey glow, beckoning us inside. My mind is racing, and my body is pulsing with ill-advised anticipation as I try to come up with an excuse not to invite him in.
And then he surprises me by taking my chin and bending down to give me a soft, chaste kiss on the mouth. He backs up a couple of steps so there's space between us.
"This was a good night," he says. "Want to do it again?"
I nod silently, surprised he tastes familiar after all this time. I enter my front door and close it behind me without saying another word, feeling blissed out, overwhelmed, flattered, and frustrated. This particular combination of emotions is so tied up in Brandon that it, too, reminds me of high school.
Who was it that said you can't go home again? Whoever it was, she was smart. I feel like I'm driving the wrong direction on a one-way street, but I've gone too far down to turn around.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Seven Stages of Grief
Saturday morning, I take a break from hunching over the desk in my spare bedroom to jump in the shower. Jeremy texted around nine asking if he could come by for his stuff today, and much as I wish I didn't care, I don't want him to get here and find me in my current state—frizzy bedhead, glasses on, and wearing the faded-out, pink-and-green plaid pajama pants that have been my favorites since college. Plus, I'm wearing one of Jerm's old T-shirts, heather gray with "OLE MISS" stamped across the chest in block print—his alma mater. It seems to send the wrong message.
I'd planned on not being here when he came by, but when he texted I asked him about Simon, and he said he'd bring him along. I definitely don't want to miss a visit from Simon. I also don't want to mess up this truce we have going on. I should take advantage of this new geniality and ask if I can have permanent doggie visitation rights.
Not a good idea, my brain shouts at me. I don't need reasons to keep Jeremy in my life. I'm already getting too mired in my past for my own good.
That thought brings me up short, and I remember "Jen's Amazing Comeback Plan." I haven't looked at it in a while—which is a good thing, really. It means I haven't needed to. But I take a side trip on the way to my bathroom
, perching at my breakfast room table with my laptop.
I pull up the file and scan my list of seven goals. Right off the bat, I can strike through numbers one and two—I've met or spoken with all my current clients, and I've updated my online portfolio with photos of my recent projects. I'm kind of "eh" on numbers three and four—I haven't cleaned house in my social media accounts, though I have been careful with my posts and status updates. I've been making an effort to carefully curate my online profiles, only posting things that portray me as a competent, stable professional—to hopefully erase people's memories to the contrary. However, I've skipped meetings for both of my interior design associations for the past two months, so I'm not doing too well on the networking front. I'll get on that.
I leave those two items unchecked.
Number five—"Take lead back on Brewster job." It feels especially satisfying to strike through that item, even though I have a mountain of work ahead of me and a mystery to solve about Aubrey and her concern over Candace's relationship with Brewster.
Numbers six and seven are a little trickier. Both are sure to take some time…especially seven. I've already added two clients toward my "Add five clients within the next quarter" goal, but I don't think I'm any closer to "finding someone to be happy with."
After thinking about it for a couple minutes, I decide to delete the last item from the list. It's so arbitrary—it's not like I can do an Amazon search for the perfect man, and I certainly can't multitask my way to achieving relationship success. God, I wish I could. Right about now, what I really want is a Stepford boyfriend to complete my picture. I don't want to navigate the mess of "too young," "too fickle," "too ambitious," "not ambitious enough." I just want to custom build a sweet, caring, unselfish, hard-working, and preferably not-bad-looking guy who wants to make beautiful babies with me and who cares what I have to say. Is that too much to ask?
Yes. I nod my head vigorously, laughing, as I place my cursor at the end of item seven and backspace until it's gone.
How to Look Happy (Unlucky in Love Book 3) Page 16