One Night Standards

by Cathy Yardley

  “You know why nobody can find out!”

  “Would you be willing to wait for me?” Mark snapped. “You want me. This Marion & Co. crap isn’t going to last forever. Can you just put it on pause for a few months?”

  “You couldn’t!” Her hands balled into fists. “You didn’t! I can’t believe you’re putting me on the defensive because I’m doing what you were doing!”

  “What I was doing,” he said, “was giving in to lust. What you’re doing is using me to blow off steam.”

  All color drained out of her face.

  “You don’t want anything more from me than a lay,” he said, needlessly cruel. He didn’t know why he said it. Maybe because he’d been in this position before. Maybe…“You haven’t said you want anything more permanent than that. I figure, you either like the challenge—the forbidden-fruit thing. Or, like you said when we first met—you hadn’t had sex in a long time, and work was your life. So I’m just convenient.”

  “Nothing about you is convenient,” she spat out. “And at the moment, I don’t want you at all.”

  He still wanted her—that was the damnable thing. But he had to focus. They didn’t have a relationship. She wasn’t spouting her undying love, and even if she did, what could they do about it? All she’d admitted to was they were having an affair. He wasn’t about to live his life for that. He was worthwhile, damn it. He was intelligent, hardworking, a good guy.

  He deserved more than this.

  “I think you should leave,” he said.

  “I’m going,” she said, her expression dark. She paused as his hand rested on the doorknob. “Don’t talk to me again. We’re going to destroy you guys.”

  He didn’t even dignify it with a response. He just let her out into the hallway and shut the door behind her.

  He went to the minifridge, pulling out a few of the tiny bottles: vodka, whiskey, scotch. He then proceeded to open and drain each one.

  Damn her. He hadn’t even meant those things, had he?

  Why couldn’t he think when it came to Sophie?

  And what was he going to do now?

  5

  “HOW’S THE WORK COMING?” Sophie’s mother said, peeking her head into the living room.

  Sophie gritted her teeth, her grip on her wooden pencil as tight as an iron vise. “Mom…”

  Her mother frowned. “I waited a whole hour before I asked.”

  “You’re not helping,” Sophie said in a low voice. “It’s fine. I’m doing everything I can. Please keep working on those prototypes, okay? And tell Lydia I want to talk to her about the packaging mock-ups.”

  “You don’t have to be so cranky about the whole thing,” her mother responded in a sulky voice.

  Sophie sighed, rubbing both hands over her face. Her mother really hadn’t done anything to deserve Sophie’s ire; Sophie certainly did not have cause to be acting the way she was. The “rejuvenating” weekend her mother had suggested she take had gone completely to hell, thanks to her confrontation with Mark. She’d thrown herself at him.

  He’d tossed her back, roughly.

  What you’re doing is using me to blow off steam. You don’t want anything more from me than a lay.

  The comments still haunted her—probably because of the element of truth in them.

  She wanted more from him than sex, she thought. Admittedly, they couldn’t have anything more than sex. Not with the things they wanted, which happened to be in direct competition with each other. She knew it had been crazy, to think they could keep their business and personal lives separate. But he’d felt so damned good…

  And it hadn’t just been the sex. When he’d called her on the phone, she’d felt as if they were truly getting to know each other. If it hadn’t been for the Marion & Co. nonsense…If it weren’t for the fact that he worked for her mother’s sworn enemy, a big conglomerate that was huge and soulless and the same as all the other corporations Sophie had ever worked for…

  If only. Sophie huffed, mocking herself mentally. Her life was plagued with vague potentials, bright “what-might-have-beens,” and some harsh realities.

  Lydia walked in, carrying some cardboard boxes and plastic containers in a small basket. “Here are those mock-ups,” she said, tossing the basket on the coffee table next to Sophie’s laptop. She sounded snarky, too. Apparently there was something in the water.

  Sophie picked up the first box. “I thought we decided on royal-purple, midnight-blue, with silver lettering. Why is this gold?”

