by Alexa Davis
“You guys get newspapers out here?” I ask. If they ever replace me as CEO, it’ll be because I find the worst moments to tell jokes.
Her eyes narrow and she shakes her head at me. I just want to have dinner and a conversation with Ellie, but there’s a real and growing risk of me getting punched in the neck.
“I make jokes when I’m on the spot,” I tell her. “It’s a character flaw. It’s pretty universally despised, and I apologize.”
“Hey, look,” she says, “it’s magically all better now even though you still haven’t answered my original question.”
I’m looking up and to the left for my memory, but I don’t find it. “I’m sorry,” I say, “to which question are you referring?”
“Listen, Nikolai—Nick,” she says, reaching her hand out to shake mine, “it’s been real interesting getting to know you. And I’m sure the people in town will be telling their great-grandchildren about way back when, but I don’t think this was such a good idea.”
I take a deep breath and blow it out. “Okay,” I say. “I’m sorry that’s the way you feel, but I’m not going to press the issue. I am going to be in town for a while, but I can give you my card if you change your mind. That’s up to you.”
It’s unclear whether it’s because she wants a souvenir of that time she told me off or if she might change her mind. She doesn’t say. Regardless, when I pull the card out of the inside pocket of my suit coat, she takes it.
Walking away now, I don’t know how this is going to end, only that it hasn’t yet. It’s hard to convince someone you’re a regular person who just got on board with an excellent idea and that idea happened to make a lot of money, but that’s what happened. That’s what and who I am.
She has to be the one to make the decision if she’s going to get invested enough to find that out, though. I can’t force her into believing I’m a good man.
At this point, I’d love to be the hard one who’s going to tell this part of the story to his friends as, “You gotta show ‘em you’re willing to walk away: It’s business 101,” or something like that. If that were the kind of nonsense going through my head, I wouldn’t have this all-encompassing insecurity that I honestly haven’t felt in a very, very long time.
Of course, then I’d also be a callous jerk, and from what I hear, that comes with its own set of problems. I’m most of the way down the block before I give in to my curiosity and look back toward the restaurant.
Ellie’s still in front of Carne Celeste. She’s not watching me go, though. She has a cell phone in her hand, and it appears that she’s referencing a business card, undoubtedly mine.
There’s still no way to know whether she’s considering calling me at some point or if she just wants to have something to show her friends when she’s talking about how pompous I am. As I turn back to face the street ahead, though, I can’t help feeling I’ve succeeded in a rather profound way.
There’s nothing left for me to do tonight—in town, anyway. Back at the Plimpington Hotel, though, there’s a lot that still needs to get done.
When the owner of the hotel said that we could rent out the whole place, I answered that wouldn’t be necessary. He said, “Okay,” and we moved on with the specifics.
When he offered again later in the conversation, I was curious, but still rejected the idea. He didn’t know I was considering making Mulholland Stingray’s new base of operations, and even if he did, he would have also learned there are only about two dozen people out here with me. The bulk of Stingray and all of its non-me higher ups are still back in Manhattan, and even if I do find what I’m looking for in Mulholland, a lot of those people are going to stay right where they are.
Of course, the board will have to relocate, or I’ll be the one who has to travel to every morning meeting out of state. That part’s unavoidable, but I’m not looking to abandon New York.
When the owner of the hotel insisted that we have the place to ourselves, but that the only way to do that would be to rent out the whole place, I finally got the message.
I offered to rent out every room that was not currently occupied, but the line got silent about that time. Eventually, I relented. Until we get something more permanent, the temporary corporate headquarters of one of the biggest companies to come out of the last decade is the Plimpington Hotel.
When I finally turn the corner, I pull out my cell phone and call my driver. He picks me up as I’m walking and we head back to the hotel. I’m barely out of the car before I have staff dropping files in my hand and giving me cell phones, two at a time so I can figure out whatever doom has befallen the world since I left for Carne Celeste.
Even as I’m signing documents like they’re autographs and giving one-word answers to very complex questions that don’t get a chance to get fully asked, my mind is on that sidewalk, looking back and seeing Ellie put my number into her phone.
I don’t want to get too far ahead of myself here, and I can’t say for certain that I even saw it, but I could almost swear Ellie had a smile on her face.
Chapter Three
Naomi and the Dog
Ellie
“You know what else would be awesome about you and Nikolai marrying each other?” Naomi asks. This game stopped being fun before it started.
“I’m not listening,” I tell her and try to focus on the dishes she’s supposed to be drying.
“We’d never have to go bargain shopping again,” Naomi says as she bends down to give Max, my yellow lab, a scratch behind the ears. “And you could have the best dog food all the time.”
Max wags his tail at the mention of the word food.
“You know you have to give him something now, or else he’s just going to follow you around until you do,” I tell Naomi. “Are you going to help me with these or what?” I ask.
“I don’t get you,” she says. “You’re always talking about how you want to break out of this rut you’ve been in, and then a freaking CEO comes into your store and asks you on a date. Honestly, karmically I mean,” she says, “if you don’t jump him, you’re slapping the universe in the face.”
