“I bet she was,” I grumble beneath my breath, imagining Sheila gushing over Penny’s “darling figure” and not enjoying the fantasy one little bit. “Did you, at least, take pictures? So I can see what color palette I need to work with when I pack?”
She laughs. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious,” I say, bristling. “It’s important that we match, but not match too much. There’s a science to this, Penelope.”
“I’m starting to get that,” she says, her tone still entirely too glib for my liking.
“I could write you a paper on the psychological impacts of enclothed cognition and the effect it has on power dynamics,” I say, coolly. “But until I get around to that you’ll just have to trust me when I tell you that I need to know what you’re wearing so I can pack accordingly.”
“I’ll text pictures as soon as I get home,” she says, before adding in a softer voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause friction. I was just trying to help.”
I run a hand through my hair, silently cursing myself for making things awkward again. “No, I’m sorry. I’m a control freak.”
“I know, and that’s part of why you’re so good at what you do,” she says. “I should have realized that you wouldn’t like me messing with your pre-game routine. I promise it won’t happen again. From here on out, you’re calling the shots. I was going to jump online and book a train ticket so you wouldn’t have to drive me all the way out to the Hamptons and back, just in case you decide you want to stay longer, but I’ll—”
“That’s actually a great idea,” I cut in, my wheels already churning. “If we take the train, I’ll be able to concentrate on quizzing you on our romantic backstory instead of fighting traffic.”
“Oh.” She sounds surprised and maybe a little nervous. “Well, great. Then I’ll book two tickets when I get home.”
“No, I’ll book them.” I step out of the alcove, a spring in my step now that a plan is beginning to form. “You’ll need the rest of the afternoon to study. Expect notes to arrive in your inbox in an hour or two. It shouldn’t take me long to whip up the story of how we fell in love. Assuming you trust me to come up with believable material on my own.”
“Of course,” she says. “I haven’t been home since the summer it all happened. And I haven’t been in contact with my mom much beyond scheduling times for Edna and Francis to visit. All the people in Southampton know is that I’ve been living in the city so they won’t be in possession of any details that might conflict with your story.” She laughs, the sound momentarily eclipsed by the drumming of a jackhammer drilling pavement. She raises her voice to be heard over the din, “I could have been dating the entire Trenton Thunder for all they know.”
“The Trenton Thunder?” I step out into the crisp spring air in time to hear the same hammering sound on my end of the phone before it abruptly cuts off. I scan the street in both directions, wondering if I might run into Penny after all.
“Feeder team for the Yankees,” she says. “I had a college boyfriend who was recruited there.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, beautiful. You’re much too fine for the minor leagues,” I say, spotting Penny’s floppy bun bouncing atop her head on the other side of the street. She’s wearing leggings and a bright red tank top and toting a garment bag, an oversized purse, and three Swanky Boutique bags.
I’m on my way across the street to offer to help carry the spoils of her shopping trip when she laughs and I freeze.
“Thank you, Bash.” A sweet, vulnerable, heart-stopping grin lights up her face. “But I’m warning you, if you keep saying things like that, I might just start to believe them.”
“You should believe them,” I say softly, no longer wanting to be seen. I don’t want her to know I’m here. It feels like a violation of her privacy to observe her without her knowledge, but I can’t seem to look away. There’s something about that smile, something that makes me want to do whatever it takes to keep it on her face. “Get home safe, buttercup, and I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Okay. Talk soon.” She ends the call and drops her phone back into her purse, her grin growing wider as she leans her head back to look up at the sky.
She looks excited, hopeful, like a dream she’s had for a long time is coming true.
The expression sets my stomach to cramping for reasons that have nothing to do with the fact that I’ve yet to have second breakfast.
I’ve never failed a client before and never really stressed about it too much—I’ve always been confident in my ability to deliver—but suddenly I’m worried. What if something goes wrong? What if our lack of preparation time comes back to bite us in the ass?
Normally, I would refund her fee—Magnificent Bastard Consulting’s policy has always been satisfaction guaranteed or your money back—but Penny hasn’t paid me a dime. And this is about something much more important than money. This is about bringing a warm, funny woman back to the land of the living, about assuring Penny that there is no reason for her to spend another day cooped up in her apartment hiding from the world.
If I fail to deliver the closure she needs to make that happen, I’m going to regret it for a long, long time.
As Penny walks away, I stand in the shadows of the entrance to Chelsea Market, watching until she turns the corner and disappears from sight, my infamous confidence shaken by a smile.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
From the e-mail and text archives of Sebastian “Bash” Prince and Penny Pickett
From: Penny4YourLobsterPot
To: MagnificentBastard1
Re: The luckiest woman in the world
Hey Mr. Wonderful,
Thought I’d drop you a line to let you know that I’m apparently the luckiest woman in the world. I was out-processing Mitzy Stevens today—she left us both a VERY nice tip, btw—when she felt compelled to give me a twenty-minute lecture on how lucky I was to be your “girlfriend.”