  Lydia made a face. “Silver is too old. Gold looks better—classier.”

  “Screen goddesses, remember?” Sophie said. “Silver screen.”

  “Silver hair,” Lydia countered. “Damn it, why don’t you let me do what I do? I’m the designer. You’re not.”

  Sophie bit her lip. Why was everyone snapping at her lately? “What the hell is your problem, Lydia?” she asked in a quiet voice. “Because I’m really close to the edge, and I don’t need this right now.”

  “None of us needs it,” Lydia snapped. “You’re not the only one under pressure!”

  This again. If Lydia kept pushing that point, they wouldn’t get anywhere. Sophie couldn’t fix the thing with Mark—that was a wash, a devastating disaster that had gone past the point of no return. But she couldn’t afford to have her sister hating her, too. Especially not when her sister was also the head graphic designer for their family company and a key part of their future success.

  “Come on,” Sophie said, rising from the couch. “We’re getting a coffee.”

  Lydia looked mutinous for a moment, then nodded. Sophie drove them to the local coffee shop, ordering the two of them some frothy, chocolate-and-caramel latte drinks with plenty of whipped cream. She was gratified to see Lydia smile when she carried the drinks over.

  “I figure we could use the rush,” Sophie said, putting Lydia’s drink in front of her and settling down at the table. “So why don’t you tell me what’s wrong? I’ve never seen you like this. Normally you define unflappable. Lately…”

  “I know. Lately, it’s been like PMS four weeks a month,” Lydia admitted, using a finger to scoop up some of the whipped cream. “I just wish this wasn’t so damned important. I feel like our whole life is on the line every time I go to the office.”

  Sophie sighed. “Yeah. I know that one.”

  “And it doesn’t help that Mom looks at you as the beall, end-all,” Lydia said. “She means well, but she treats me like a flunky, Sophie. It’s like I’m not smart enough, or something. I’m barely good enough to be your helper, and I have to take all my cues from you.” Lydia’s expression of unhappiness tore at Sophie’s heart. “I know you guys might not see it, but I’m a damned fine graphic designer. Even though I haven’t been out of school for very long, I could be making a good living if I weren’t so committed to helping Mom out.”

  “I believe it,” Sophie said.

  “But Mom doesn’t.” Lydia took a long sip of her coffee. “She thinks I’m merely along for the ride. Do you know how hard it is, to always keep proving yourself—and to always come up short?”

  “She doesn’t mean it,” Sophie defended. “You know what she’s like. She’s right-brained. Scientific.”

  “Yeah, I do,” Lydia said. “I also know that it’s an excuse. But lately, she’s gotten so focused on the business and being successful and getting revenge on Trimera, she doesn’t take time to notice what it actually does to the people around her.”

  Sophie grimaced, taking a long sip of her sugary drink to hide her expression of chagrin. Was that what had happened, with her and Mark? Was she so intent on the business side that she’d deliberately chosen to ignore any possibility of a relationship?

  Was that what he was so upset about?

  “You’re getting that way, too,” Lydia pointed out. “I know how hard you’ve been working on all of this.”

  “Thanks,” Sophie said. “It’s not easy.”

  “Yeah, but you realize you’re making it
even harder, don’t you?” Lydia rolled her eyes. “You’re making this a life-or-death struggle. You’re making everything much more meaningful and complicated than it needs to be.”

  Sophie blinked. “It’s not only about the business,” she protested. “It’s like you said. I’m committed to the family. I mean, we can’t let Mom flounder, can we?”

  Lydia looked contemplative. “I’m not saying we leave Mom to fend for herself,” she replied. “But…this is going beyond helping Mom, or being committed to the family company. You’re in this for revenge. And you’re in this to prove something.”

  Sophie didn’t know what to say to that.

  “I’ve let Mom down tons,” Lydia said with a wan smile. “So it’s not as hard on me. But you’ve always been perfect. So it’s harder on you. It probably never even occurred to you to tell Mom, ‘This is making me crazy. I can only do so much, and at the end of the day, I’ll have done the best I can and we’ll all have to be okay with that.’ Would you say that?”