“With you as my roommate, I think I owe it a few,” I tell her. “I think it’ll get over it.”
I took the card. I even added the number to my phone, but after three weeks, I still haven’t called. To be honest, I don’t even know if he’s still in town. If he is, I doubt he’d still be interested.
“You say that now,” Naomi says, “but this isn’t the kind of thing that just happens to people. Everyone you ever tell the story to is going to think you’re an idiot if you don’t at least give him a call and see where it goes.”
“How often do you imagine I’m going to tell the story?” I ask. “Some guy thought I might be an easy target, but I didn’t let myself get caught. That sounds like every story a woman has ever told after going to a club. I’m not joking about Max,” I add. “You dropped the f-bomb. Treats are on top of the refrigerator, in case you forgot.”
“Just give me one good reason why you won’t call him and I’ll leave you alone,” she says.
She’s lying.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I ask.
Just because Naomi is the most frustratingly lucky person I know doesn’t mean she’s any good with money. She’s not so great about responsibility, either. It’s fifty-fifty she’s supposed to be at work right now.
“The boss gave me a day,” she says.
“What’d you do?” I ask.
The one breed of human Naomi’s luck doesn’t seem to affect are her employers. They tend not to appreciate the constant lateness, overbearing personality, and more than a few have made the mistake of bringing up Naomi’s nose, lip, and eyebrow rings as a bad thing. Those conversations never end well.
“I didn’t do anything,” she says. “I’m being rewarded.”
“Oh,” I say, and in a slightly different tone, I ask again, “What’d you do?”
“Well,” she says, “it’s not so much w
hat I did.”
I’m going to hate this story; I know it.
“I was out at lunch with Kim, and she got into a little fender bender with a mailbox,” she says.
“Uh huh,” I respond, unimpressed. “So what did you tell your boss happened?”
“That’s not the point,” she says. “The point is that I have been through a traumatic experience, and I just need a day to clear my head so I can come back to work with, you know …”
“A clear head?” I ask. “I’ve looked through your ears. I’d say it’s pretty vacant up there as it is.”
“Kim’s fine, by the way,” Naomi says, “not that you care or anything.”
“You just said it was a minor fender bender with a mailbox? How injured could she possibly have been?” I ask.
Naomi’s about to answer, but her eyes go wide, and she pitches forward as Max head-butts her directly in the posterior. I would catch her, but it’s more rewarding if I don’t.
“I told you,” I say. “If you mention food around Max, you’ve got to follow through. He doesn’t take being teased lightly.”
“You’ve got to teach your dog about personal space,” Naomi says, rubbing her butt before leaning back against the counter as Max stares up at her with a beautiful, canine smile.
“Top of the fridge,” I tell her. “It’s your only way out of this mess you’ve caused.”
“I love how everything’s my mess,” Naomi snarks.
I smile. “Me too,” I tell her. “It’s always made me feel like the responsible one.”
“You’re a peach,” she says.
Peach doesn’t mean peach.
“You know, it’s funny,” she says.
“I bet it’s not,” I answer.
She scoffs and says, “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“Don’t need to,” I tell her, shutting off the water. “Dry the dishes or don’t,” I say. “I’m done.”
She says, “It’s funny that you chastise me for accidentally teasing Max by saying the word—”
“Oh, I really wouldn’t repeat it,” I tell her as Max’s lips come together in anticipation of the treat he is rightfully owed.
“You chastise me for teasing Max with … that, but aren’t doing the same thing to Nikolai?” she asks.
“I’m not even speaking to him,” I tell her. “How is that teasing?”
“You took the card,” she says. “If you weren’t going to call, why’d you take the card?”
“Someone hands you a card, you take it,” I answer. “Besides, you’ve been bugging me so much about it that I tore the card up days ago.”
Naomi says, “That is the stupidest—whoa!”
Max is trying to show Naomi how much he likes her by rubbing up against her legs the way he’s seen Sammie, my cat, do over the years. The difference is that Max is a full-grown golden retriever.
Maybe it’s not the sweet or sisterly thing to do, but as Naomi loses her balance again, I just step out of the way and laugh.
“Where are the stupid treats?” she asks as she recovers herself.
“Top of the fridge,” I tell her. “Just give him one, though. He’s been a bit gassy.”
“You know, this is why they say dogs are man’s best friend, right?” she asks. “What guy wouldn’t love a gassy dog? That’s their version of high-class entertainment.”
As Naomi makes her way to the fridge, Max sits like a gentleman—or gentledog, as it were.
“Make him work for it, though,” I tell her.
“What does he know how to do?” she asks.
I return, “How long have you lived here?”
She sighs and goes through Max’s repertoire of known tricks before tossing him the treat. Max, now with the small chunk of jerky-like treat in his mouth, quickly leaves the room.
“If you don’t call him, I’m going to,” she says. “Where’s your phone?”
