Asking For A Friend

by Blakely, Lauren

  I laugh, then zip my lips. But when I unzip them, I mutter, “But I don’t like hot dogs.”

  He growls. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. Anyway, if you want delish tacos, you’ll need to go to Brooklyn and shell out more than fifteen dollars, and they make them with radishes, cauliflower, and quinoa. But you’re required to wait in line for an hour, drink a La Croix with your food, and take a picture before you dig in.”

  “Got it. Instagram tacos only.”

  “Exactly.” Baldwin swings his arm around and makes a show of looking at his silver watch. “A bunch of us try to go out on Thursday night to this cool bar a few blocks away if you want to join. The drinks are legendary, and the vibe is unparalleled.”

  “Sure.” I do have some friends in the city, since my cousins live here and my sister and her wife make their home in Queens. Still, I’d like to get to know my colleagues better, so saying yes is easy.

  “But I want to make one thing clear first,” Baldwin continues. “I have first dibs on all the hottest men.”

  I hold up my hands in surrender. “You can have all the hottest men.”

  He slaps my shoulder. “Oh, you’re a Bit-O-Honey, and you’re sweet to give in like that. But even I, with the voracious man-candy appetite, can’t have them all. You can have second dibs.”

  I shake my head. “No, I don’t need second dibs or third dibs. I don’t need any dibs on dudes.”

  He tilts his head and eyes me like I’m speaking backward. “You dress like that, work in publishing, buy brownies for coworkers, and you don’t have dibs on men?”

  “What’s wrong with my clothes?” I truly want to know—this outfit is standard business attire. “My cousin helped me shop. She’s a stage magician, and maybe a bit of a prankster, but one, if she’d picked a cape and a top hat, I’d have known she was trying to get my goat, and two, she didn’t. So . . .”

  “Nothing is wrong with your clothes. Nothing wrong with wearing a costume, for that matter. But . . .?” He leaves the question for me to finish, but it’s more amusing to make him work for the intel.

  “But what?” I ask, keeping a matter-of-fact expression.

  “But you dress well, ergo . . .”

  I frown, staring at my dark-blue slacks and pressed white shirt. “Ergo, I’m the competition?”

  “You’re not the competition? You’re definitely straight? Are you sure?” His eyebrows shoot into his hairline. Skepticism runs strong in this one, but my sexual allegiances are 100 percent sure.

  “Straight as a ruler.”

  He shrugs. “Well, I saw a guy in a clown costume sharing a gyro with a pigeon this morning, so nothing really shocks me anymore. But it’s good to know I won’t be pitted against you when we all go out. Because—and don’t let this go to your head—you could clean up with the fellas, even though you’re in a Ping-Pong league.”

  “Thanks. Appreciate that.” I take a beat, then add, “I think. Also, what’s wrong with Ping-Pong?”

  “Nothing at all. I’m just teasing you. Besides, I’m sure the ladies will think it’s adorably sexy that you play Ping-Pong.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “I should warn you, though, if word gets out here that you like the ladies, there might be a line forming at your office door every morning.”

  “Is that so?”

  He laughs. “Oh, you’re cute. Haven’t you heard the stats about this biz?”

  “Which ones?”

  “About ninety-eight percent of the women in publishing are single, hetero, and love well-read guys. Whereas most of the men in publishing bat for my team. You, Linc, even if you wear polka-dot pants, are like one of those red pandas.”

  “Rare?”

  “Rare and rarely spotted in the wild.”

  Baldwin’s assessment doesn’t surprise me, since the preferences ran similarly in the boutique publishing house where I recently worked in Los Angeles. But I didn’t trek to New York to score an office romance. Publishing isn’t big in Southern California, so when this editorial job opened, I lunged, determined to make my mark.

  I definitely don’t have time for romantic entanglements. Or any kind of entanglements, especially after my last one with someone in the business belly-flopped. I’m here to work and to work hard.

  Even though one woman in the office has already caught my eye.

  And when we head to Gin Joint, I spot her right away—the woman in the red glasses. I already know she likes cake and is quick with a quip and that if I want to avoid distracting entanglements, I should stay far away.

