How to Look Happy (Unlucky in Love Book 3)

by Stacey Wiedower

  "And this is my room," I breathe, my mouth dry as cotton. Then his lips are on mine, and wine sloshes from my full glass—I'm coherent enough to be glad I picked a white. I back out of his embrace and set the glass on my dresser, and he walks over and does the same thing with his empty glass, his gait unsteady. I try to calculate how many drinks he's had.

  "I like it," he murmurs, pulling me back to him and sliding my dress from my shoulders in the same movement. He peels it down until it falls in a puddle at my feet, leaving me standing in front of him in a nude, strapless push-up bra, matching lace panties, and my four-inch heels. I feel like a different person entirely—like this is a scene from a movie, not happening in my actual life.

  "God," he says, his breath heavy on my neck. "You are so much hotter than you were in high school."

  My jaw drops, and I push against his chest with one hand, pressing him away from me. He's so unsteady that he staggers back a step, stunned. And then he flashes me that slow, disarming smile. "You know what I mean," he says, his voice slurring slightly. "I'm drunk. I'm not saying this right." He lurches toward me a step, and I cross my arms, which has the effect of deepening my cleavage. I realize this because his eyes are trained there rather than on my face. My skin is hot now for a different reason.

  "You're beautiful," he says and reaches for me. After several seconds, I reluctantly let him pull me back against him, and when he kisses me again it's as good as before, as good as the club, and I kiss back in spite of myself. Within a couple of minutes, he's stepped out of his shoes and fumbled open his pants, which drop to his feet as he pulls me down onto my bed.

  I have to help him manage the last button on his shirt, and I trace my fingers down his rock-hard stomach, thinking he must be in the gym every day to get abs like this. Not even my vain, weight-obsessed ex-fiancé has a body like Brandon's.

  My pulse is pounding, and my thoughts are fuzzy again when he asks if I have anything, to the point that it takes me a second to realize what he's talking about. "Oh," I say. "Oh." I push back from him and off the bed and move into my bathroom. I open my medicine cabinet, where a box of condoms has rested untouched for probably more than a year, since I'm on the pill and Jeremy's and my frequency had diminished anyway in the last two or three years—because he was getting it elsewhere, I realize, not because he was tired, as he claimed.

  There are four condoms left in the box, and I rip one off, glancing at myself in the mirror as I do.

  My cheeks are flushed with red and so is my chest, where Brandon's five o'clock shadow has rubbed angry-looking streaks into the sensitive skin. Even in his drunken state he managed to unhook my bra, so I'm nearly naked—and out of the God-forsaken heels, which were making me feel one step away from the champagne and strawberries scene in Pretty Woman.

  I start to walk away but then turn back for one last glance. I take a long, shaky breath and ask myself if this is really what I want. I have no answer, and my imploring eyes in the mirror are no help at all.

  I leave the room and try not to think about anything, anything at all, as I move back toward Brandon and my bed.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Two Steps Back

  "What?" Carrie shrieks as I pull the phone from my ear. "He…just…what??"

  I explain what happened again, calmly. Last night I felt the same way Carrie does now, but I've had time to process this turn of events, get over it, and, if I'm being honest with myself, realize it's for the best. After all, not even I knew what I wanted last night.

  "So you didn't… He couldn't?" She can't even say it, and I can't help myself—I giggle. After a couple seconds, she starts giggling too, even though this is so not funny.

  "No, we definitely didn't," I say. "And he definitely couldn't." I pause for a couple seconds, a jumble of embarrassing images in my head. "I mean, he could, or he did, but he just couldn't, um…seal the deal." I shake my head, my cheeks going pink even though this is Carrie I'm talking to. "Can we just use real words? This is making it worse."

  She laughs again. "No, no. That's okay. I don't think I need the details."

  When I walked back into my bedroom last night, Brandon's eyes were closed, and his mouth was open—he was an inch away from being completely passed out. I guess I was in the bathroom a couple minutes longer than necessary, and he was definitely drunk, but still. After being so worked up, it was a shock to find him in that state. Not to mention insulting.

