Walk of Shame

by Lauren Layne

  In the end he opted to text Hailey after all.

  Then Andrew started to reach for his desk phone to call his assistant, but at the last second opened his laptop instead.

  He might not know much about women like Georgiana, but even he knew that there were some things that you were better off doing yourself.

  Georgie

  WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, LATER

  After the snub from Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, Asshole of the First Degree, I’ve spent most of the day trying to lose myself in a breast-cancer fundraising brunch I volunteered to help plan.

  I know a lot of people think that women who work on fundraisers are just women trying really hard to make it look like they’re “working,” but the truth is, it is work.

  Just try it. Go ahead and try to find an available venue on a Sunday afternoon in Manhattan that fits five hundred people, allows outside caterers, and has plenty of natural light, or at least is old and established enough that people forgive the lack of windows.

  You try to find a bottle of champagne that’s impressive enough to move the richy-rich to open their wallets without being so expensive as to negate the entire purpose of a fundraiser in the first place.

  You try to spend forty-five minutes on hold with some aging pop princess’s agent in hopes she’ll do a show for free.

  Anyway, you get the point.

  As far as distractions go, it hasn’t been a horrible one. Not only does it keep me busy, but it keeps me busy doing something that doesn’t feel brainless.

  Okay. So, not quite as distracted as I thought. I just keep thinking of this morning, and, well…hurting.

  Which is dumb, right? I’m letting some anal, uptight tool have way too much power over me.

  I push back from my kitchen table to retrieve my phone from the couch, where I threw it after getting exasperated with the caterer’s insistence on asparagus-stuffed cheese puffs. Let me ask you this: what is the point of a cheese puff if it’s ruined with vegetables? Am I right? I’m right.

  I pick up the phone and see a couple of texts from my mom asking if I want to meet up with her for dinner tomorrow night. Just her. No Dad. Hmm.

  I’ll respond to that later.

  I text Marley to ask what the plan is for tonight, and I’m a little embarrassed to say I consider texting Brody, even though I’ve recently learned the hard way that drowning one’s feelings in toxic substances has dire consequences. And as far as toxic substances go, I’m pretty sure that attention from Brody is right up there with too much vodka.

  Luckily, I’m saved from making that mistake by an incoming phone call from the front desk of my apartment building.

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. Watkins, it’s Joe downstairs.”

  I smile and plop onto the couch. “Joe! How are you? Is your pup all better after being fixed?”

  “Hating the cone of shame, as expected, but all good, thanks. I’ve got a delivery for you here. You around for me to send it up, or shall I hold it here for you?”

  “Sure, send it up,” I say, even as I scratch my nose in puzzlement.

  UPS, FedEx, and all that good stuff is automatically received and delivered by them as part of the daily routine. The only time they ever call before sending something up is if it’s a food delivery, and I haven’t ordered anything.

  A few minutes later I open the door to something that’s anything but part of my daily routine.

  I can’t even see the person behind the delivery, because the flowers literally take up my entire doorway.

  I gasp in pleasure. I’m totally not one of those girls who bemoans fresh flowers for the flowery death they represent. Nope, I love me some flowers, the more elaborate the arrangement the better, and this is most definitely in the elaborate category.

  I hand the guy a generous tip and kick the door closed.

  Heaving the arrangement onto the counter, I smile even wider as I take in the sheer impressiveness of the arrangement. It’s mostly pink roses and lilies, but some flower genius has mixed in white tulips and mums to keep it feeling fresh and unexpected.

  The best part, though, is little sprigs of silver sparkle and rhinestones. The whole bouquet is very, well…Georgie.

  I begin digging around for a card, wondering which of the florists I called and spoke with today has the rather impressive marketing approach of sending a sample product to the woman who’ll be making the decisions on flowers for a big fundraiser, a job that will be worth thousands of dollars.

  I finally find the envelope, but the discreet lavender logo of the card isn’t one that I recognize. Odd.

