by Lauren Layne
Andrew
SUNDAY NIGHT, DINNER
Andrew took a sip of his wine, watching in bemusement as Georgiana chatted animatedly with the server.
Not about the specials, not about the wine list, but about the man’s new Yorkie-Poo, which, based on the description, Andrew could only assume resembled a fancy rat.
Just when he thought the other man would do something crazy like take their food order, Georgiana demanded pictures.
Andrew sat back in his chair in resignation as the server pulled an iPhone out of his back pocket and proceeded to show Georgiana an endless slide show of a small dog named Macaroon, who apparently had just been gifted a brand-new sweater. Ridiculous. No wonder Georgiana was enthralled.
But whereas just a few weeks ago Andrew would have been irritated by such frivolousness, tonight he found he was…charmed.
The woman was just so damn vivacious, drawing people to her with every breath. Everyone liked Georgiana.
And she’d chosen him. Somehow, this gorgeous, compelling creature seemed to want to spend time with him.
But for how long? He knew there was a ticking time bomb, but she didn’t. At least, he didn’t think she did. He’d know more when he could actually speak with her, rather than have to listen to a discussion of gluten-free dog treats.
She caught his eye and winked, and instantly he felt a bit of the tension in his shoulders ease. Georgiana looked beautiful tonight, but then, he supposed she did every night.
Her long hair was pulled back and piled high on her head, with a few pieces falling to her shoulders—shoulders he knew were the perfect combination of sharp angles and soft skin and tasted like vanilla.
Andrew was suddenly glad that she was wearing a sweater. He didn’t want any other man knowing those shoulders the way he did. He didn’t want to share any part of her, even with a flamboyant waiter who Andrew was reasonably sure had no interest in any of Georgiana’s body parts.
Shit. He was screwed. How had this woman gone from being the aggravating menace of his early mornings to the center of everything?
Since the second she’d walked out the door for brunch this morning, he’d been painfully conscious of the clock, obnoxiously aware of how many hours it would be until he’d see her again.
Finally the server moved away. He’d forgotten to take their order, but that suited Andrew just fine. He didn’t mind prolonging their dinner.
Then Georgiana’s tongue flicked out, catching a drop of wine, and suddenly Andrew minded the delay very much. He wanted her in his bed, her hair on his pillow, her soft curves beneath him.
She was watching him. “You’re scowling, Andy.”
“Perhaps because you’re calling me Andy?”
“I can’t help it. Punishment for you still calling me Georgiana, even after we—”
He lifted his eyebrows. “After we…?” Then he blinked, stunned by what he was seeing. “Georgiana. Are you blushing?”
She took a sip of water. “No. It’s just hot in here.”
He leaned forward. “Bet we could make it a lot hotter if we left here.”
“Don’t even try. You promised to feed me. No handsy stuff until I get fed. Did you see the fish and chips go by? Glorious.”
“Sure, if you enjoy food fried in trans fats,” he said.
“Um, everyone enjoys those foods,” she said, opening the menu.
Andrew took another sip of his wine. “Do your weekly brunches with your parents include similarly caloric nightmares?”
“Depends—it changes every week. Used to be my mom was pretty health-conscious, always worried about my dad’s cholesterol, but she’s loosened up in recent years. Maybe she decided life’s too short to not indulge in a croissant from time to time.”
“You enjoy these…brunches?”
She looked up and smiled. “You sound a little like someone who’s trying to understand a foreign culture but can’t figure out the weird customs.”
“I don’t deny that nearly everything about you is a bit foreign to me, Georgiana.”
“Well, no longer calling me by my formal, full name might be a step in the right direction. Speaking of names, what’s your middle name?”
“Michael. Why?”
She shut the menu. “Because I like to know these kinds of details about the men I’m sleeping with. Favorite color?”
“Don’t have one. I’m not a child.” He felt a sharp nudge against his shin. “Did you just kick me?”
She smiled serenely. “Favorite color?”
“Red.”
“Interesting. Why?” She picked up her wine and tilted her head.
Andrew sighed. “Is this what it’s going to be like, then?”
“Is this what what’s going to be like?”
Dating you. He almost said the words, but bit them back just in time. He didn’t like the way the thought made him feel vulnerable. He hadn’t felt this unsure of himself in a very long time, and he didn’t enjoy it.
He was, however, enjoying her. And therein lay the problem.
“What’s your middle name?” he asked, to distract her.
“Frances.”
He resisted the urge to smile. “Georgiana Frances? Surely your parents were expecting a different sort of child.”
“I know, right? I was named after both grandmothers, and I have to assume everyone thought I’d be very tidy and studious.”
“Bet you weren’t,” he said, enjoying the mental image of what she must have been as a wildly charming handful of a little girl.
“Not even a little bit. I was most definitely the one who wanted princess parties and asked for a pink pony eight years in a row.”
“So pink’s your favorite color, then?”
“No, red,” she said, sitting forward and looking delighted. “Do you know what this means?”
“You have a temper?”
“No, it means we have something in common. Can you even conceive of it?”
“Honestly?” He sipped his wine. “Not really.”