  I sank onto the edge of the bed, and he stirred, reaching over to me and pulling me down beside him. We kissed and messed around for a little while, but the fire wasn't as hot as it had been before. And when the time came to move beyond kissing, he lost his…ability to make it happen.

  At first I felt stung, rejected, but he was so apologetic and ashamed that I couldn't feel anything but sorry for him. Slurring his words, he mumbled that it happened sometimes when he'd been drinking, and it wasn't me, which made me wonder what exactly had happened in his almost-marriage. And then he passed out for real, and I covered him up and went downstairs to sleep in my guest room.

  When I woke up this morning I heard him snoring upstairs, so I tiptoed into my room to change and then left to buy fruit and eggs from the market around the corner from my house. When he came down around 9:30, showered and dressed in the clothes he'd worn last night, I was making French toast with blueberries and humming to myself, feeling oddly like I'd gotten away with something, though I wasn't sure what it was.

  Brandon came up behind me and kissed me on the back of the neck. "I'm sorry," he whispered in my ear. "I'll make it up to you."

  I leaned around and looked over my shoulder at him, skeptical. "Do you even remember what happened last night?"

  He flinched slightly and pulled away from me, turning his head to avoid my eyes. "I have a pretty good idea."

  Breakfast came with a side of awkward small talk. I couldn't wait for him to leave, and I know he was eager to go, but neither of us wanted to be the one to admit defeat. Finally, he got up and walked toward the door, and I followed, Simon on my heels. I couldn't believe it when he turned to me, kissed me until I was breathless, and said, "Can I have a do-over? Next Friday night?"

  My mouth opened and then closed again. I had no idea what to say, and still, after forty-five minutes of thinking about it, I'm not sure what I should have said. But what I did say was, "Um, okay." He kissed me again and then ran out my front door and down the porch steps, and I closed the door and ran for my phone.

  I'd intended to call Carrie, but the instant I picked the phone up I remembered the text I'd received from Todd the night before. I opened the thread and smiled to myself, then carried my phone over to my couch and curled up in one corner. Simon jumped up after me and stretched out over my feet, happy to have me to himself—he'd disappeared last night after Brandon walked in, which was weird. He's usually not skittish around strangers.

  I read the text again—How was Jersey Boys?—with the smile still on my lips.

  Without really thinking about it, I typed back, Awesome. You should go.

  I waited several minutes for a return text, scrolling through Facebook in the meantime. I saw that Brandon had posted a selfie we'd taken in the theater just before the show started and tagged me in it. It was a great picture, especially of him, and it already had fifty-three likes—most of them from people we went to high school with.

  I can only imagine the gossip that single photo is inspiring—it almost makes what happened last night worth it.

  Almost but not quite.

  When ten minutes passed with no return text, I gave up and called Carrie. For some reason I didn't tell her about the text from Todd, and for some reason I still don't want to. Instead I tell her that Brandon asked me out again for next weekend.

  "You said no, right?" she asks, her voice wary.

  "Weeeell," I say, and she groans.

  "What?" I continue, defensive. "Last night you were practically pushing me into bed with him."

  "That's bec
ause you needed it," she says. "And you didn't get it. I know you said you feel sorry for him, but I'm not sure he deserves a second chance. You can do better."

  This was his second chance, I think, my mind turning again to Brandon's and my last high school date. Last night wound up being more of a re-creation of that date than I could ever have imagined. Apparently Brandon plus Jen equals sexual frustration—not the answer I'd have picked on a multiple choice test.

  "Well, maybe I'll get out of it," I say, distracted because I've pulled the phone away from my ear to check my texts, and I see that I have a new one. I put Carrie on speaker, open my texts, and read, I want to go. I smile again, composing replies in my head.

  "But, you know, it's not like I have a ton of options. I'm pretty sure all the good men are already taken." I barely even know what I'm saying because three dots in the lower left corner of my screen tell me Todd is typing another message.

  "You and Jeremy just broke up," Carrie says.

  "Almost three months ago," I interject.