  4

  Amy

  Peyton thrusts her arms heavenward and blows a triumphant kiss as we join her on the velvet couch. “Ten grand, chickadees. Ten grand because he stuck his Wiener schnitzel in another woman. That’s what the ring netted me.”

  I whistle in appreciation. Lola slow-claps.

  “Say what you will about his morals, but the cad has taste,” I say, and raise a glass of That One Time, one of the owner’s signature gin cocktails that Peyton ordered for us. “This calls for a ten grand–style toast.”

  Lola lifts her glass too. “Let us all drink to your ex-fiancé’s extravagant taste in diamonds.”

  The three of us clink glasses in celebration of the long-awaited sale of Peyton’s engagement ring.

  My best friend’s bright blue eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe she’s still twinkling from the good kind of sticker shock. “I knew the emerald-cut ring had the four Cs, but I had no idea it’d get me that much on the diamond market.”

  Lola chimes in. “Same. I pegged it as a five-grand rock, even back when you first did the hand flap.” She flips her hand down as if showing off a ring.

  Peyton tilts her head curiously. “You were sizing up Gage’s spending levels while I was telling you he’d asked me to marry him?”

  Lola flicks her dark curls off her shoulder, owning it. “Absolutely. I mean, besides oohing and ahhing and wishing you many happily ever afters, I was curious how much the investment banker would throw down on bling.”

  “Apparently he threw down a whole paycheck’s worth,” I put in.

  Peyton jerks her gaze to me. “More like a mere quarter paycheck’s worth.”

  When my eyes bug out at the size of her ex’s salary, Peyton adds matter-of-factly, “Gage was rolling in the dough.” But then she lifts her chin and straightens her shoulders. “But let the record reflect, I don’t miss his wallet. I don’t miss his face. And I don’t miss his dirty, stinking lies. I’m over him.”

  I raise my glass once more. “Best news ever.”

  Lola breathes a ten-grand sigh of relief. “And that means we’re officially done acting like someone died, right?”

  “You were done acting like someone died about a day after it ended, and that was six months ago,” Peyton points out.

  “True,” Lola admits. “I never liked him, and I’m so glad I can say that now.”

  “And the reason I took so much time selling the ring was that I wanted to get a good deal,” Peyton adds, a little defensive in her justification.

  But we all know it wasn’t to nab the best sale price.

  I give her the side-eye. “Not because you held out hope he’d come back?”

  She sort of had for the first few months. By the ninety-day mark, I was ready to break into Gage’s apartment and pour bleach into his one-hundred-dollar shampoo, or whatever the hell stupid hair products the guy used on his overly coiffed Wall Street hairdo. The jackass deserved to be punished for crushing her heart and flushing three years together down the drain.

  I resisted, though, since civility is still cool in my book.

  Peyton lowers her gaze, her voice dipping too. “No. Okay, yes.” She covers her face, sighs, then removes her fingers. “Fine. I held out hope longer than I should’ve. Don’t hate me for it. I was in love with the guy, and some small piece of me wanted him to realize the error of his ways.”

  I knock back some of my drink then set the glass down. “And w
hile you were holding onto that sliver of hope, Lola and I were waiting in the wings, poised like coiled vipers, ready to kidnap you and whisk you away to Cabo if you attempted to return to him.”

  “Cabo?” Peyton taps her chin then hums, her interest piqued. “I think I’ll try to get him back tonight.”

  Lola sets down her glass too, and puts up her dukes. “You’ll do no such thing. I will wrestle you to the ground.”

  “But Cabo! C’mon. Also, why Cabo?” Peyton presses. “Why on earth would you have taken me to Cabo if I wanted to reunite with Gage?”

  “We figured we’d find some hot frat guy there willing to bang you six ways to Sunday, thereby fucking any desire for Gage right out of you,” I say, deadpan.

  “Wait. Are you saying I can only get laid by horny frat guys on spring break?”

  I laugh. “No. We just figured you’d have fewer regrets over a one-night stand if you were far, far away from New York.”

  Peyton peers around the bar, like a prairie dog scanning her surroundings. “Can we just find that guy here in New York? Minus the frat? Like, maybe tonight?”

