Game On

by Snow, Wylie

  She snapped the cover shut.

  As much as she wanted to crawl back under the covers and wait for the ego bruises to heal, the shower beckoned, and sulking wouldn’t get her out of her meeting with Bartel. Like Charlie said, she’d have to pull on her big girl knickers.

  With less than an hour to dress, pack, and get taxi to BMG headquarters for her eight o’clock meeting, Clara would miss breakfast. With luck, the firing process would be short and sweet so she could pick something up at the airport before her flight. Then again, airport food was ridiculously expensive and she’d have to keep a tight rein on her purse now that she was, or momentarily would be, out of a job.

  Oh, bollocks on the savings! Clara preferred to blow her nest egg on a holiday. Bermuda or Barbados, anywhere warm and carefree. She and Lydia could rent a bungalow on the beach, sip rum punch and flirt with cabana boys until her banker called, which would be in the space of nine, maybe ten days, tops.

  In the meantime, she’d be productive and use the hours stuck on the airplane to tighten up her curriculum vitae and make a short list of prospective employers. Or she could use the eight hours and twenty-two minutes to relive one of the most fabulous nights of almost-sex she’d ever had, sans humiliating conclusion.

  Clara turned the shower off and stood dripping and cold on the tiled floor, feeling too pathetic and undeserving of the fluffy white towel. She ran her hand across the mirror to clear the steamy surface.

  Ah, look. There was the shoulder he caressed, the neck he kissed, the nipple he plucked. Her skin was still tender and red where his beard had rubbed, her lips still swollen, her lady bits still tingly. She grabbed the towel and rubbed furiously until she was dry, until she could no longer feel his phantom touch.

  She applied a generous swipe of deodorant, used almost half a bottle of body spray, and applied a second coat of deodorant. It was going to be a very long day.

  With a jaw-stretching yawn, Clara pulled on fresh underwear. She was glad she had packed a sunny yellow pencil skirt to go with her white, cap-sleeved blouse. At least she’d appear bright and chipper, even if she felt black and blue.

  She dabbed concealer under her eyes to hide the dark circles but, considering the lack of sleep she’d had in the past seventy-two hours, only an Arctic night would erase them. Perhaps she’d nod off on the trip home and dream a different ending to this affair, one in which Luc stayed, made love until sunrise, and fed her a buttery croissant for breakfast. He would clearly suffer at the news of her departure, barely hold himself together long enough to take her to the airport, where he would sink to his knees and declare his undying love. They would embrace a final time and plan to meet at the top of the Eiffel Tower one year to the day of their magical night. They would agree not to call or email, but every Wednesday at noon, a dozen red velvet roses would magically appear on her doorstep, accompanied by a hand-written poem, smudged by the drop of a tear. And she would know they were from Luc.

  Or maybe she needed a good hard kick in the arse.

  It wasn’t like she’d fallen in love.

  Her feelings for Luc boiled down to simple math: two fairly attractive people plus Miami’s sultry heat multiplied by the number of times her champagne was refilled for the sum total of lust. Nothing more, nothing less.

  Clara threw her toiletries into her satchel with a shake of her head. The blighter ran out so fast, he didn’t even get her last name, never mind address or phone number. Hairy Rodrigo in the fishnet shirt had more manners, to be sure. He’d have been a devoted suitor, serenading her on his mandolin, sneaking out while she slept so she’d wake up to a feast of fresh fruit and warm pastries.

  Ewww.

  The thought of Rodrigo’s back hair drifting into her cheese Danish was enough to snap her out of the world of fantastical men. They obviously didn’t exist in any culture.

  “Lust, Clara Elizabeth Bean, should not, will not, override your good sense in the future,” she told herself. “Next time, you will remember to conduct yourself in a ladylike manner, and if you desire to succumb to your baser needs, you’ll remember to buy batteries for your vibrator!”