  "And you guys went out for seven years," she continues, her voice loud in my quiet house, with a slight metallic ring that pings through the phone's speaker. "You'll find the right one eventually."

  "I didn't think I was looking for the right one," I murmur, still watching the three dots. It's taking Todd an awfully long time to compose this text.

  "What?" Carrie asks, and then she pauses. "Why do you have me on speaker?"

  I click off the speaker function and pull the phone back up to my ear. "I was checking a text," I answer honestly but don't elaborate. "Hey, can I call you back in a few?"

  "Sure," she says. "But promise me you'll think about this Brandon situation. Personally, I don't think you owe him a thing."

  I shudder at the implications of her statement. "Well, when you put it that way…" My voice trails off.

  "Just think about it."

  "I will," I promise, clicking end call before we even finish saying good-bye. When I see the new message my jaw goes slack and my feet swing forward, almost knocking Simon off the couch.

  "Sorry, sorry," I mutter, reaching down to scratch him behind the ears as he cocks his head at me and settles back down on the sofa.

  Todd's just texted back, I would if I had someone to go with… Don't suppose you want to see it twice?

  * * *

  Monday morning, I hit the office earlier than usual because my slate for the day is so full. This afternoon I'm doing the formal presentation with Amanda to Marc Rasmutin on the condo project. I'm creating a full storyboard for this project because as soon as Marc approves our ideas he's taking them to his investors. In the meantime, I'm wading through the estimates for Brewster's flooring and cabinetry projects, plus Nestor Santiago has emailed me three times since yesterday asking different versions of the same question about marble tile. That man is turning out to be a real piece of work.

  It's quiet in the office, and I feel the emptiness of Ellie Kate's desk like a ghostly presence. I'm really going to miss her. Even though I like Quinn and Brice and have warmed up to Carson, Ellie Kate was my only real confidante in this place…ever since Rachael bailed on me, that is.

  At this thought I glance over at her. Rachael's tousled auburn hair and shoulders are hunched over her desk, and her tongue is poking out between her teeth. Clearly she's concentrating hard on something, but I'm not even sure what she's working on these days—I just know it isn't Brewster's house. I don't think the two of us have exchanged more than a tense hello in the last six weeks.

  I shake my head, saddened by that thought, and then stand to stretch my legs. I can't believe it's already after eleven. I got here at 8:05 and have barely moved from my desk.

  "You going to lunch?" Quinn asks, and I jump. I didn't see her walk up behind me.

  "I don't know," I say. "Probably not. I've got a two o'clock with Marc Rasmutin and a boatload of work to finish between now and then." I glance down at the half-finished project board on my desk with dismay. When I look back up, I see that Rachael has her head up now and is watching us. When she sees me looking at her, she quickly looks away.

  Puzzled, I turn back to Quinn and shake my head again. "Whatever," I say under my breath and notice that Quinn's eyes shift to Rachael and quickly back to me.

  "Come on," she says. "I'm just gonna grab a quick bite at Aldo's. We can sit outside, so we'll be seated faster." When I don't say anything, my forehead wrinkled in thought—and stress—she adds, "You've got to eat."

  "Okay," I say slowly, wondering why she's so insistent. Quinn and I don't often go to lunch together. Maybe she's feeling the absence of Ellie Kate—who sort of filled the roles of office peacemaker and social chair—as much as I am.

  I shrug and push my chair forward before reaching into my desk for my purse. I grab my phone and shove it in the bag and turn to follow Quinn, who already has her purse over her arm and is heading toward the door.

  After a couple of steps I hesitate and then turn back toward my desk to gather up my samples from the condo project. I carefully slide items into a canvas bag and carry it and my foam storyboard awkwardly with me toward the exit, avoiding a glance at Rachael, though I can feel her eyes on me.

  Once outside, I open my trunk and slide my materials in it before locking the car and rushing to catch up to Quinn, who's standing at the edge of our small parking lot. Aldo's is within walking distance, so we're traveling on foot. She gives me a curious look but doesn't ask what I'm doing, which I'm grateful for, because I'm not sure I could explain it without sounding weird and paranoid.

