by Louise Bay
“I know, Dad. But it’s happening.”
She was turning into my shrink slash daughter. “Okay, well you be patient with me and I’ll try not to have a meltdown. How about that for the terms of a peace treaty?”
“We can try that,” she said, shrugging.
We paused at the corner of Fifty-Sixth and Park. “Serendipity?” I asked.
She nodded. At least that was one thing she hadn’t grown out of. Yet.
“You going to put bricks on my head?” she asked.
I’d teased her when she was younger about stunting her growth. Back then she’d seemed to sprout a foot a month. It was like seeing time pass right in front of my eyes.
“If you had a girlfriend, this would be easier.”
I chuckled, trying to ignore the flashes of Harper’s smile as Amanda said the word girlfriend. “How do you figure?” I asked as Amanda linked her arm through mine.
“She’d tell you that those dresses looked pretty on me,” she said as we crossed the street, trying to dodge the mix of office workers and tourists coming at us from the opposite direction.
“Amanda, you’d look pretty in anything. That’s not the point. A girlfriend wouldn’t change my mind about you wearing clothes meant for women much older than you.” I liked her dressed as she was now, in jeans and a T-shirt.
“But another girl, an adult, might be able to convince you.”
“Honestly, no one would be able to change my mind, and anyway, you have your aunts, and Grandma King and Granny. And your mom. They’re girls.”
“Mom doesn’t count because she’s not here. And you’ve never listened to anything your sisters told you.”
“I listen to Violet.” I couldn’t exactly pinpoint the last time I’d taken her advice, but I was sure there was an example. “And I don’t have time for a girlfriend.” I hadn’t even had a chance to speak to Harper or to think what to say when we did speak.
“Grandpa always said you can always find time to do the things you want to do.”
My dad was a very wise man, but I didn’t appreciate his advice in this instance. Maybe because it cut a little too close to the bone.
“You could just agree to go to dinner with Scarlett’s friend.”
“What friend?” I asked as my cell buzzed in my pocket.
“You know, the one Scarlett mentioned earlier?”
I’d clearly tuned out when my sister was speaking. I didn’t remember her mentioning anyone. “I don’t remember.”
“You do. Her friend from college who used to live in LA.” She tugged on my jacket. “Please, Dad?”
“Why is this so important to you?” I didn’t understand why she was so set on me dating. Was she trying to distract me, hoping if I was dating I’d suddenly have a change of heart about the hair dye and appropriate clothing?
She shrugged. “It’s one night out of your life.”
God, she sounded like my mother.
“And I’ll do piano practice for a week without you having to ask. Think of it as the bill of rights to our treaty.”
Maybe having dinner with a woman would get Harper out of my system. She wasn’t the only smart, ballsy, beautiful woman in New York City after all. “I shouldn’t have to force you to do piano.”
“It’s up to you.” She shrugged. “Seems like a sweet deal to me.”
“A month. And you have to drop the whining about the hair dye.”
She grinned up at me. “Deal.”
Anything to keep my daughter happy—well, anything but a short, tight, or low-cut dress for her eighth grade dance.
CHAPTER FIVE
Harper
Max. Fucking. King.
I thought I’d hated him before but his assholyness had reached dizzying new heights. I stomped into my bedroom, threw the lid off my laundry basket, and started pulling out things to take to wash. I needed to channel my energy into something productive.
Okay, I had to take responsibility. I’d fucked him. I’d wanted to fuck him. And it had been great—a release, no more than that. It had been amazing, as if he’d known what I needed before I did. And he’d had all the right equipment and he’d known how to use it. But he hadn’t spoken to me since that night two days ago. Hadn’t even looked at me. We’d agreed on Vegas; I’d suggested it. But he didn’t have to ignore me.
Arrogant men should be illegal. Or sent to an island without any women on it to die of sexual frustration.
Coming to my rescue in the gym suggested he wasn’t quite the asshole I thought he was. Then seeing him shirtless, and the way he’d growled at me, like an animal? Well, I don’t know what had come over me, but any willpower I’d had just dissolved, and I’d wanted him.
But what had I been thinking? Fucking my boss was a bad idea for so many reasons. I desperately wanted him to think I was good at my job, not just know my depilatory habits. I’d worked hard for this position, and I didn’t just want him to see me as a piece of ass. I certainly didn’t want it getting out and people to start gossiping about how I was sleeping my way to the top or an easy lay.
Thank God it was Friday and I wouldn’t have to see him for two whole days. Not that I had to worry about that—he’d canceled three meetings with me just to avoid me. Which was the behavior of a fifteen-year-old boy.
It wasn’t as if I’d expected a ring, or dinner. But, hell, a “Hello, how are you, thanks for the hot sex” was surely only polite.
I grabbed my clothes, piled them into a huge Ikea bag, and dumped it by the door, ready to head down to the laundry room. I just had to find the bra I’d taken off in front of the TV earlier that week. As I entered the sitting area, the ceiling rattled with the clip of heels. Jesus, it had only been two days since Max’s dick had been in me, and now he was banging some other girl. I pitied any girl dumb enough to fuck Max King. Which, apparently, included me.
