Penny has strong hermit tendencies and probably a greater chance of becoming a cat lady than anyone else I know, but I don’t want that to be true. I don’t like the thought of my friend drowning in kitty litter.
As if summoned by my thoughts, my cell vibrates. I slide it from my pocket just as a series of Penny texts—they tend to come in clusters of six to twelve—begin to chime in, filling the screen.
Actually, I was hoping to run into you before then.
I’m waiting at the corner of Central Park West and 73rd street and I’m pretty sure you’re walking straight toward me. I mean, assuming you look like the picture we send out to clients, then that’s definitely you.
And Aidan. He does kind of look like a lumberjack, doesn’t he?
Ha!
Okay, I know this is kind of weird, but don’t freak out. I’m not stalking you. I mean, I am stalking you, but that’s only because you told me where you would be this morning.
Shit, that looks a lot creepier on the screen than it did in my head.
I’m going to stop texting now because you’re totally close enough to hear my voice.
I force a smile as I glance up to scan the sidewalk in front of me, but I’m feeling anything but calm. My pulse is pounding and my stomach is snarling and scotch isn’t sounding nearly as good as it did a few minutes ago.
Fuck, I don’t know why I’m so nervous.
Okay, fine, I know exactly why I’m nervous.
I’m afraid meeting Penny will be a letdown. I’ve had it happen before—you make an online connection with someone who seems amazing, only to find out later that they have a donkey laugh and smell like industrial cleaner. Or there was the girl who gave great phone chat but was a dead-eyed sociopath when we met up for drinks. Not to mention the woman with the amazing textual flirting skills who was incapable of making eye contact or the husky-voiced real estate broker who turned out to be a man.
Fuck it.
If Penny is weird or smells funny or has a dick, you’ll deal with it.
You have to deal with it. You know damned well you can’t manage without her.
The thought has scarcely tripped through my mind when my gaze lands on a petite woman with big brown eyes and silky brown hair pulled into a knot on the top of her head. Her hair is messy, her face is make-up free, and she’s wearing a baggy off the shoulder tee shirt and leggings like half the other women walking the park this morning, but even looking like she just rolled out of bed, she’s fucking stunning.
I’m talking take your breath away beautiful, with an angel face and melted chocolate eyes and curves for miles. Curves for days. Curves that not even that baggy tee shirt can conceal and you can bet the Incredible Bulk sits up and takes notice. He’s not ripping through my boxers, insisting you’re going to love him when he’s angry, but things are definitely getting tighter below my waistband.
I can’t help myself.
This woman is exactly my type, from the tip of her turned up nose, to her way-more-than-a-handful breasts, to the curve of her phenomenal ass.
I’m already scheming a way to get her number—I don’t leave for the Hamptons until Tuesday, the city will still be here when I get back, and my manwhore ways can wait to be mended until after I’ve shown this gorgeous creature a very good time—when our eyes meet and my throat locks up. I curse beneath my breath as my palms begin to sweat.
“What’s wrong?” Aidan asks, but I only shake my head.
There’s no time to explain. We’re barely a foot away from the bona fide sex kitten, and she’s already thrusting out an arm and saying in a way too familiar voice, “Surprise! Happy meet your assistant in person day.”
4
From the e-mail archives of Sebastian “Bash” Prince and Penny Pickett
From: MagnificentBastard1
To: Penny4YourLobsterPot
Re: Internet Dating
Penny,
The next time I decide to log on to my LetsGoLove account, please arrange for a hairy Italian man to come beat the shit out of me, steal my wallet, and piss on my semi-conscious body.
The experience will probably be equally enjoyable to the date I had tonight and I won’t have to bother replying to half a dozen e-mails, graduating to text messages, and upgrading to an awkward phone call before meeting Ms. Shifty Eyes Who Is Probably An Ax Murderer In Her Spare Time for drinks halfway across town.
Please nail down the next client ASAP so I have an excuse to stop dating.