According to Mitzy, you are one in a million, a unique mixture of brains, brawn, heart, and singularly magnificent forearms that has no match in the known world. I was warned that if I’m ever stupid enough to screw things up with you, I will regret it for the rest of my life and probably have to undergo extensive therapy.
I thanked Mitzy profusely and swore I was well aware of the treasure I was lucky enough to call mine.
I thought we were finished with the uncomfortable stuff, but then she launched into another twenty-minute lecture on how to discover (and fulfill!) your wildest sexual fantasies.
I blushed so hard my entire body turned red.
If possible, I’m planning to make sure you never take on a sex therapist as a client again.
Your mortified fake girlfriend,
Penny
p.s. I’m also pretty sure she was trying to get me to tell her how big you are… ehem…below the belt. I pretended to be oblivious, but this line of questioning inspired more blushing and now I have a heat rash all over my chest.
I’m blaming this completely on you.
I may need to take a sick day to recover.
From: MagnificentBastard1
To: Penny4YourLobsterPot
Re: The luckiest woman in the world
You poor thing.
Do you need me to come over and rub cortisone cream on your chest? I can flex my magnificent forearms for you while I tend to your rash and we’ll have you back to normal in no time.
Your grateful boss,
Bash
p.s. She was definitely trying to find out more about the situation below the belt. No one stumbles and reaches out to brace herself on a man’s junk that often. I barely escaped with the Incredible Bulk intact.
From: Penny4YourLobsterPot
To: MagnificentBastard1
Re: The luckiest woman in the world
*spits coffee all over her keyboard and new shirt*
*is now rashy and covered in hot coffee*
The Incredible Bulk, huh?
A part of me
wants to believe you just made that up on the spot as a joke, but I bet that’s actually what you call it, isn’t it? You’ve named your man parts after Bruce Banner’s rage-y alter ego.
*laughs until her stomach hurts*
p.s. This is venturing into highly unprofessional conversation territory, but if any part of the Incredible Bulk is actually green, you need to head to the doctor and get that situation checked out immediately.
Text from Bash: The Incredible Bulk is unfazed by your mockery.
And no, no part of him is green.
But women do love him when he’s angry…
From Penny: I bet they do…
And now I’m bowing out of this inappropriate work conversation before I say something I’ll regret…
Bash: Chicken…
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Back at my place, the history of my love affair with Penny pours out of me with unexpected ease.
Usually, this is the hard part—I’m far more adept at playing a role than I am writing a script—but two years of working with Penny has given me a window into her personality I’ve never had with another client. I know what makes her laugh, what sets her off, and what makes her soft heart get even softer. And perhaps most importantly, I know how unlikely it would have been for her to meet Mr. Right while exploring “full-time hermitting.”
What are the chances that the perfect man would choose her out of over one hundred applicants to help him start his new business? Surely it was fate that threw us together, or so we’ll tell anyone who asks.
I tap out the last few lines of the memo with a smile, do a quick proof—who cares if there are spelling mistakes, Penny knows I’m as dyslexic as I am brilliant—and send it whooshing out over the Interwebs. By then, Penny has already texted photos of her wardrobe for the week and I’m set to pack.
Pleased with Sheila’s choices for Penny and with my own solid work of romantic fiction, I don’t worry when my inbox is still empty an hour later. I remind myself that Penny has packing of her own to do and might not have had a chance to check her e-mail and put it out of my mind.
Two hours later, I’m finished packing and cleaning up the apartment, but there is still no word from Penny so I head out for a run to help focus my thoughts on the job ahead. Three hours later, after I’ve hit the free weights, put in a torturous fifteen minutes of abs, and showered, I pad into the kitchen in bare feet and a towel to grab a coconut water. On the way out, I snag my phone from the counter and refresh my e-mail.
Still no message from Penny. No missed calls or texts either.
Hmmm…
I’m about to shoot her a quick line, just to make sure she received the memo when my phone dings and a message from Penny appears—
So you know how I’ve been after you for two years to get a P.O. Box?
So that the contact information on the newsletter doesn’t have your home address at the bottom?
Frowning, I type, Yeah?
You should have listened to me, she types back. And then you wouldn’t have strange women popping up on your doorstep unexpectedly….
Before I can respond, a familiar voice calls from the other side of my front door—
“You might want to file a complaint against your doorman, too. He let me in even though I wasn’t on your approved guest list.”
Penny?
What the hell is she doing here?
For a moment, I debate running back to my bedroom to throw on some clothes, but my curiosity gets the better of me. Besides, the towel covers more of me than the track shorts I wore for my run, and people who drop by unannounced should be prepared for other people to open doors in a state of undress.
“Just a second,” I call, tucking the damp Egyptian cotton more tightly around my waist and popping my water back into the fridge.
“Thanks,” Penny says. Her voice is still muffled, but I swear I can hear a hint of anxiety in her tone. “I mean, in Bob’s defense, I told him that I wasn’t a serial killer, but that’s probably what a real serial killer would say. You know? To throw him off the scent before she came creeping up here to kill you.”