“You know what I like best about this whole situation?” she said with a smile. “I like that you haven’t changed even a little. I like that you’ve seen all my bits, and you’re still crusty.”
He stifled a laugh. “I’m not sure which is more disturbing: the word bits, the word crusty, or the fact you used them in the same sentence.”
“So, I talked to Hailey,” she announced, without any conversational segue whatsoever. Typical.
“Oh yeah?” he asked, tensing a bit. He didn’t particularly like that he’d been very close to using a perfectly nice woman in order to get the upper hand on the woman he’d really wanted.
“Yep, we met up for coffee after brunch, and I explained everything. I didn’t want her to find out from another Page Six post.”
“When you say you explained everything…?”
For the first time since he’d known her, something that looked like uncertainty flashed across her face.
“I mean, I just—I told her that you and I…” She floundered.
Andrew felt a little stab of relief to know that he wasn’t the only one out of his element here.
Georgiana blew out a breath. “Okay, so do you know who Ash Morrigan is?”
Andrew blinked. Not what he’d thought—hoped—she was going to say. “The actor?”
“The super-hot actor,” Georgiana amended.
What the…?
“Anyway,” Georgiana continued, “he was in New York a few months back, at the same club as me and the girls. And…he seemed interested in me.”
Andrew’s fingers tightened around his wineglass. Yeah, he definitely didn’t like where this was going.
“Your point?”
“My point is, I got his phone number,” she said. “He told me to call him, that he wanted to see me again, that he’d fly me to Los Angeles.”
Andrew took a big swallow of his wine, wishing it were something stronger. Ash Morrigan had starred in every action blockbuster i
n the past year, about half the romantic comedies, and even some period piece where there were whispers of an Oscar nomination going around. And this was who he was competing with? Ash fucking Morrigan?
“Okay, see, you’re getting this wrong,” Georgiana said urgently. “What I’m trying to tell you is that…I never called him. I could never figure out why. I thought maybe it was because I was nervous, but I don’t really get nervous. And lately I’ve been realizing—wondering—if, well, maybe I didn’t call him because of you.”
Andrew’s heart stopped beating, then started again.
“I liked Ash,” she said quietly. “He was fun and charming, and famous, of course…but every time I thought about calling him, trying to get excited about the prospect, I realized that what I was most excited about was those early morning run-ins in our building.”
Andrew didn’t know what to say.
“Wow, this is harder than I thought,” she muttered, taking a sip of her wine. “Okay, well, anyway. I gave Hailey Ash’s number. Thought it might help take the sting out of you breaking off your date last night, although honestly, I think she would have been super cool about it anyway. The end.”
Hardly. Hardly, Georgiana. They weren’t even close to the end of…whatever they were doing.
“You traded in one of the biggest names in Hollywood for me?” he asked, just to be sure. He had to be sure.
“Don’t make it weird—it was just his phone number. It’s not like Hailey and I put bags over your heads and then made the swap,” she muttered, her fingers fluttering a little nervously on the table.
He reached across and took her hand, waiting until she met his eyes. “What are you doing next Thursday?”
She stared at him. “Do I look like the sort of girl who plans four days in advance?”
“Make an exception. One of the senior partners at my firm is retiring. There’s a big, fancy party. It’s on a yacht or something, I can’t remember.”
“And?”
Of course she wasn’t going to make this easy for him. Of course.
“Come with me,” he said simply.
Her smile was slow and happy, and damned if that didn’t make him happy. “Andrew.”
“Yes?”
“Are we…dating?”
He gave her hand a brief squeeze before leaning back in his chair. He picked up the menu but didn’t look at it. “When you gave Hailey Ash’s number, did you simultaneously delete it from your phone?”
She snorted. “Um, no. It’s Ash Morrigan, Andy.”
“Georgiana.”
“Hmm?”
He smiled and held her gaze. “Lose that phone number.”
Her answering smile told him she knew what he was trying to say. You’re mine.
Georgie
WEDNESDAY, A LITTLE BEFORE 7:00 P.M.
Okay, this stuffed chicken saltimbocca looked a lot easier—and a lot prettier—on the Food Network.
I blow a bit of hair out of my face as I take a sip of wine and stare down at the mangled mass of chicken breast, prosciutto, sage, and cheese.
“Giada, you traitor,” I mutter, glancing at the recipe on Andrew’s iPad.
Yeah, you heard that right. Andrew’s iPad. As in, I’m in his kitchen. Drinking his wine. Cooking him dinner. Well, cooking us dinner.
I know. Domestic, right? I feel a little bit like I’m playing house, but also a little bit…happy.
No, a lot happy.
And lest you think I’ve given up my former life to play Suzy Homemaker for a workaholic, I’ll have you know that while I have spent the past few nights in with my new…boyfriend?…tonight I’m going out.
I miss the girls. I miss dancing.
I like both sides of myself: the party-girl Georgie and the cooks-dinner-and-watches-movies Georgie.
I’ve always thought that there’d be a switch—that I’d go from clubbing and champagne to wedding and babies overnight. Maybe for some women it happens that way, but for me it feels more like I’m just discovering a new part of myself.
The one that can’t figure out how to get cheese inside of chicken, apparently.