  I know it's crazy, but I just had a bad feeling about leaving Rachael alone in the workroom with my project.

  * * *

  "So, I don't know what's going on, but Carson is, like, going all doomsday." Quinn picks up a huge slice of barbecue chicken pizza and holds it up with one hand on the crust and the other supporting it underneath, then takes a delicate bite from the tip. A strand of mozzarella pulls off with the bite and forms a stringy line down her chin, which she gathers up with her pinky finger and pops into her mouth. She doesn't look around like I might to see who's witness to her embarrassment. That's the thing about Quinn—she just doesn't give a damn. I wish I could bottle up her confidence and drink it.

  "What do you mean? Doomsday how?" I take another bite of my own veggie slice and wash it down with a swig of water. It's, like, a thousand degrees out here. It'll be a few more weeks before Memphians are populating restaurant patios again. For the three weeks out of the year we're able to be outside comfortably, it's glorious.

  Quinn is hunched into the shade of our umbrella, which basically covers only our small round table, since it's almost straight-up noon.

  "She thinks the firm's about to implode, and we're all going to lose our jobs." She says this matter-of-factly, ignoring the fact that my eyes are wide as our plates.

  I stare at her, waiting for an explanation, as she takes another tiny bite. I'm not sure Quinn ever actually eats. "What? Why? What did you hear?"

  She chews slowly, swallows, then takes a sip of her Diet Coke. "I didn't actually hear this from Carson," she says. Then she looks straight at me with narrowed eyes. "This doesn't get past me and you." She gestures with her glass between the two of us.

  I nod, bewildered.

  "Brice said that Carson said that Candace is acting all funny with the books. Like, you know how Carson usually does the accounts-payable stuff? Well, Candace told her she doesn't need her to do it anymore, that she's hiring an outside accountant to handle it."

  I nod again and scrunch my forehead in confusion. "Oh…kay," I say. "But that's not so weird. Our business has grown a lot in the past two years. Maybe Candace really does want a real accountant to handle the books. Carson has, what? Like, a marketing degree?"

  "Yes, but…" Quinn leans in a little closer over the table. "Brice also saw a letter from the IRS on Candace's desk. And he said that all this happened after Carson asked Candace about some weird withdrawal from
the firm's account."

  I don't answer, not sure how to process this information. Honestly, I'm so busy right now dealing with my own business that I don't have time to care how Candace is handling hers. But of course, the firm's credibility and viability is all tied up with my own, so I guess I should care. The funny thing is that, at one time, I was the person Candace would have trusted if the business was in trouble. After Caroline left, she and I had several long, after-hours meetings to reconcile the firm's books and create an action plan to build business in the down market. Sometimes Brice sat in, sometimes he didn't.

  Now Candace has turned away from me, and I've turned within myself. I'm almost running an independent business at this point. I've barely talked to anyone in the office about my work in weeks. If I had my own tax ID and an assistant, I could even consider going out on my own…

  I shudder, terrified at the direction my thoughts are taking. I am not ready to fly solo.

  "Hellooo…" Quinn says, waving a hand in front of my face.

  I shake my head. "Sorry. I don't know what to tell you. Candace doesn't tell me anything anymore." I pause, remembering our last meeting. "Apart from her dumping the Brewster project back in my lap, I haven't talked to her in, like, a month."

  And then I have a strange thought. "Although…" I drag out the word.

  Quinn is holding her pizza up again, about to take another minuscule bite, but she pauses with the slice in midair. "Although?" Her eyes are bright.

  "Well, I did get a weird vibe from Brewster's assistant when I was at his house the week before last," I say.

  "A weird vibe? Like weird how?" Quinn sets her pizza back on her plate. Just then the waitress walks up with a new Diet Coke for Quinn and a pitcher of water. Neither of us speak as she refills my glass.

  "Well," I say. I sit back in my chair and then immediately hunch forward again when the sun hits my skin and raises my personal heat index by fifteen degrees. "Like, you know that Candace and Brewster have been dating, right?"