  She shoved the outfit from the night’s rooftop soiree into her satchel, but her fingers froze on the zipper. Without thinking, she snatched the sundress out and brought it to her nose, wishing to the very marrow of her bones that she could smell evidence of Luc.

  Nothing. No hint of aroma since the accident in Rome when she flipped off her scooter and cracked her head on the ancient cobblestoned street. When she regained consciousness a day later, Lydia, the emergency contact listed in her passport and who just happened to be in nearby Milan for a fashion show, was fussing over her.

  Franco, the sexy Italian photographer who had talked her into getting onto the scooter without a helmet in the first place, popped in once or twice to assuage his guilt. He was, after all, the reason for her mishap.

  “Bella mia,” he’d said. “I want to capture your beauty. Let the wind tease and toss your bee-oo-tee-ful hair!” If she’d kept her eyes on the road instead of looking at Franco, smouldering intensely behind the lens of his camera, she would have seen the gelato cart.

  It took days for the swelling in her brain to go down and, though the skull fracture eventually healed, Clara was left without her critical sense of smell.

  A food critic without olfactory ability was like a crippled athlete. The art of experiencing cuisine was dependant on one’s nose. With the help of Lydia, master of brilliant deception and willing to eat out a lot, and Biscuit, who turned out to be quite the connoisseur of gourmet dining, wagging his little tail at anything with a succulent aroma, Clara managed to bluff her way through the restaurants of Europe with little trouble.

  But Biscuit was dead, she thought glumly as she stepped into the waiting BMG limo—she’d been surprised and grateful to see a driver waiting in the lobby for her—and she had no idea how she was going to go it alone. Or if she’d even be given a chance.

  Clara had researched BMG as soon as the take-over rumors began. She knew they had a food editor on staff, one Spencer James, though what he did—restaurant openings, chatting up famous chefs, enlightening readership on the world of gastronomy—was technically much different from the anonymous reviews she did. Many papers, in the interest of economy, combined the two concepts. Did she stand a chance against a fifty-something man with twenty years tenure at BMG? Doubtful.

  Nonetheless, Clara would face Bartel with the dignity and grace of a professional English woman, and she would be careful to step over the pools of blood on her way out the door.

  She rode the elevator to the top floor of BMG headquarters, mentally rehearsing her exit speech.

  Yes, Mr. Bartel, I understand, but I do think you’re making a mistake.

  With no disrespect, sir, you’ll find that Biscuit and I have a loyal and extensive fan base that spans numerous countries.

  No, Kingsley—may I call you Kingsley?—I don’t believe Biscuit’s death will affect my column or my readership.

  Fine sir, I’ll see myself out. I wish you only the best of luck in your European endeavours.

  Upon exit, her final, unselfish words would be, “Please be good to Charlie.” Because she was genuinely fond of the chap.

  Dignity, dignity, she mentally recited as she approached Kingsley’s lair. She must, under any and all circumstances, keep her dignity.

  She stopped at the receptionist’s desk, vacant at this early hour, and nicked a few tissues to stash in her handbag in case things got ugly.

  Bartel’s door was open. “Come in, Miss Bean, come in,” he called when he noticed her standing in the lobby. She tilted her head for a better view. His office was immense. She could see a grand wooden desk in front of a wall of windows, the sparkling Biscayne Bay beyond practically blinding her with its vast brilliance. It would take her an awk
ward day just to traverse the room and reach Bartel for a handshake.

  Clara straightened her spine, tilted her nose upward a degree, and strode across the threshold with a bearing Queen Victoria couldn’t fault.

  There was no doubt in her mind her knees would not have buckled gracelessly had she not noticed Luc leaning against the sidebar, sipping a tall glass of orange juice, looking like a blue-eyed devil.

  Chapter 9

  Clara caught herself before she went sprawling face first on the dark hardwood floor. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him start forward, as if to catch her, but she managed to correct her trajectory and stay upright. She mumbled something about a misstep, but the heat gathering on her neck and cheeks eroded her effort to remain unflappable, the cool poise she’d mustered gone.