Dating is dumb and then you die,
Bash
From: Penny4YourLobsterPot
To: MagnificentBastard1
Re: Internet Dating
Bash,
10-4 on the hairy Italian. There are a few wandering my neighborhood. Will get their contact info so I’m ready next time you fall off the dating wagon.
Details on your next client attached. Your orientation meeting is on Monday.
Penny
p.s. I agree that getting pissed on is preferable to making small talk with strangers. This is why I am committed to full-time hermitting and solo ice cream eating.
5
Without my conscious permission, my hand reaches out to enfold Penny’s.
Penny, who is a stone cold fucking fox. Whose palm is warm and soft and whose skin feels way too good against mine for someone who is off limits.
Because she is. Off fucking limits.
Verboten. Forbidden. Completely out of bounds.
That’s been decided even before she laughs nervously and says, “And now’s the part where I tell you I’m a liar and beg you to forgive me.” Her eyes dart to Aidan as I force myself to release her hand. “Hi, Aidan. You must be Aidan. He’s told me all about you. I’m Penny, his assistant.” Her fingers flutter to her chest as she adds in a shakier voice, “Or maybe his former assistant. If I get fired today.”
“Hi, Penny. Nice to meet you.” Aidan clears his throat and arches a brow in my direction. “So should I hit it? Give you two some time alone?”
“No,” I insist, just as Penny says—
“Yes, please. That would be great.”
I turn back to her, wondering what the hell she’s lied about and how I’m supposed to go back to thinking of her as my work friend who writes me goofy e-mails when she looks like this.
Jesus, even the way she fidgets, causing her breasts to bounce lightly beneath her shirt, would be enough to get me hard if I let it.
But I won’t. Not now, not ever again.
“I’m sorry, I’ve just got a lot to tell you,” she says. “Some of it’s private and all of it’s embarrassing. And if there’s even a chance Aidan and I will be working together in the future, I would prefer not to spill my dirty laundry during our first meeting.”
She nibbles her lip, drawing my attention to her beautiful mouth. It really is perfect. I can almost imagine the way her plush bottom lip would feel trapped between my teeth while I’m kissing her breathless.
Fuck, this is ridiculous.
Aidan can’t leave. I need him here for cock-blocking support.
But Aidan, the traitor, is already backing away. “Of course. No problem.” He thumps me twice on the back in the universal sign for “glad it’s you and not me, brother” and lifts a hand. “Catch you later, Bash. Take care, Penny.”
And then suddenly I’m alone with my no longer virtual assistant.
Alone with Penny, who is not a cat lady or in possession of a secret penis. Penny, who is a beautiful, irresistible liar, just like the last woman who ripped my heart from my chest, shredded it, salted it, and ate it raw and bleeding with a nice Chianti.
“I need you to start talking.” My voice is cool and distant, one of the many side effects of thinking about Rachael. “And if I don’t like what you have to say, you can consider your vacation time the start of your two weeks’ notice.”
Her throat works as she swallows, but she nods. “I understand. And I won’t blame you if you decide I’ve broken the cone of trust. But is the
re any chance we can get that drink you mentioned before we talk? I never drink before noon, but I’ve never told anyone this story before, either, and I’m not sure how I’m going to manage it sober.”
“I’ll call a car.” I tap the Uber app on my phone, suddenly not in the mood for a long, leisurely walk to Midtown. I’m in the mood to discover exactly what Penny has been hiding and to decide whether or not I can forgive her ASAP.
When it comes to forgiveness, I don’t fuck around.
I either grant it immediately—we all make mistakes and I’ve screwed up enough in my life to understand the importance of second chances—or I cut the offender off without a second thought. I learned the hard way how much it hurts to be betrayed again and again, to think you’ve finally gotten through to the person who’s fucking your heart up the ass, only to have them bend you over and go at it a third time.
But never again. These days, I do the bending over.
I don’t take shit from anyone, not even someone I depend on and care about as much as I do Penny.