I let out a yell of frustration, then covered my mouth. Had he heard that? I didn’t want him to think I cared if he had another girl in the apartment.
I didn’t give a shit.
But the last thing I wanted to do was sit here listening to my boss fuck someone else. Maybe it wasn’t another woman. Maybe Max liked to dress up. Nothing about that man would surprise me anymore. I smiled, happy with that particular constructed reality.
Feeling under the couch cushions, I grasped a bra strap, then pulled it free and threw it over to join the rest of my laundry. I grabbed my keys from the side table, a report from work, and the detergent I’d bought on my way home from the office. I had at least three loads to do and if I stayed down there, I’d avoid the sexcapades of Max King. As I headed for the elevator, dragging the bag of clothes behind me, the clitter-clatter of heels seemed to follow me out of the door.
The elevator didn’t take as long as usual, and I realized it had come straight from the penthouse. When the doors pinged open I came face to face with the knowledge it hadn’t been Max wearing the high heels after all. There was only one apartment above me, so the woman Max King had just fucked would be standing before me.
I wanted the kind of superpower where I could stop time and rearrange things. Then I could hide and ensure that when the elevator stopped on my floor, the beauty in front of me would wonder why it had stopped at all. Instead, I had to step into the elevator in my sweats, forced to look up to smile when the gorgeous woman said, “Good evening.”
“Hi,” I replied as I discreetly studied her. I’d always wanted to be blonde. I’d tried to dye my hair once, but it just turned out a little like orange cotton candy. At least three inches taller than me, she made me feel like a hobbit standing next to her Arwen. Any moment now she’d ruffle my hair and say, “You’re a dear little thing.”
Max King might be an asshole, but he had great taste in women, even if I did say so myself.
It wasn’t as if I’d expected anything from Max, but it stung a little to run into his latest conquest when he hadn’t even given me the time of day. Asshole.
“Another glamour
ous Friday night in New York City?” she asked, smiling as she gestured toward my bag of laundry.
What a bitch. She didn’t know I wasn’t going out later with a hot guy or a hotter girl. “Something like that,” I replied. “But better that than waste my time on men who don’t deserve me.”
She laughed. “Yes, doing laundry is preferable to spending time with most of the men I’ve dated.”
Okay, maybe she was being funny rather than bitchy. Did she realize what an asshole Max was? Should I warn her?
“Let’s hope my date tonight raises the bar,” she said. “He seems nice so far, and every now and then you have to take a chance on someone, right?”
I couldn’t reply but smiled manically. She thought Max was nice? Oh yeah, a nice kind of asshole.
The elevator doors opened and she stepped out.
“Enjoy your evening,” she said with a little wave.
Max King was notoriously guarded about his private life. He never mentioned anyone in the articles I’d read about him. It had led to some speculation he was gay. If he was, he certainly did a great impression of a straight man. And he didn’t owe me anything, but just because we’d gone to Vegas, didn’t mean I wanted him making the trip with someone else quite so soon.
When the elevator got to the basement I got out, dragging my laundry behind me. Maybe I should think about trying to sublet my place and move to Brooklyn after all.
I’d dumped my Ikea bag on the floor, muttering to myself, when I realized I wasn’t the only one in the laundry room. A young teen sitting on the long table opposite the washers and dryers caught my eye. I looked up.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hey,” she replied with a smile. Papers on her lap, she looked like she was doing homework.
“Are you hiding?” I asked. I’d loved escaping from real life at her age. There was never any peace in my house growing up, and I’d longed for quiet.
She furrowed her brow as if thinking hard about my question. “Not really. I’m doing laundry and homework at the same time.”
“You do your own laundry?” I flipped open the washer and began to fish out my towels from the bag.
She shrugged. “Only certain times of the month. When I’m at my dad’s place there are some things …”
“I get it. Boys have it easy, huh?”
She rolled her eyes and I wanted to chuckle. She was a pretty girl with olive skin and long dark hair that fell around her shoulders.
“So easy. I mean, no periods? How did God decide that was fair?”
I shut the first washer and flipped open a second. “Well, you’ve got to assume God is a man, right?” I pulled out my colored items and loaded up the machine. “And I guess he understood that men are such babies they wouldn’t be able to cope.”
“Babies is right. They squeal when they don’t get their way, just like infants.”
I laughed. “You’re totally right.”
“And they always think they’re right about everything. My dad went ballistic yesterday because I picked out a dress for my eighth grade dance he didn’t like.” She leaned forward, making circles in the air with her hands. “I told him I’m growing up and that wearing a strapless dress doesn’t make me a slut.”
“No, it doesn’t. But I guess dads have a different view. I can’t say because I didn’t have a father growing up.” I’d always wanted an overprotective father. Someone who would tell my boyfriends to treat me well and keep their hands to themselves. My dad hadn’t known when my eighth grade dance was, let alone had an opinion regarding my dress.
“You didn’t? Did he die?” she asked, seemingly unaware of how personal her question was.
I smiled. “No. He just wasn’t interested in me.”
The girl paused and then said, “Well my dad is entirely too interested. I thought my mom was strict.”