“You’re not calling him,” I tell her.
“No,” she says, “you’re not calling him. That’s the problem I’m going to solve here in about thirty seconds. Seriously, where’s your phone?”
“I lost it,” I lie.
“Bedroom?” she asks.
I don’t react.
A few years ago, I got Naomi a year’s subscription to an online deception training program. It was about the stupidest thing I ever did, but in my defense, how was I supposed to know she’d sit down and learn this stuff?
“Bathroom?” she asks.
I don’t react.
“Is it in your purse?” she asks.
I try not to react.
“Your purse it is, then,” she says.
“Oh, come on,” I groan.
“You know the way that corner of your mouth is twitching?” she says. “That’s called contempt. You really should smile more, you see?”
I smile with half my mouth just to mess with her.
“Charming,” she says.
Lucky for me, I’ve dealt with Naomi’s amateur lie detecting enough to know how to throw her off course. Ever since that first night after I came home with his number, I’ve been hiding my phone between my mattresses.
Naomi dumps out my purse on the couch and glances over its contents.
“Yeah, you should probably start asking yourself if lying to your sister is one of those things you want to have in your life,” she says. For her trouble, she opens my wallet and takes out a twenty.
“Hey!” I protest and cross the room.
She already has the cash in her pocket by the time I’m over there.
“Give it back,” I tell her. “You of all people know exactly how little money I can afford to throw around, and I’m the one who pays the rent.”
“You’re so freaking dramatic,” she says, taking the twenty back out of her pocket and holding it out to me. I reach for it, but she pulls it away, saying, “Talk to him.”
“Why is this so important to you?” I ask. “You have to know it’s not like me going out with a rich guy is going to benefit either of us.”
“You don’t know that until you call him,” she says.
I snatch the bill from her hand and start gathering the mess that is the collected contents of my purse. A moment later, Naomi is running toward my room.
“Later, sucka,” she says as I’m still trying to get back to my feet. My door is closed and locked before I can reach it.
The cretin planned this.
I knock on the door, saying, “Open up. What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m doing you a favor!” she says, and I can hear her inside tearing my room apart.
Running back into the kitchen, I find and grab a butter knife before returning to my door. I put the tip of the butter knife into the opening of the old lock and twist. The door unlatches easily, and my normally tidy room is now a hazmat area.
Naomi glances over at me but goes right back to her rummaging.
She hasn’t left me much of a choice here.
I get past her and thrust my hand between my mattresses and Naomi’s grabbing at me with one hand and trying to find the phone with the other.
“Get off of me!” I demand, but even when we were kids, she didn’t hear that phrase the way regular people do.
“This is for your own good!” she says while I’m trying to wrench my phone from her grip.
“You’ve never had a bad thing happen to you in your life,” I retort. “You don’t understand real people problems.”
Finally, through a carefully thrown, “accidental” elbow to the gut, I manage to pry the phone out of her rather impressive grip. I run out of the room, pulling the door closed behind me as I’m trying to pull up the number.
Naomi opens the door up again half a second later, but I’ve found the number, and I’m hitting delete. By the time she gets over to me, I’m more than happy to hand her the phone.
“What did you do?” she asks.
“Go ahead,” I tell her. “Call him. You know his name. Find the n
umber and call him.”
“You deleted it?” she asks, though it doesn’t sound a whole lot like a question.
I ask, “Now can I have a little peace and quiet?”
Naomi sighs and continues looking through my phone. It doesn’t take too long. She hands the phone back, saying, “Well, I guess that’s that, then.” She gives me the phone back. “Wanna get some ice cream or something?”
* * *
“You know what I love?” Naomi asks.
I sigh. “Is it the cookie dough?” I ask.
“It’s totally the cookie dough,” she says, shoveling a mouthful of cookie dough ice cream into her mouth. “You want to know something else?” she asks.
“What?” I ask.
“I think you should go out with Nikolai,” she says.
“Why do you even care if I go out with him?” I ask. “You don’t really think I’m going to have some dinner with the guy and he’s going to buy you a Maserati.”
“I’d settle for a sister who’s not so anally antisocial she won’t meet a guy for a drink to see if they hit it off,” she says.
“Wasn’t there a punk band named Anally Antisocial back in the late seventies?” I ask.
“Probably,” she says. “Anyway, though, I want to see you happy. Maybe the two of you aren’t going to end up with a house in the hills or anything, but why not just get a drink with him?”
In many ways, my sister is a lot like my dog. Back at the apartment, that was her equivalent of a head-butt. I think she may have head-butted me when we were fighting over the phone, because my forehead is throbbing.
She’s trying a softer approach now, but just like Max, she doesn’t quite know when to stop pushing.
“Oh, he probably doesn’t even remember who I am,” I tell her. “Do you have any idea how many people these guys talk to on a daily basis? I bet he meets more people a day without leaving his house than the two of us would meet in a year working retail.”
“How do you know?” she asks.
“Don’t start,” I tell her.