Her Favorite Rival

by Sarah Mayberry

  She did a slower circuit, this time stopping when she saw a small-faced gold watch with a leather band and distinctive art deco styling. She thought it was beautiful, but there was no telling whether Leah would. For a moment Audrey was filled with a piercing, ineffable sadness that she knew so little about her own sister’s likes and dislikes.

  “Excuse me. Could I take a closer look at this one, please?” Audrey called out to the saleswoman.

  “Of course, let me grab my key.”

  Half a minute later, Audrey was wrapping the thin leather band around her wrist. It really was gorgeous. Maybe she should take a punt on it, go with her gut and hope for the best. She flipped the dangling price tag over and blinked in shock when she saw the price.

  Twelve hundred dollars.

  Whoa.

  She did a mental check of her savings account, but she already knew the watch was beyond her budget.

  “So, what do you think?” the saleswoman asked.

  “It’s lovely, but I might look around a little more before I make my final decision,” Audrey said.

  She smiled politely and handed the watch back before resuming her slow cruise of the display. Nothing else caught her eye, and after five minutes she left the store and headed for her car. Her thoughts kept returning to the watch as she drove back to Makers, however. If she extended the limit on her credit card, she could swing it, barely. It would take a bite out of her savings and make life a little less fun for a few months, but she could do it.

  It was her little sister’s thirtieth, after all. She wanted to mark the occasion.

  What you really mean is that you want to try to buy your way into her favor.

  It was a sobering realization, so profound that she didn’t notice the traffic light change and had to be honked to awareness by the driver behind her.

  Amazing, the way the past could keep coming back to bite her on the ass, even when she was sure that she’d dealt with it and reconciled herself and gotten on with things. Because she’d thought she was done with trying to make amends, in the same way that she’d thought she was beyond feeling hurt by her outsider status in her own family.

  She drove into the garage and parked in her allocated spot. She didn’t immediately get out of her car. She needed a moment to get herself together.

  If she could go back in time, if she could change one decision, undo one choice, she would return to the moment when her angry, resentful, achingly lonely sixteen-year-old self had stuffed a handful of clothes into a duffel bag and climbed out the window and into the waiting car of her boyfriend.

  But she couldn’t, just as she couldn’t undo any of the foolish, dangerous things she’d done in the eighteen months following that night. Stealing from her parents and her sister. Endless rounds of binge drinking. The way she’d allowed herself to be treated by Johnny and his friends for fear that she’d lose the one person who had ever really seen her and believed in her and loved her. Or so she’d thought at the time.

  She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the headrest. God, she’d been so young and so hungry for approval and attention. The great irony was that the two people she’d most wanted to sit up and take notice—her parents—were the two people who had never quite forgiven her for the months of worry and heartache and shame she’d inflicted on them as they searched and fretted over their runaway daughter.

  They pretended they had. Everyone was perfectly civil and polite to one another once she’d moved home and embarked on the never-ending mission of redeeming herself. But the truth was that that rash, reckless dash into the night when she was sixteen had permanently cemented her black sheep status, and she’d never been able to claw her way back.

  Not with good behavior. Not with heartfelt words. And not with gifts.

  And certainly not by buying her sister a very expensive watch for her birthday.

  She breathed in through her nose, held her breath for a handful of heartbeats, then released it fully. Then she opened the door and climbed out.

  How did that L.P. Hartley quote go? “The past is a foreign country.” And she didn’t have the time or the energy to go there.

  Not today, anyway.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SHE WAS WEARING perfume. Something light, with sweet vanilla undertones.

  Zach looked up from the page he was proofreading and glanced at Audrey’s profile, trying to gauge her mindset. They’d been going over the finished analysis for the past hour, correcting typos, adding information, finessing the layout. Not by the flicker of an eyelid had she indicated that tonight was any different from last night or any of the other times they’d met to work on the report—except she didn’t usually wear perfume.

  Maybe he was a deluded optimist, but he couldn’t help hoping she’d worn it for him.

  She typed something into her laptop. “Typo, page twenty,” she said without looking up.

  “Mine or yours?” he asked.

  “Mine.”

  “So that makes us even at four all, right?”

  “You still trying to count that outdated pie chart as one mistake?” she said, shooting him a dry look. “I don’t think so.”

  “Technically, it was only one mistake.”

  “Sure, in the same way that the guy steering the Titanic only made one mistake.”

  He propped his elbow on the table, work forgotten for the moment. More than anything, he liked matching wits with her.

  “So you’re suggesting a slightly inaccurate pie chart is on a par with the one of the greatest maritime disasters of all time?”

  “Yes. Yes, I am.” She tried to keep a poker face but her mouth kept curling up at the corners.

  “You’re full of it, Mathews,” he said, returning to the page he was proofing.

  What he really wanted to do was ask if she’d like to grab a drink together after they’d finished tonight. He wasn’t going to do that, though. The whole point of this analysis was to impress Whitman and get on the man’s radar—in a good way. Given Zach’s track record with women, using the fact that he and Audrey were working together as a springboard into starting something else would be a very bad idea.