  “Clara! You’re here!”

  “Charlie?” she said, surprised to see her boss standing next to him. She shifted her gaze to Bartel, then back to Charlie, carefully avoiding Luc’s hooded eyes.

  Lovely. Her own personal firing squad. “What’s going on? Why are you… did I get our meeting time wrong?”

  “No, no, dove,” Charlie clucked. “It’s spot on eight. You get an A plus for punctuality. Shall I make the intros then?” he said, with a glance to Bartel. “Right, then. Clara, this is Luc.” Charlie took her by the arm and tugged her closer. “Luc Bees-kaay,” he said, drawing the name out with awkward emphasis.

  Luc, dangerously handsome in a dark grey suit with navy shirt and tie, zeroed his gaze on her mouth. If spontaneous combustion were triggered by embarrassment, she’d be ashes in a matter of seconds.

  “Hello Luc,” she said, finding just enough air in her lungs to force the words.

  “Clara,” he replied.

  It was impossible to tell what he was thinking with that one hoarse word, but he caught her eye with a dagger-like stare.

  She swallowed the excess saliva in her mouth and said, “I didn’t know you’d be here—”

  “Nor I, you.”

  “Oh splendid!” Charlie interjected. “You two know already each other? You met at the party then, did you? Looks like our work is half done, Kingsley, eh?”

  “Charlie, what’s happening?” Clara asked under her breath as they settled in the chairs around Bartel’s desk.

  “It’s all very exciting, Clara. You’ll see.”

  Bartel remained standing, or more accurately, lording, while Luc, Charlie, and Clara perched on the edge of their seats. “Newspapers, magazines, the entire print industry, has been in a state of flux for the past ten years,” he began. “The old Fleet Street model is archaic, practically obsolete in this digital age. BMG has always prided itself for being on the leading edge of new technology, of keeping up with market trends. Our Atlantic division was the first to embrace the smaller broadsheet, and while the Boston Globe and San Francisco Chronicles were busy bleeding money, we were gearing up for full heat-set color print runs. We were one of the first to present our product online, ignoring the naysayers who insisted on monetizing the industry first, and yet we still managed to grow our paid subscriptions by three percent a year since. Our strong brand identity, respected journalism, and ability to deliver an affluent demographic to advertisers kept us alive in this rapidly changing world.

  “However,” he said and let a moment of silence punctuate his message. “That doesn’t mean we can rest on our laurels. The world is changing, the industry is once more at a critical turning point, once more in the throes of a revolution and, rather than go the way of the dodo, Bartel Media intends on leading the charge. We’re going to reimagine this business, beginning with a massive restructuring.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Clara saw Charlie’s chins quiver in an enthusiastic nod. She wished she could share his zeal but she had a knot of fear growing in her gut about where this was going.

  Leading the charge, Bartel said. Was that not just an expression of change? And restructuring always led to layoffs, which is more than likely why she was sitting here. But why must she endure the pony show? Couldn’t he have simply said “Get out” like any decent employer?

  “You’re probably wondering how that’s going to affect you two?” he said, pointing to Clara and Luc. “The world is getting smaller. And younger. We need to appeal to the savvy, educated, world-conscious youth market on their terms. So, in addition to offering a web-based version of our dailies, we’ll also be launching a blog to showcase our most popular writers. I envision bridging the gap between the United States and Europe by pairing photographers with political essayists, music critics with technology experts, editors with opposing world views. But you two,” Bartel said, opening his arms to encompass them within an implied circle. “The two of you will be our opening act, the launch of the new site, the cornerstone of our initiative. Together, the two of you will represent the cultural marriage of our favorite pastimes: our obsession with sports and love of exquisite cuisine.”

  The buzz of his private line interrupted him. He stuck his finger in the air and lifted the receiver.

  “I thought America’s favorite pastime was baseball,” Clara said under her breath.

  “And I thought our second favorite pastime was sex,” Luc countered.