  Sophie winced. “Probably not.”

  “I rest my case.” Lydia took a long last sip of her drink, sighing with happiness. “Thanks for this. Not just the sugar and caffeine—although they help—but for talking to me.” She looked at Sophie with some regret. “I was ready to tell Mom, and you, that I was going to walk.”

  Sophie cringed. “I’m glad you changed your mind.”

  “It takes talking. It’s more than getting the work done—it’s about building understanding,” Lydia said, more sage than her twenty-eight years would’ve suggested. “Mom gets so into the science, and you get so into the business, that sometimes you forget what it’s really about.”

  “Which would be…?” Sophie prompted.

  Lydia rolled her eyes. “People,” she answered, as if it were patently obvious. Which, actually, it was, now that Sophie thought about it. “Trimera screwed up by not paying attention to the people portion of the program. They thought it was all numbers. You got it.” She nodded. “Just don’t forget that there are other people than clients and customers, okay?”

  Sophie nodded, chastised. She thought about Lydia’s remark, all the way home.

  She and Mark had talked, but it had never been about anything that involved the two of them. They’d covered superficial stuff, their likes and dislikes, their quirks. They’d gone a bit deeper and talked about their dreams. Sophie had always wanted to work for herself, maybe as a marketing consultant. Mark had revealed his past as a model—something that had not surprised her—and then had revealed that he’d always wanted to make it to vice president of marketing. He wanted to show people that he was more than a pretty face.

  She’d never made the connection before, that his business goal and their “personal” relationship might intersect. He’d always made sure that she knew that he didn’t want her to feel cheap, or used. He cared about her as a person.

  She had not taken the same care. She’d gone to him, assumed he’d be reassuring as usual, and then he’d make love to her as he always had. She’d treated him badly—just a pretty face, or a hunky body, a tool. Not a person, with a brain…and more importantly, a heart. He’d then reacted even worse…and then the two of them had stupidly let the whole thing escalate.

  She had to apologize to him. She had to make this right.

  She walked into her mother’s house, with Lydia humming contentedly as she went back to her room/office to work on new mock-ups. Her mother walked in as Sophie was cleaning off the coffee table. “You’re not leaving, are you?” her mother asked, aghast.

  Sophie frowned, her hands full of papers. “Well, yeah,” she said slowly. “I thought I’d do some more work from my apartment.”

  And call Mark, she added mentally. Once she figured out what she was going to say, and how she’d apologize.

  “But…we still have a ton of things to do!”

  “Which I can still do from my place, Mom.”

  “No,” her mother said, getting that stubborn tilt to her head that Sophie knew—and also knew she couldn’t fight against. “I’m finishing the last of the eye-shadow color palettes tonight, and Lydia will have the packaging ready. I want to see what you’ve come up with for the presentation, with all this stuff put in.”

  “Mom, the presentation’s two weeks away,” Sophie protested.

  “They’re going to come at us hard,” her mother said, and despite the coldness of her tone, Sophie reacted to the fear in her mother’s eyes. “You said that yourself. I can’t afford to lose this, Sophie!”

  Sophie winced. This wasn’t just about the vendetta, as Lydia had said. This really was her mother’s future.

  “All right, Mom,” she said. “I’ll stay here, we’ll go over what I’ve got tonight, and then I’ll work more from home tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” her mother said, grudgingly. “You know, it’s better to do some things face-to-face. It’ll calm my mind.”

  “Okay.” She watched as her mother retreated to her garage lab, and then started putting the papers back on the coffee table, intent on finishing the rough presentation in time to show her mother and sister that evening. Her mother just needed some hand-holding. At least she was letting Sophie and Lydia go on their own to San Francisco, to make the presentation. It did show a level of trust, which Sophie appreciated.

  She thought about Mark again. She needed to show him a level of trust, she realized. And a phone call might not get it done. Knowing him, he probably wouldn’t even answer his phone. He was probably neck-deep in battle strategy, thinking of ways to drive her, and Diva Nation, into the ground.