  I fish out the small ivory card and read what’s written there.

  Then I read it again.

  Perfectly ridiculous.

  There’s just those two words. No name, but then, I don’t need one. The ridiculous is a calling card of sorts.

  Although it’s not the ridiculous that has me smiling a little bit. It’s the perfectly.

  Perfectly ridiculous.

  There are two ways to read that. Perfectly ridiculous as in the most perfect example of ridiculous. Could not be more ridiculous.

  Knowing Andrew Mulroney, that’s a possible interpretation. Probable, even.

  But there’s another interpretation that I like far better: perfectly ridiculous as in perfect in its ridiculousness.

  Because the flowers are exactly that. The arrangement is wonderfully frivolous.

  Just like me?

  I mean, I like to think so. But does he?

  Hmm.

  Which is it?

  I’m so busy overanalyzing the two words that I belatedly notice that there’s a phone number at the bottom. I skipped it at first, assuming it was the florist’s number, but it’s handwritten, and different from the phone number that’s beneath the florist’s logo and address on the back of the card.

  I tap the card against my bottom lip as I study the sparkling, ostentatious bouquet, my smile growing wider all the time.

  As far as apologies go…

  Well, is it one?

  There’s no sorry. There’s certainly not nearly enough groveling, considering he callously insulted my intellect.

  And yet this gesture feels sort of perfectly…us.

  I retrieve my phone and consider texting him (no, I’m not going to call him; this isn’t the nineties), but…

  What to say?

  Thank you is too obvious to a man who can’t say sorry.

  And I can’t say, All good! Because I’m not sure it is all good. Not quite yet.

  In the end, I decide not to text him at all.

  I’ve got something better in mind.

  Andrew

  THURSDAY, 5:06 A.M.

  If anyone accused him of waiting for her, he’d deny it with his dying breath, but damn it, where was the infernal woman?

  Had she gotten the fucking flowers or not? Had she liked them? Apparently not, or he wouldn’t be lingering in the lobby of his own building, pretending to have a conversation with Charles when really all of his attention was on whether or not Georgiana Watkins would join him.

  Hell, he didn’t care which direction she came from. She could come from the elevators, or she could come from the front door, returning from a long night out.

  Scratch that. He’d only be okay with her coming home from a night out so long as her night hadn’t involved another man….

  Andrew blew out a breath and tried to get a hold of himself and focus on Charles’s polite small talk. What the hell was up with him? Since when did he care how Georgiana Watkins spent her time?

  And since when did her morning appearances seem so vital to his very existence?

  He lingered until five fucking twenty before accepting that she wasn’t going to show. She hadn’t liked the flowers. Hadn’t forgiven him.

  Andrew swallowed as he pushed through the revolving doors into the autumn morning.

  He was angry.

  He told himself it was because he was now twenty minutes late sta
rting his day.

  He was lying.

  Georgie

  FRIDAY, 5:01 A.M.

  Today’s plan of action required getting up even earlier than Wednesday. Which I didn’t know was possible.

  But…worth it.

  I’m nibbling the corner of my donut and chatting up Ramon, who’s already on his second donut, when I feel the air change.

  Popping another bite of donut into my mouth, I slowly turn toward the source of the heat.

  “Morning, Andrew.”

  His expression is the same as it always is. Which is to say: completely expressionless.

  But because I’m watching for it—anticipating it—I swear I see a little something extra flare in his eyes when he sees me.

  Satisfaction? Gladness? Hard to say, since irritation is the only one of his nuances I know really well. But I’m pretty sure it was something.

  “Mr. Ramirez. Georgiana. Good morning,” he says.

  “Mr. Mulroney, sir. Good morning.”

  “Donut?” I ask sweetly, pushing the box toward Andrew. “They’re perfectly delicious.”

  His eyes narrow slightly at my emphasis on perfectly before his eyes drift over me, narrowing even farther at my ensemble.