  Clara would have found it hilarious under different circumstances, but for now it was infuriating. So she jabbed back with, “I’d hardly call your Denny’s Grand Slam exquisite cuisine.”

  “Pshht.” Charlie glared at the two of them, eyes wide, mouth tight. “Behave.”

  But… but… but surely Charlie would stick up for her! “How do you expect us to co-write? How can we possibly conjoin his kind of sports with my kind of food?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Luc sniped.

  “I don’t write about day-old hotdogs and nachos dripping with faux cheese, and I doubt you’ve ever cracked a bottle of Beaujolais nouveau during the second quarter.”

  “Periods.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Hockey has periods, three of them, not quarters.”

  “What does that have to do with food?”

  “If you’re going to write about hockey, you should at least know the basics.”

  Bartel placed the phone in the cradle and eyed the three of them. “Problem?” he asked, probably in response to the misery on their faces.

  “Mr. Bartel, I just don’t think…” Surely, someone would tell her this was a big joke, a ruse to make her quit instead of coming out and firing her. “Charlie? Tell him!”

  “Now Clara, I think Kingsley’s plans are spot on—”

  “But Char—”

  “And if you just calm down,” he interrupted, “and look at the numbers, you’ll see that it makes perfect sense. This marriage could revitalize our industry; put the pep back in journalism!”

  Bugger! Clara felt trapped. Helpless. Betrayed by her former best-boss-ever.

  “You’ll have to excuse our Clara, Kingsley. She was ever-so attached to her little dog, and I think she’s still in mourning.” He patted her hand, which had a white-knuckled grip on the arm of the leather chair. “Just look at the bags under your eyes, dear. You should speak to Sue about a nice soothing eye mask.”

  “You were actually the inspiration for this, Clara,” Bartel said.

  “Me? How?”

  “Our marketing department failed miserably in coming up with a grabby promo. I was just about to fire the lot of them when Charlie’s weekly report landed on my desk. It contained news of your dog’s death. Charlie suggested we needed to find you a new Biscuit.”

  “Biscuit? That was your dog’s name?” Luc gave an agonizing groan as he leaned forward and dropped his head into his hands.

  “Yes,” she said, looking between Luc and Bartel. “Why?”

  “What do you know about Luc?” Bartel asked.
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  Clara shook her head. How was she supposed to answer that?

  I know he makes me laugh. I know he has the most luscious mouth I’ve ever kissed. I know his touch can bring me to orgasm in minutes. I know I want him, desperately, to look at me like he did last night, like I was beautiful and desired.

  But she couldn’t say that, so she shrugged and hoped nobody would notice the dampness on her upper lip or see the tremble in her fingers as she tucked her hair behind her ear.

  “Did you know Luc played pro hockey?”

  “Yes. I mean no. I mean, yes I knew that he played ice hockey, but pro, no. It didn’t really come up,” Clara explained with a side-eye toward Luc, who was shaking his head like he wished he were anywhere but in this room. He pushed up from his chair and began to pace.

  “I’m surprised, Miss Bean. Luc is as recognized on this side of the pond as Mr. Beckham is on yours.” Bartel chuckled.

  “Oh.” Lydia was going to laugh herself blue. “But I don’t understand. What’s this got to do with my dog?”

  “Ah! You will love this. I promise.” Bartel’s eyes sparkled with amusement as he sank into a deep, throne-like chair behind his desk. He steepled his fingers and leaned forward, as if he were about to tell her something profound. “Luc is from Quebec, Miss Bean. He’s French Canadian, so although his last name is pronounced biskay, it is spelled B-I-S-Q-U-E-T.”

  Tired, cranky, and sick of playing games, Clara shook her head in confusion.

  Bartel smiled, clearly loving this little game. “Early in Luc’s career, during a particularly significant game, the Olympics to be exact, some idiot sportscaster mispronounced it, said it phonetically, and it stuck. Miss Bean, you are looking at hockey legend Luc ‘The Biscuit’ Bisquet.”