  Tina, for example, had not walked away a happy woman. She’d been angry and hurt that he’d repeatedly put his work ahead of her. She hadn’t understood about his mother, or how important it was for him to put as much distance, time and money between himself and the past as he possibly could. Probably because he’d never told her, but that was a whole other ball of wax.

  The point was, he couldn’t afford to indulge himself where Audrey was concerned and then risk having a pissed-off woman glaring at him across the meeting room table every week. Only an idiot would open himself up to that kind of potential disaster, and he’d like to think he wasn’t an idiot.

  “Do we need pizza yet?” Audrey asked.

  She was toeing off her shoes again, wiggling her stockinged feet into the carpet. He watched avidly, like a teenage boy getting a glimpse through the bathroom window.

  She had great feet. He’d never really noticed a woman’s feet before, but hers were delicately arched, the toes straight and neat. He had the sudden, incredibly inappropriate urge to offer her a foot rub, so he had an excuse to get his hands on them.

  You sick, horny, pathetic bastard.

  “I don’t know if I can face pizza again. Isn’t there a Malaysian place up the road?” he asked.

  “Let me see.” She stretched and flexed her fingers like a virtuoso pianist preparing to play a complicated concerto, then started typing. “Okay, yes, there is. And I have a takeaway menu.”

  “Oh, you’re good.”

  “Thank you. Come take a look so we can order.”

  He moved to stand behind her chair. She shifted the laptop so he could see the screen. He rested a hand on the back of her chair and leaned forward over her shoulder so he could read the small text.

  Big mistake. He could smell her perfume and what he suspected was her shampoo, and he could see down her to
p enough to know she was wearing a lacy chocolate-colored bra beneath her shirt.

  He straightened. “I’ll have Singapore noodles.”

  “That makes it easy, because that’s what I’m having, too.”

  He moved back to his seat as she grabbed her phone and placed an order for two servings of Singapore noodles.

  “Ten minutes,” she said when she ended the call.

  “Cool.”

  He told himself not to even think of taking his eyes off the page, but it didn’t stop him from glancing across at her breasts to confirm that, yes, he could see the faint outline of lace beneath the silky fabric of her shirt. He wondered what the rest of her bra looked like, and if she was wearing matching underwear. He had a real thing about French knickers. Maybe she was wearing a pair, all chocolate satin and lace.

  He could feel himself growing hard, desire starting up a drumbeat of demand in his groin.

  Good one, doofus.

  Exactly what he needed, an inappropriate hard-on. What was he, fifteen?

  Very deliberately, he thought back to the brief encounter he’d had with Henry Whitman earlier in the week. They’d crossed paths in the corridor and the other man had pulled Zach up and fired a series of questions at him about his product selection for the upcoming summer catalog. He’d questioned Zach’s favoring of one brand over another, suggesting strongly that he reconsider his decision, his manner brusque and steely. Zach had been left feeling like a naughty kid, not something he particularly relished at the ripe old age of thirty. Worse, he’d been left with the impression that Whitman wasn’t exactly overwhelmed by his performance to date.

  He glanced down at his crotch. Yep, that seemed to have done the trick. Erection well and truly gone. Nothing like imminent castration via job loss to take the heat out of a man’s libido.

  “I’ll be back in ten. You want anything to drink?” Audrey said, pushing back her chair and standing.

  “I’ll go,” he said, reaching for his jacket.

  “You went last night.”

  “What can I say? I’m a homemaker. I love to feed people.”

  She smiled. “Funny. But it’s my turn.”

  “Why don’t we both go? Then we can argue about who’s paying all the way there and back.”

  Her eyes widened with outrage. “I’m paying. You paid for the pizza. That is absolutely nonnegotiable.”

  “We’ll see,” he said.

  True to his prediction, she argued her side every step of the way to the garage, only shutting up when he beeped open his car and held the door for her.

  “Wow. This is like the first-class section on the plane. Not that I’ve ever sat in first class, mind you. But I’ve taken a peek through the curtain.”

  She slid into the seat, one hand stroking the leather armrest reverently. Never in his entire life had he been so jealous of an inanimate object.

  “I guess this makes the commute a whole lot more fun, huh?” she asked as he slid into the driver’s seat.

  “It takes some of the pain out, yeah.”

  He started the car and drove out of the garage, very aware of her watching him work the clutch and change gears. He reminded himself that now would not be a good time to stall.

  “Why do men always buy manual cars?”

  “Because we like to be in control. Why do women always buy automatics?”

  “Because we like to conserve our energy for more important things.”

  “I have plenty of energy left to spare, don’t worry.”

  The moment he said it he regretted it. So far, they’d kept their banter strictly PG, but he knew she hadn’t missed the innuendo in his tone.

  So much for keeping his eye on the ball.

  “I think the Malaysian place is up here in that group of shops,” she said after a small pause.

  “Got it.”

  He stayed in the car while she went inside to collect their meal, punishing himself for his slipup by only allowing himself a one-second glance at her ass as she disappeared through the door. Whoever invented those figure-hugging skirts knew what she was doing, that was for sure.