  As with Wednesday morning, I’m wearing gym clothes.

  Unlike Wednesday morning, I got up extra early to bust my ass getting to the donut shop and then back here, so I could get the jump on him.

  The puzzlement he’s trying to hide as he takes in my workout clothes makes the hideous 4:15 A.M. chirp of my alarm a happy memory.

  “You’re late today,” I say, offering him a bite of my donut.

  He ignores the donut. “Says the woman who didn’t show at all yesterday.”

  “Someone’s keeping track.”

  “Someone’s playing games. I don’t like games, Georgiana.”

  “Which is why you need to play them, Andy.”

  He blinks. “It’s Andrew.”

  “Hmm. How about Drew?”

  “No.” The word is a growl. “Georgiana.”

  “Yes, Andy?”

  He exhales. “I’m going to kill you.”

  I can’t help the laugh. “See, I don’t think so.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Nope,” I say, sucking sugar off my thumb. “You don’t send flowers to someone you’re going to kill.”

  “Maybe they were for your funeral.”

  I beam up at him. “So are we doing this?”

  “Your funeral? God, I hope so.”

  “Going to the gym,” I clarify. “You know, that whole thing about whether brainless Georgie can keep up with Andy and his Einstein mind.”

  He grunts and checks his watch. “I said I was sorry about that.”

  I laugh outright now. “You did not say sorry.”

  Andrew looks away. “I tried to.”

  I take pity on him and reach out to touch his forearm. Which, by the way, is very firm and nicely formed. Maybe I should consider this gym thing for real. “The flowers were perfect. Really.”

  He meets my eyes, his mouth opening as though he wants to say something, but his gaze cuts over to Ramon, then to his watch once more.

  “We should go.”

  I bounce on my toes. “You’re letting me come with?”

  “Do I even have a choice?”

  “Ah, now see?” I say, pivoting and turning so that I can link my arm with his. “Look how well you know me already, and the day hasn’t even started.”

  Andrew shakes his head and all but drags me forward. “You’re ridiculous.”

  But I’m pretty sure I hear a smile in his voice when he says it.

  Georgie

  FRIDAY MORNING, LATER

  If you’re wondering what Andrew Mulroney looks like while he’s in workout mode, picture this: Thor and Captain America somehow defeat biology and have a love child together. And call him Andrew.

  You’re welcome for the visual.

  Anyway, my idea of the gym is something like this: trot on the treadmill or the elliptical at a pace just vigorous enough to make your boobs and ponytail look good, but without actually breaking a sweat. Twenty minutes, max.

  But twenty minutes pass, and out of the corner of my eye I see that Andrew’s at the same machine he started with and doesn’t look like he’s even remotely close to finished with his workout.

  While I talked at him (yes, at him) on the way here, I asked why he came to this gym instead of the fancy one in our building.

  He muttered something about a particular machine that he liked.

  To which I replied that he was a machine.

  And then he quit talking altogether.

  I trot for another ten minutes or so, then decide that I should probably hit the shower if I’m going to have enough time to make myself pretty before I follow him to the office.

  Because yup, I’m totally taking him up on his offer to see what the hell it is he does all day and prove that I can keep up. If he thinks sitting behind a desk and talking legalese is hard, he’s never been down Fifth Avenue in December. I make a mental note to force him to do that with me in a few weeks.

  I trot over to where he’s loading weights onto the end of a metal rod. “What?” he asks, not looking at me.

  I drape myself over the metal. “How much longer?”

  He pauses in the process of hoisting the weight, his biceps flexing with the strain, then sets it back down again with an expression that’s half exasperated, half triumphant.

  “That’s it?” he asks. “That’s all you’ve got? Thirty minutes in my shoes?”

  I lift a finger and gesture at his feet. “I’m confident I would have made it much longer if you’d worn Dorothy’s slippers. Those black ones you’re wearing are boring.”

  “They’re practical.”