6
From the e-mail archives of Sebastian “Bash” Prince and Penny Pickett
From: Penny4YourLobsterPot
To: MagnificentBastard1
Re: Your assumption that I am not enjoying a robust and varied nightlife
Dear Bash,
Pursuant to your last e-mail, insisting that I am a sad clown living in the lame circus because I happen to enjoy staying in on Saturday nights, I draw your attention to the attached article on the dangers of NYC nightlife. Including bed bugs in lounge cushions, assault with a deadly stiletto, and packs of wild and possibly rabid/werewolf dogs prowling lower Chelsea.
Enjoy your life on the edge. I’ll be safe at home with Netflix and leftover quinoa salad, the dinner of champions.
Sincerely,
Penny
From: MagnificentBastard1
To: Penny4YourLobsterPot
Re: Your assumption that I am not enjoying a robust and varied nightlife
But if you don’t get out and about, how are you ever going to be bitten by your werewolf mate and live happily ever after?
And don’t even try to pretend you weren’t all over that series.
I bet you read those books until the pages were in tatters.
Bash
From: Penny4YourLobsterPot
To: MagnificentBastard1
Re: Your assumption that I am not enjoying a robust and varied nightlife
At least I read more than one book a year!
You should be ashamed of yourself. A true Magnificent Bastard would be well read on a variety of subjects.
At least, that’s what I would want in an MB, were I ever to acquire one.
From: MagnificentBastard1
To: Penny4YourLobsterPot
Re: Your assumption that I am not enjoying a robust and varied nightlife
I’ll keep that in mind…
7
Outside the spring sun is warming Manhattan to a pleasant sixty-something degrees, but inside the dark brick, windowless walls of Highland Fling, there is a chill in the air.
Penny and I make our way past the solid mahogany bar to a cluster of couches gathered around the fireplace where a fire is crackling in the hearth. At ten fifteen in the morning, the bar is deserted. We have the establishment to ourselves, save for the twin deer heads mounted above the mantel of the fireplace, who seem to look down their noses at us as we settle onto the blue couch closest to the fire.
Under normal circumstances, I would make a joke about the disembodied heads’ opinions of day drinking, but nothing about this morning is normal. Penny has thrown me off my game and the longer I have to wait for an explanation, the more irritable I’m getting.
I’m short with the waitress who takes our drink order and can barely force a smile for the manager as she drifts by on the way to her office in the back. I have to literally bite my tongue to keep quiet until our scotch on the rocks is delivered.
The second our server wiggles away on her high heels, headed back toward the bar, I turn to Penny and order her to, “Spill it. Now.”
Her eyes go wide over the rim of her tumbler, but instead of putting the drink down, she tips it up, draining half the glass in one go.
“Jesus,” she gasps, wincing as she sets the tumbler down on the wooden arm of the couch. “That’ll put hair on your chest. How do you drink that every night?”
“It’s not meant to be guzzled.” I take an appropriately sized drink of my extremely expensive scotch. “It’s meant to be savored, enjoyed.”
Penny nods, her dark eyes scanning my face, an indecipherable expression tightening her features. I submit to her inspection, allowing the silence to stretch on for an uncomfortable moment before I ask, “Is something wrong?”
“No.” Her lips pucker before sliding to one side. “You just look…different than I expected.”
“I thought I looked like the picture we send to clients.”
“You do,” she says, still frowning. “But different.”
I lift a brow. “How so?”
“I don’t know.” Her open, vulnerable gaze meets mine, and for a moment, I’m tempted to assure her I won’t bite, but then she adds, “Less friendly, I guess? You’re always so laid back on the phone and in our e-mails.”
Clenching my jaw to keep my temper in check, I lean forward, bringing my face closer to hers before I say in a controlled voice, “Being ambushed in the middle of Manhattan and having one of the people I trust most in the world tell me she’s a liar doesn’t put me in a friendly mood, Penelope. If you don’t start explaining yourself soon, I will fire you for driving me out of my fucking mind with frustration and we can call it a day.”