“Is that right?” I swing open the door, my smirk slipping when I see Penny standing on my welcome mat dressed in a tight brown tank top and a long, filmy white skirt that flutters around her ankles as a breeze sweeps in from the open window at the end of the hall.
My mouth goes dry and I’m sure how amazing I think she looks shows on my face, big time. But thankfully, she doesn’t seem interested in anything above my neck. Her big brown eyes are fixed on my bare chest, growing wider as they slide down my abdomen to the towel hitched around my hips.
Silently, I thank my bi-weekly core power boot camp instructor for keeping my body in drool-worthy condition. Nothing can happen between Penny and me, but that isn’t going to stop me from relishing the hungry expression flitting across her face.
Fuck.
The way her eyes glaze over and her cheeks flush and her lips part just enough to slip a single finger inside her pretty mouth…
Lust looks damned good on her.
All I want to do is pull her across the threshold, press her back against the wall, and kiss her until our lips fall off. Instead, I shift to the left, moving behind the door and ask, “So, are you here to kill me?”
She shakes her head and states dryly, “No, not today.”
With obvious effort, she wrenches her gaze from my chest to my face. “But I am here to confront you with some evidence.” She digs into her purse, parting a folder and pulling out a small stack of papers. “May I come in?”
“Sure.” I nod toward the living room. “You want to take a seat on the couch and I’ll run and throw on some clothes?”
“No, that’s okay. This won’t take long.” She dumps her purse on the entryway table as she breezes past me, wafting the scent of lavender and something spicier that I’ve never smelled on her before. It’s smoky, forbidden, and sexy, making it practically impossible to keep my eyes off of her ass as she sashays to the kitchen island and lays a single sheet of paper on the marble. “I give you Exhibit A.”
I cross to stand beside her, strongly regretting the decision to answer the door in this fucking towel. Just feeling her body heat warming the air beside me is enough to get me thicker. Unless I make a serious effort to concentrate on something other than how irresistible she is, I’ll be pitching a tent before I can get her back out the door.
“What’s Exhibit A?” I focus hard on the sheet of paper. After a moment, I realize that it’s a printout of the love story I drafted earlier, with almost the entire page highlighted in yellow.
“Our love story.” She taps one elegant finger to the top of the page. “Did you realize that almost all of it is true?”
I frown harder. “I know. I did that on purpose. The closer we stick to the real story, the fewer lies we’ll need to remember.” I shrug. “And the best lies always have a kernel of truth in them somewhere. It’s what makes them believable.”
“This isn’t a kernel of truth. It’s half a bag of popcorn,” she says, pushing on before I can argue my case any further. “We did meet over the Internet, we do send each other dozens of e-mails a day, and we do talk on the phone more than most couples who are dating.”
Crossing my arms at my chest, I lean a hip against the island. “And? I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“You also gave me access to your LetsGoLove account, just like it says here. And you made sure that I knew how disappointed you were with most of the women you were dating.” She tilts her head back, studying me with an intensity that makes me feel more naked than I am already. “And, though you’ve never said it in so many words before today, I’m pretty good at reading between the lines. I know that sleeping with half the women in Manhattan is getting old and that you secretly wish there was someone special in your life.”
My throat goes tight and I have to fight to swallow.
Holy shit.
Does Penny think t
hat load of mushy bullshit I wrote was some kind of confession? Does she think that I’m secretly in love with her and this is the way I’ve chosen to declare myself?
If so, what the fuck am I going to do about it? I’ve cared about Penny for a long time and I’ve lusted after her since the moment I met her in the flesh, but that’s all this is—friendship, with a heaping helping of physical attraction. I don’t know if I’m capable of falling in love again, but if I am, it sure as hell isn’t going to happen like this.
That memo she’s fixated on is pure fiction.
But how do I tell her that without breaking her soft, clearly romantic heart?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Which got me to thinking about Exhibit B.” Penny continues her display of the alleged evidence, oblivious to my inner turmoil.
With crisp flicks at the corners, she places four more sheets of paper on the counter side by side, next to the first. “These are pulled from our e-mail and text archives from the past ten months. If you’ll skim through the highlighted sections, you’ll see that the innuendo is pretty rampant.”
“Innuendo?” My brows shoot up and my face suddenly feels hotter.
Surely, I’m not blushing. I haven’t blushed since fifth grade, when Jennifer Pruitt and I French kissed for the first time on the jungle gym, and she told everyone watching from behind the slide that I had rotten taco breath.
“Yes, Bash,” Penny says, her gaze lifting to the ceiling. “It’s like normal flirting, but with more mentions of your potentially green penis.”
A startled laugh makes my stomach contract so hard my towel slips free. I barely catch it in time. The heat burning my face spreads down to enflame my neck as I tuck the fabric back around my hips.
“I’m not sure I agree with that, Penny.” And I’m not sure what this is anymore, a declaration of love or an announcement that she plans to sue me for sexual harassment, but I’m certainly hanging on her every word. “But I’d really like to know where this is going.”
1001 Dark Nights: Bundle Nine Page 75