  “Boring,” I correct. “So what’s next?”

  “Well, considering I’ve barely started on my workout—”

  “Okay, fast-forward,” I say, spinning my finger. “Lucky for you, my usual hairstyle doesn’t do itself, so I’ll be able to keep myself busy while you finish your aspiring-bodybuilder routine. I mean, what happens after?”

  Instead of answering, he lets his gaze roam over me, almost reluctantly. I regret that I opted to drape myself over the bar instead of standing up straight so I could pretend to stretch my lower back in a way that pushes out my boobs.

  Wait. What?

  I don’t want him thinking of me like that. Because I don’t think of him like that.

  Do I? Oh, dear. I’m not sure, not when he’s looking at me with…

  Oh. It’s disdain. Never mind, then.

  “What exactly did you do for exercise, Georgiana?” he says, giving me a skeptical look. “Twirl your hair?”

  “If I do it vigorously, it counts as cardio.”

  He gives the slightest of eye rolls. “Fine. Go shower. I’ll walk you home when I’m done.”

  “Wait, no,” I say, feeling a little surge of disappointment and panic. “I’m going with you to work.”

  Andrew rubs at his forehead. “Look, when I agreed to this the other night I was…I don’t know. Tired. Frustrated. If you’re bored here in the gym, you’ll be beyond bored with the rest of my day. The rest of my life.”

  The way he says it is just a little bit sad, and I’m suddenly desperate to make it better.

  “So show me,” I say, standing up straight.

  “I can’t teach you to be a lawyer in a day,” he snaps.

  I reach out and pinch his arm. “Quit pissing me off. I mean show me your routine here at the gym. We’ll do this one step at a time. I’ll let you know when I cry uncle and want to go back to Bloomingdale’s.”

  “No thanks. Besides, you’re not dressed for it. That zippy thing looks like something you wear on a Starbucks run, not something you sweat in.”

  “Fine,” I say, somehow managing to pour sugar into the word through my gritted teeth. “I’ll take it off.”

  He doesn’t
seem to register my words, but he does register the sound of a zipper being pulled, because his head whips back around just as the zipper reaches my waist, leaving the two sides of the jacket hanging open on either side of my torso.

  Don’t worry. I didn’t flash the guy.

  I’m wearing a perfectly gym-appropriate Lululemon sports bra, not at all different from what half the other women in here are wearing.

  But the way Andrew is looking at my exposed tummy sure as hell makes it feel different.

  His eyes burn hot against my skin, and I realize I’m so totally in over my head. But backing down is not an option, so instead of rezipping it like I want to, I place my hands on my hips.

  “So?” I say, my voice a little lower than usual. “Show me your workout. Let me prove I can keep up.”

  Andrew takes a step nearer to me, and my pulse goes crazy. Touch me. Touch me, touch me, touch me….

  His hands extend toward my sides, the warm pads of his fingers touching the outside of my stomach, and we both suck in a breath at the contact. My eyes close, silently begging him to slide his hands all the way into my jacket, to put his hands on me.

  Andrew’s fingers skim up my torso, over my rib cage, lightly, teasingly.

  His breathing is harsh and I’m pretty sure I’m panting.

  But before things get really interesting he jerks his hands away from my skin, instead grabbing the sides of my jacket, tugging it together, then zipping it up.

  Sure, the way his fingers adeptly pull at the tiny zipper is a sexy promise of how adept he could be with women’s clothes….

  But apparently the only thing he wants to be doing with my clothes is keeping them on.

  “Go take a shower, Georgiana.”

  “But—”

  The tip of his index finger touches the center of my lip. “If I take you to my office, do you promise to be quiet and not get in my way?”

  I slowly shake my head, not wanting to speak for fear he’ll remove his finger, and I suddenly feel like I need him to touch me in any way I can get. Who knew that prissy, asshole guys did it for me? But Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, is really doing it for me right now, all sweaty and irritated and a little bossy.