  I grab her knee, squeezing. “Are you ready to suit up? Do not mess with us. Because I have been dreaming of this day.” Like a newsboy of old, I hawk the morning headlines. “Extra! Extra! Peyton returns to the meat market. Read all about it!”

  Lola presses her hands together in prayer, pleading with our redheaded friend. “Please say you’re ready. I love playing sex-fairy godmother for my friends.”

  Peyton rolls her eyes, laughing. “I love how you’re both ready to offer me up on a bed of roses to the nearest taker.”

  “Bed of roses, bed of condoms. Either works,” I say, then tap my imaginary watch. “Ticktock. Can we start now?”

  Peyton gestures to herself derisively. “Seriously? Do I look like I’m ready to date? Because I’m not a one-night stand kind of gal. That holds zero interest.”

  I give her a once-over, appraising her outfit and appearance. “True. You’re wearing flats rather than heels, and your hair is in a ponytail. But hey, we can work with this.” I snap my gaze to Lola. “Darling, what do you think? Is there enough here for us to take her on?”

  Lola scrunches up her lips. “It’ll require a lot of shopping, but I’m up for it.”

  Peyton narrows her eyes. “Thanks. Thanks a lot. Glad I’m such a work in progress.”

  “Look, you’re always gorgeous to me.” I take another sip of my tongue-loosening drink. “But I’m saying your pre-Gage pickup look was a little different. You would wear your hair all the way down. You know, so you could do that thing you do.”

  “And what is this thing I do?”

  “Allow me.” Lola demonstrates as if she’s a model in a slow-mo shampoo commercial, shaking out layer upon layer of silky tresses then speaking in the sultriest tones. “Don’t hate me for my hair.”

  “I did not do that,” Peyton insists, parking her hands on her hips. “I never did that.”

  “Oh, please,” I say, because she’s so adorably wrong. “You have perfect hair. You showed it off. My sister Quinn is the same—all you redheads with your gorgeous locks. But seriously, don’t be ashamed of your mane.”

  Peyton responds with a neigh.

  “Exactly,” Lola adds. “You’re like a beautiful cinnamon horse, and you liked to show off your tresses.”

  “Fine, maybe I did,” Peyton admits.

  “Speaking of horses, I for one think it’s time to get the girl back in the saddle,” I say, then smack my thigh and add, “Giddy up.”

  Peyton shakes her head. “You’re the worst.”

  “Seriously though. Why not? You’re obviously over him. You’ve clearly moved on from Richard Cranium, the one who looks like a caviar-and-champagne Prince Charming but turns out to be a double-douche-opotamus,” I say.

  Peyton repeats my words quietly, her brow creased like she’s doing math, then stares inquisitively at me. “Moment of truth—how long have you had that one at the ready?”

  “Months,” I blurt, relieved that I can finally throw all the insult darts I’ve been dying to lob at the deserving target of her ex.

  “I can vouch for that,” Lola says. “She shared that one with me a while back. Took me a few minutes to work it all out, but I got there.”

  “Becoming conversant in Amy-speak isn’t easy. I’ve been hearing it since junior high, so I’m almost fluent.” Peyton gives me a look that says she knows I have more word bombs to detonate. “Go for it.”

  “Yeah, unleash yourself,” Lola encourages.

  “Liemonger, cheataholic, circus weasel.” I take a breath. “Master of snakes. Leader of asshats. President of pricks.” One more breath, and I hold up a hand. “But I refuse to call him the chieftain of cocksuckers because . . . there is nothing wrong with sucking cock, and ‘cocksucker’ should never ever be an insult. Only a compliment. As in, you ladies are the most terrific cocksuckers.”

  Lola cheers. Peyton hoots.

  “Take a bow. Just take it now,” Peyton adds.

  “No, retire,” Lola says. “Because you will never top that.”

  “New life goals. Anyway”—I rub my palms together—“with Captain Infidelity in the rearview mirror, can we please get you back out there?”

  Peyton shrugs. “No. Yes. I don’t know.”

  Lola raises her glass. “And you hereby win the least-decisive award.”

  “I just don’t know if I’m ready yet,” Peyton says with a sigh. “Don’t I need more . . . me time?”