“Right. Of course.” Her breath rushes out. “I’m sorry. I’m just so stinking nervous.”
Taking a deep breath, she lifts her glass to her lips and downs the rest of her scotch. Before the tumbler returns to the arm of her chair, she’s spilling the beans. “It started a few months before I moved to the city. I’d just finished grad school and was home for the summer, trying to decide what to do with my very useful masters degree in cultural anthropology. I’d only been back for a few days when I ended up reconnecting with my ex-boyfriend. I guess you could say we were high school sweethearts.”
She crosses her arms, her shoulders curling in a self-conscious way that reminds me of Caroline, pre-Magnificent Bastard intervention. “Phillip was the first boy I ever loved. Things didn’t end well, but you know how it is, you never really get over your first.” Her gaze drops to the cushions between us, and when she speaks again, her voice is soft, wounded. “I fell back in love with him stupidly fast. Stupidly, stupidly fast. It would have been dumb even if he hadn’t been a complete jerk to me the first time around. As it was…”
I fight the urge to nod encouragingly. So far, this story is all too familiar, but I need to know more before I let down my guard.
She shakes her head. “Anyway. I guess some people would say I got what was coming to me. But in my defense, Phillip was very convincing. He made me believe he was head over heels. He even hinted about getting engaged. He never said anything flat out, but he majored in musical theater so he’s practically a professional when it comes to subtext.”
“Musical theater? And you’re sure he’s straight?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood. She hasn’t laid it all out there yet, but the reason for this meeting is becoming pretty clear. At least clear enough for me to want to make this confession easier for her.
Her cheeks flush. “Yeah, I’m sure. He was my first in every way. And even if he hadn’t been, the day I walked in on him and my mother going at it in the pool house, he was clearly having no trouble performing.”
I wince. “Ouch.”
“Yeah. So. That’s how our second chance at happily ever after ended.” Penny rolls her eyes toward the ceiling. “I caught my boyfriend banging my mom and then I kind of…went off the rails.”
“Off the rails.”
I take another sip of my drink, sensing I’m going to need a buzz before this story is through. “In what way?”
“Well, first I went down to the local dive bar and got spectacularly drunk,” she says, her words beginning to slur a little, making me think she’s already feeling her double shot of scotch. “And then I cried on the bartender and spilled beer nuts all over the floor. And when the bartender refused to serve me because I was snotty and sad and making a huge mess, I bought a fifth of whiskey at the liquor store down the street and got even more spectacularly drunk in the alley behind the gas station.”
She sniffs. “There was a homeless couple sleeping by the garbage cans and we passed the bottle around for a while. I made sure not to wipe the bottle between swigs because I knew it would drive Phillip crazy. He’s a huge germophobe.”
Pressing her lips together, her gaze slides down to the bricks above the fireplace mantel. “And so I cried on the homeless couple, too. And they cried because they were homeless and had real problems. And then we all decided to go get tattoos to commemorate our misery. So we stumbled down the pier to the tattoo place that doesn’t care if you’re drunk or underage or want something really stupid tattooed on your body and I got a really stupid tattoo.”
“Of what? Can I see?”
She laughs, a sharp burst of sound that seems to surprise her. “Um, no.” She shakes her head, her lips losing their curve. “Never. There’s a reason my upper thighs remain covered at all times.”
“Well, that’s a shame,” I say, thinking that she has very nice thighs. Usually, I would say as much—a compliment is always a good thing—but I can tell she’s not in the headspace to find flattery helpful.
“Yeah, so…” Her hand drifts up to her face, her middle finger and thumb digging into the hollows behind her eyes. “After that, things get kind of fuzzy, but if local gossip and the Coast Guard are to be believed, I decided to go swimming to celebrate my terrible new tattoo and almost drowned. I was rescued a mile offshore.”
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