I take another sip of wine and prepare to start again, but a knock at the door distracts me.
I wrinkle my nose and look at the clock as I hurriedly wash my hands. Seven is right about the time Andrew usually gets home, and he wouldn’t knock at his own apartment door. Unless he forgot his keys…
I check the peephole, my heart stopping its overexcited thudding when I realize it’s not Andrew. And yet my curiosity is piqued, because there’s a woman on the other side of the door.
I tell myself not to open the door. That sleeping with him for all of four days doesn’t entitle me to open his front door.
I open it anyway.
“Hi!” I say with a wide smile.
The woman’s head snaps back a little in surprise, and her gaze flicks to the apartment number; apparently she’s thinking she knocked on the wrong door.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought this was the apartment of—”
“Andrew Mulroney?” I ask, quite pleased with myself for not adding the Esquire.
She smiles tentatively. “Is he here?”
“No, sorry.” Instinct tells me to let her in, but I can’t let a complete stranger into someone else’s apartment with no explanation.
“Ah. I told him I’d come by around seven. Perhaps he forgot?”
“You’re a friend?” I ask, mentally crossing my fingers that it’s not an ex-girlfriend. Although the woman’s got a wedding ring, and she doesn’t look to be Andrew’s type. She’s got a soft friendliness about her, and I can’t help but think Andrew would just cut her to shreds with his glare. Plus she looks to be older than him by several years.
“I’m Pam Mulroney,” she says. “Andrew’s sister-in-law. The guys down at the front desk have my name on the approval list, so they sent me up….”
“Oh!” I say. Okay, well, I can’t leave family standing out in the hall. “Come on in. He should be back any minute.”
Pam smiles as she steps inside.
“Can I take your coat?” I ask, just as a cellphone begins to ring.
“Oh, I wonder if that’s him,” she says, digging through her purse and coming up with an iPhone that’s a couple of generations old.
“Hi, Andrew,” she says, her widening smile telling me that they must have at least a somewhat decent relationship. “No, it’s no problem! I don’t mind waiting—and actually, a very nice girl let me into your apartment.”
I beam. I am very nice. I can practically hear Andrew’s eye roll through the phone.
I move into the kitchen to give Pam a bit more privacy, but she hangs up a second later.
“He said he’ll be here in ten minutes or so—he got held up with a client phone call,” Pam says, her eyes scanning the kitchen.
I suddenly realize my error. I meant to surprise him with a home-cooked meal when he got home, but it didn’t even occur to me that just as I also want to maintain my former life, he still has other commitments in his. Things I know nothing about.
“I’m so sorry to intrude,” I say, starting to clean up. “I meant to surprise him. I didn’t know he had plans—”
Pam interrupts. “Saltimbocca?”
I glance down at the mess on the cutting board. “Trying to be.”
She points at my glass. “Pour me one of those.”
I do as she asks, and when I turn around, she’s taken my place behind the cutting board. It’s obvious from the confidence of her movements that she’s better in the kitchen than I am.
“You really don’t have to save me,” I say. “I can clean it up—he’ll never know about the massacre.”
Her hands never stop moving as she pulls out a piece of plastic wrap, placing it over the chicken so she can pound it out a bit more, but she watches me the entire time. “Never known him to have a woman cook for him.”
I give a tiny shrug, feeling self-conscious and out of place knowing that thi
s is a member of his family and I’m his…I don’t know what. Girlfriend, I guess. That thought makes me happy.
“Sit,” she says, nodding at the bar stool.
I do as instructed, while she beats the crap out of the chicken.
“It needs to be thinner so you have more surface area to work with,” she says, holding up the now very flat piece of chicken. “Easier to roll, see?”
She does indeed make it look easy, and I watch and learn, even as my mind races, considering what question to ask first.
I really should leave and let Andrew tell me about himself in his own time, but that will probably take centuries, so…
“You’re married to Andrew’s brother?” I ask.
She nods. “Peter. We live in New Jersey.”
“Do you two make it into the city often?” I ask, sort of asking why his brother didn’t tag along without actually asking it.
“Not so much. Peter hates Manhattan. The honking, the sirens, the people…”
“But you don’t mind it?”
“No, I do,” she says with a friendly smile. “But I have something to discuss with Andrew in person. A favor.”
I nod and say nothing, since there’s really nothing to follow up with that wouldn’t seem prying.
“He said your name is Georgiana?” Pam asks, putting a nicely rolled piece of chicken onto the baking sheet I already lined with foil.
“Georgie,” I say. “I live in the building, and we…” She lifts her eyebrows, and I feel myself blush. “We’re friends.”
“Awfully nice of you to attempt chicken saltimbocca for a friend,” she says, winking as she uses the back of her hand to push blond hair off her forehead.
Pam’s easy to like. Her brown eyes are friendly, and her appearance is friendly without being flashy. But she seems a little bit sad too.
“How long have you and Peter been married?”
“Oh, forever,” she says with a laugh. “We were high school sweethearts, got married when we were nineteen. We’re six years older than Andrew, so I’ve known him since he was a kid.”
“What was he like?” I can’t help asking, leaning forward.