  “No. You need V-time,” I declare.

  Peyton snorts, gin spraying out her nostrils. Her hand flies to her nose. “Gah, you can’t take me anywhere.”

  Laughing, I hand her a cocktail napkin. “It’s okay. We all have a little gin snorter in us. We’ll just have to find you a fellow gin snorter.”

  “Maybe,” she says, because she’s the queen of hemming and hawing tonight.

  “We will,” I insist. There is nothing more fun than helping a friend land a date. Well, maybe cake sampling. Or discovering a great new author.

  “Perhaps,” Peyton says, dabbing at her nose.

  “Your words say noncommittal, but your eyes say Lola and Amy, please set me up. Right, Lo?” I ask.

  Lola points to Peyton’s eyes. “I see so much please set me up in your baby blues.”

  “I’ll do the legwork for you,” I offer as enticement.

  Peyton waggles her empty glass in front of me. “How about you work your legs on over to the bar and get me another drink?”

  “Fine,” I concede . . . for now. “But I’m not going down without a fight.”

  At the bar, I say hi to the woman who owns the place. Truly Goodman is a total badass in business, and I want to be like her someday—cool, unflappable, and at the top of her game. “How’s life, World’s Greatest Bartender and purveyor of free drinks for the sister of your husband’s best friend?” I bat my lashes, as if my brother Josh’s friendship with Truly’s man, Jason, is going to justify free booze.

  “Subtle, Amy. Very subtle.”

  I doff my imaginary top hat. “Thank you very much. I’ve been looking forward to buttering you up all night.”

  “What’s your poison?”

  “Seeing as I want to be queen of my domain too, can I have what you’re having?”

  She lifts a glass of seltzer water. “Bubbly water. Makes you strong.”

  I stick out my tongue. “You’re so not fun.” Perusing the chalkboard, I opt for a Slippery Slope, digging the promise in a kick of wasabi powder, sake, and lime juice mixed with the gin. “Three Slippery Slopes, please. They’re not all for me though. I need some for my girls.”

  “You won’t regret sliding down this slope.” She sets to work mixing the drinks. “This concoction is delish. Also, why do you need to be queen of your domain?”

  “I’m like a rat on a wheel. I’ve been in the same position for four years, and I can’t seem to move up.” I rest my chin in my hands, a bucke
t of work dreariness falling over me. “But enough about the office. How’s everything at the city’s greatest watering hole? I was raving about your place to some of the gals at Little Friends when I was helping with a fundraiser recently.”

  Truly’s eyes light up. “Ah, that was you! A big group was here last weekend, and they said they heard all about Gin Joint at the Little Friends’ Strut with Your Mutt event. Thank you for spreading the gospel.”

  “Well, that’s the shelter Inspector Poirot came from, so of course we had to go back and tell everyone that your bar is tops in the city.”

  “You’re the best.” A new customer arrives and flags Truly over. She tips her chin in that direction. “I’ll be right back.”

  I’m drumming my fingers idly against the bar when I hear a masculine voice say, “I take it you’re an Agatha Christie fan?”

  Shivers run down my spine. That’s unexpected . . . but not unwelcome. I turn in the direction of the gravelly, sexy voice . . . and be still my beating heart. The smoky tones belong to the hot tamale from the office, and now his shirtsleeves are rolled up, revealing toned forearms.

  “Of course I adore her,” I say. “Is there anything better than reading the ending of Murder on the Orient Express for the first time? Or the fifth, for that matter?”

  “Or the eighth. If you count the audiobook.” He’s wearing a books are my guilty pleasure grin, and that’s officially the best kind of smile ever. “I just finished Dan Stevens’s version the other week.”

  “Which is sooooo much better than Kenneth Branagh’s,” I say.

  “Not even in the same league.”

  “I just discovered Dan Stevens’s narrations and I’m gobbling them up. Also, audiobooks completely count. Personally, I’m an omnivore when it comes to books. I’ll devour them in any form,” I say, and somehow I manage to resist biting my lip or smiling like a flirty fool. I don’t want it to be lipstick-on-a-collar obvious that I find him delicious.