“What does your mom say about the dress?”
She shrugged. “Dad has the final say. Before she used to be able to talk him around, but now?” She shook her head. “I keep telling him he needs a girlfriend. He needs an adult to tell him I’m right sometimes.”
“You want your dad to have a girlfriend?” Didn’t kids want divorced parents to get back together rather than move on?
“Sure. He’s been on his own for so long and I want him to be happy. I don’t ever remember him having a girlfriend, and my mom has Jason. They’ve been married forever. I don’t want my dad to be on his own.”
Maybe her dad was still in love with her mom? “Does your father get along with your stepdad?”
“Yeah. They used to play basketball every week.”
Okay maybe her dad wasn’t hung up on her mom. “Wow, that sounds like a friendly divorce,” I said.
She frowned. “My mom and dad were never married.”
That sounded familiar. Poor girl. Loser dad not wanting to take responsibility—I knew how that one went. I stayed quiet, not wanting to make her feel bad.
“Dad just works too hard, and we have fun but I think he needs fun with a girlfriend. You know. Plus, I’d like to have someone to hang out with, go shopping with. And most of all, I’d like a baby sister. I’ve always been the only kid around, amongst a bunch of adults. I’m always the youngest and it sucks.”
I laughed. “You’re trying to get him to have another baby? You have to go easy on him.” I began to load a third washer with my whites. “He’d probably be just the same if he were married. Sounds like he cares about you. And because he is a man, your dad knows what goes on in boys’ heads.” They thought about sex a lot. I could understand her father’s concerns. She was sweet and beautiful.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Nope. I’m concentrating on my work for now.” Which was true. I wasn’t interested in the distraction a man would bring to my life at the moment. Max King had been just about sex, which was exactly what I wanted. I needed to find someone to fuck who wasn’t my boss and wasn’t an asshole.
“That’s always my dad’s answer.”
“I’m not good at picking guys.” I wasn’t sure if I wasn’t good at picking them or I wasn’t looking for the right thing. I knew what I didn’t want. I knew someone who put family first was important to me, and most of the men I came across were driven and ambitious. I didn’t want a man who didn’t understand what should be a priority. I didn’t want a man like my father.
“I figure I’ll work hard, make my own money, have fun, and see if Prince Charming shows up unexpectedly.” Seemed unlikely but I hadn’t entirely given up hope. “The thing about boys is that you can think they’re going to be one thing and they turn out to be entirely another.” Max King was a perfect example of that. I still didn’t really know who he was. Was he an asshole? Someone who cared about a downtown deli-owner’s business? Or just a man who knew how to fuck? Maybe all of the above.
“Really?” she asked, her eyes wide.
“Sure. Be careful to avoid the guys who tell you how great they are. I’m looking for a man who shows me what a great guy he is.” By ignoring me, Max had proved he was an asshole. “Judge people by their actions, not their words.”
“Everyone keeps telling me that Callum Ryder likes me, but he hasn’t asked me to the dance.”
“Does that happen in the eighth grade? You go as boy-girl couples?”
She tucked her hair around her ear. “You don’t go together. I guess it just means you’ll dance with them when you’re there.”
That made more sense. “Right. And you want Callum Ryder to ask you?”
“Well, if he likes me, I thought he would.”
“But do you like him? Don’t be satisfied with a boy just because he likes you.” I poured detergent into the machines.
“He’s popular, and good at sports.”
“Do you get butterflies in your stomach when you see him?” I asked. I might not like him, but Max was hot. And an excellent lay. And I had to admit to a couple of tiny butterflies whenever our eyes met.
“I’m not sure. I don’t think so,” she replied.
“If he doesn’t give you butterflies, he’s not worth going toe-to-toe with your dad for. He sounds protective.”
I finished loading the final washer and pressed start on all three machines.
“Don’t get me wrong, I love my dad. He’s just not good with women.”
I laughed. “None of them are. It’s a good lesson to learn early in life.”
“And he wants me to stay a baby. I don’t want go to my eighth grade dance wearing a frilly dress that a three-year-old would wear.”
“You got a picture of the strapless one?”
She pulled out her phone, scrolled through photos, then held up her handset. The dress was a little revealing. “It’s pretty, but I think you can do better by leaving a little more to the imagination,” I replied. “Can I?” I held out my hand for her phone.
I hopped up next to her and began to scroll through websites. “Have you thought about one of those dresses with a long sheer skirt over a shorter skirt? That might make him happy.”
She grinned at me. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Harper. Finder of eighth-grade-dance dresses.”
“I’m Amanda. Needer of an eighth-grade-dance dress.”
“It’s fate,” I said, tapping the phone.
“Do you think I could do strapless if it’s long?”
Amanda’s father didn’t sound like a man who wanted his daughter to show any skin. “I don’t think strapless is the most flattering style. I think you can still show off some skin here,” I said, sweeping my hand below my neck, “without upsetting your dad. We need to find something off the shoulder. Suits all women, young and old.”
Amanda grinned at me. “That sounds like it could work.”
“And then maybe something long but with a slit up the leg?” I glanced up from the phone to see Amanda fidgeting excitedly.