  She couldn’t blame him, and she wasn’t about to stop working hard. But she was still apologizing and would patch things up. It had never been just business between them sex, either. It was something more. Hopefully, when all of this was over, they’d be able to see exactly what that “something more” was.

  In the meantime, she’d wait until San Francisco. And then she’d make her move. As her mother often said, some things were better face-to-face.

  ANOTHER WEEK, ANOTHER hotel room, Mark thought. At least this one was nice, with a view overlooking San Francisco’s Bay Bridge. Marion & Co. had booked it for him, and Abigail Marion definitely had champagne tastes. The room itself was large for one person, with a California king-size bed, a cherry desk with a large work surface, modem port and fax, a flat-screened television and vaulted ceilings. The decor itself was sumptuous, all in shades of dark blue and teal with green accents. Even the minifridge had splits of Cristal and small bottles of Courvoisier. It was very, very luxurious.

  Too bad I’m not in any shape to enjoy it.

  Mark had come in a day early. Simone was arriving in tomorrow, ostensibly to give moral support—which, loosely interpreted, meant making sure he didn’t screw up. He’d been working on the damned presentation eighteen hours a day for the past three weeks. He’d worked while eating. He’d damned near worked while showering. He dreamed about this presentation.

  That was, when he wasn’t dreaming about Sophie.

  He rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms. No. He wasn’t thinking about Sophie until he absolutely had to, which would be tomorrow at four o’clock, when they faced off again in front of Abigail Marion. When he saw if he had what it took to win the second “challenge.”

  It would be an uphill battle without question. He hadn’t had a lot of help from Trimera. Carol, bitch that she was, had quickly spread around the rumor mill that the reason Trimera had performed poorly in the first challenge was that she’d been handicapped by having Mark as a teammate. Because no one else had been at the presentation, and everyone knew what a sales barracuda she was compared to Mark’s easygoing style, they all assumed that she was telling the truth. Now, everyone in sight refused to have anything to do with what they were calling the “Marion Disaster.” Mark had fought to get information he needed for his report, and to get mock-ups ready, but he’d gotten static at every turn. He’d kicked butt around the office,
something he rarely did in order to get his work done. Of course, in his current snarling state of mind, it hadn’t been hard to kick some butt. He wasn’t some pretty-boy model who had made it on just his looks—or by screwing his way to the top sales position.

  He frowned. Which brought him right back to his problem with Sophie.

  He didn’t know who he was more mad at: Sophie or himself. She had valid points. It wasn’t as if he’d ever promised her a relationship when they’d slept together, images of which were burned indelibly in his memory. It wasn’t even as if she were evil for wanting some sex to get rid of stress. He was currently in an insane pressure cooker of stress, and if sex would relieve it, then he would probably do the same thing.

  But Sophie was different, damn it.

  It was unfair of him to get angry with her. He was trying to make her pay for the fact that almost everyone in his life—from his modeling days, to business school, to Trimera itself—had always looked at him as someone they could use for superficial purposes, not someone who made a valuable contribution. He wanted to feel valued. And with Sophie, he supposed he’d been starting to feel that way. Then he’d lashed out at her, because of the Carol fiasco, because he could see his professional future circling the drain. Because Sophie couldn’t seem to see how important everything was to him, and only focused on the physical.

  And why shouldn’t she? She’s not your wife. She’s not your girlfriend. She’s just somebody you slept with.

  There was a knock on his door, and he sighed, thinking about the last time there had been a knock on his hotel-room door. But after the way his last exchange with Sophie had ended, he couldn’t imagine she’d be back. He certainly wouldn’t be.

  He peered out through the peephole.

  Sophie stood there, yet again.

  He opened the door, feeling numb. He couldn’t say anything for a long moment. Her hair was down, tumbling loosely around her shoulders, looking like ribbons of caramel, luscious and rich. Her eyes were luminous. She wasn’t wearing much makeup. What she was wearing, he noticed, was an expression of hesitance.