  He gave himself another lecture while he waited, reminding himself of everything they had at stake. The report. Their jobs. Their future career prospects.

  There had been rumblings around the office lately, rumors that Whitman had been meeting with outside personnel consultants. That could only mean one thing—layoffs. Only an absolute idiot would put his head in the noose by having a hot and heavy affair with a colleague.

  Still, what a way to go...

  He started as the passenger door opened and Audrey slid into the seat.

  “They gave us a free serve of roti bread.”

  She was clearly delighted by the gesture.

  “Someone’s won a customer.”

  “Yep. I freely admit that I am a sucker for the unsolicited extra portion.”

  The conversation remained light as they returned to Makers and grabbed cutlery from the staff room, although he was aware that they were both working at it, thanks to his stupid energy-to-spare line. Back in the meeting room, Audrey passed him a napkin and slid his noodles toward him.

  “May the best man win,” she said.

  Even though he was starving, he didn’t immediately start eating. Instead, he watched as she peeled her lid off and wound her first mouthful around her fork. Even though the extra workload had been the exact opposite of fun, he was suddenly fiercely glad Gary had chosen her to be his coauthor on the report. And not only because it gave him a chance to strut his stuff for Whitman. For months he’d watched Audrey laugh with everyone else instead of him. It was good to be on the receiving end of one of her smiles. Good to know that he could make her laugh. Good to get to know some of what went on behind her golden-brown eyes.

  She glanced up and caught him staring. “What?”

  “Just waiting for you to be the first one to spill something down your shirt. Lets me off the hook,” he said easily.

  She tilted her head ever so slightly to one side and he knew she didn’t believe him. Not entirely. But she wasn’t about to call him on it, for the same reason he wasn’t about to be honest.

  They both had too much to lose.

  * * *

  AUDREY WORKED FROM home the following morning, answering emails and taking calls in between packing for the conference. She also managed to put on a load of washing—a miracle—and empty the decomposing matter from the bottom of her crisper. It was hard to tell for certain, but she thought it might have once been a packet of carrots and a bunch of celery. Martha Stewart she was not.

  She was more than happy to be busy, because it stopped her from dwelling too much on what had happened with Zach last night: the moment in his car when he’d made that sexy little comment about energy not being a problem, then that moment later when she’d caught him watching her so closely.

  There had definitely been a vibe there. An intense, very adult vibe that had robbed her of several hours’ sleep last night as she tossed and turned and tried not to think about what she was thinking about.

  Zach’s body.

  Zach’s mouth.

  Zach’s hands.

  At twelve she shut down her laptop, tucked it into its travel bag and called a cab. She was at the airport by one-thirty, perfect timing for her two-thirty flight, since she wasn’t one of those travelers who got a buzz out of running down the concourse screaming for the attendants to hold the gate.

  She off-loaded her luggage, bought herself a giant latte and went in search of her departure gate. She caught sight of Megan when she arrived, and waved before making her way to her side.

  “Bring on the pain,” Megan said drily as Audrey dropped into the seat her friend had been saving.

  “Three days of sucking-up opportunities, remember?”

  Megan pulled a face before delving into her handbag and producing a muesli bar. “You want one? I came prepared for bad airline food.”

  “I just ate lunch, thanks.�
��

  “Me, too. But I could eat my own head I’m so hungry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me at the moment—I can’t stop eating.”

  Audrey narrowed her eyes. “You said that the other day. Are you sure you’re not...?”

  “Since I had my period last week, I’m thinking no,” Megan said.

  “Don’t some women still get their periods even though they’re pregnant?” Audrey asked.

  “I don’t feel pregnant. I feel hungry.” Megan took a big bite from the muesli bar.

  The boarding call came over the speaker and they both stood, pulling their passes from their handbags.

  “If we’d been smarter, we would have coordinated our check-in so we’d be sitting together,” Megan said.

  “That would have been smart. Want to bet we’re on opposite ends of the plane?”

  They compared cards and discovered they were several rows apart.

  “Figures,” Audrey said.

  “Exactly. If we hated each other, they’d sit me in your lap.”

  They gathered their bags and walked the small distance to the gate. Audrey was seated closer to the rear of the plane than Megan, and she bid her friend farewell as she continued up the aisle.

  She spotted Zach as she drew closer and closer to her row. He had the window seat, but the seat beside him was empty. The aisle seats both before and after his row were empty, too. She glanced down at her boarding pass. She had an aisle seat.

  She held her breath as she drew closer, counting down the rows. Huh. She was seated in the row behind Zach. Bummer.

  He glanced up from whatever he was reading and made eye contact with her.

  “Afternoon. Braced for paradise?” he asked as she shuffled past his row.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  She was very aware of him watching her as she opened the overhead locker and attempted to stow her bag. It was already very full, however, and the only way to get her bag in place was to slip it in behind someone else’s. She was straining on tiptoe, conscious of her shirt pulling free from the waistband of her trousers, when Zach slid out of his seat.