Vote Then Read: Volume II

by Lauren Blakely

  I shoot him a look. “Tommy. This is all in the vault. You can’t breathe a word of what you just overheard.”

  “Who would I tell? Do you really think anyone is coming in here demanding to know the secrets of my customers?”

  “One can’t ever be too careful.”

  He makes the monkey see-no-evil hear-no-evil gesture. Then whispers, “Go out with the guy.”

  I return to Peyton, taking a shaky breath. “I feel so guilty because I’m interested in your prospect. And I didn’t want to be interested in anyone, since I’m trying to only focus on work. Then I was doing this for you, and also trying to get ready for my sample pitch for the new job by getting experience talking to someone new and gaining confidence. But talking to this guy, he reminds me of someone, and he’s just so . . . dishy.”

  She laughs. “You don’t hear that word very often.”

  “I know, and that’s exactly the point. He makes me forget that I don’t want to get involved with anyone, and he especially makes me forget the guy at work who’s a total babe, and the hottest hot nerd I’ve ever seen, and who is funny and sarcastic and gets me. But getting involved with someone from the office would be a massive mistake right now while I’m going after a promotion, and the field is even more competitive now because Madison Turnbell is also trying to win the job.”

  “You’ve mentioned her before. She’s Wonder Woman or something?”

  “She probably has a magical lasso too. And that’s yet another reason I shouldn’t get involved with the guy at work.”

  “True, though office guy sounds kind of perfect. But it’s probably best to avoid a workplace romance when you’re going for a promotion.”

  “And honestly, I shouldn’t get involved with anyone at all. But Dax Powers is so fun, and we hit it off and we connected.”

  “Dax Powers?” she asks, as Tommy slides our drinks to us. I pay and we take the drinks to a table.

  “That’s what I call him. It’s his avatar. From the TV show.”

  “I love that show. I always thought that character would be perfect for you.”

  “Yeah, me too. But I feel terrible, because cartoon Dax Powers is yours.”

  Peyton laughs. “Ames, I love you. But he’s not mine. I didn’t know a thing about him, or this, or anything till two minutes ago. But it’s hilarious to hear you spit it all out like it would bother me when obviously it doesn’t bother me at all.”

  “Are you sure? Because we received so many responses, and I’m sure you can meet Mr. Right. I can even turn over the profile to you and we can sort the other guys together.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m not ready. I thought I was, but I’m not. But I love that you did that for me. Of all your harebrained ideas, this is one of my favorites.”

  I let out a deep exhale. “Thank you.”

  Her eyes twinkle. “And my not-so-harebrained idea is this: I think you should meet this Dax fellow—at a safe location, obviously—and tell me in advance so I can bring reinforcements if you need me to. Message him now.”

  I breathe a heavy sigh of relief. But the guilt isn’t entirely gone.

  When I click open the app, I begin my second confession of the night.

  Betty Boop: I need to try the moment of truth again. Remember earlier when I said I was asking for a friend? I meant it. I know people say that when they’re really asking for themselves, but I truly did set up the profile for my friend. Her heart was broken, and she’s finally ready to start dating again, so I wanted to help her out by doing the legwork and finding some good guys for her. You seem to be one of those guys. You’re funny and clever and bright and adorable. At least, your cartoon self is adorable. In any case, I know it seemed tongue-in-cheek when I was saying I was asking for a friend, but I actually was.

  Dax Powers: Ah. So you meant it when you said you didn’t play badminton?

  Betty Boop: I don’t. My friend does. And I started talking to you for her. Except I’ve been having a blast talking to you. And, well, I don’t want to turn you over to someone else.

  Dax Powers: If I wasn’t morally opposed to the use of LOL, I’d write LOL right now.

  Betty Boop: Thank you. I think . . .

  Dax Powers: It was a compliment. That’s one of the funniest lines ever, and I’m glad that you want to keep me for yourself. I’m kind of honored.

  Betty Boop: I told her tonight what happened. How I started the profile but then enjoyed talking to you myself.

  Dax Powers: What did she say?

  Betty Boop: She said to go for it. To meet you tomorrow night.

  Dax Powers: And what do you think?

  Betty Boop: I think, if we’re still enjoying talking to each other tomorrow, that we should meet.

  Dax Powers: Sounds like a great idea.

  Linc

  But the next morning when I see Amy in the break room, I’m not so sure it’s a good idea.

  “Hey, soap star. How was your weekend?” she asks.

  “It was good. Found out my father isn’t my real father, and that my brother is in fact my father, but hey, all in a day in Pine Crest View.” My reply is light, but a knot of guilt tightens in me. Why the hell do I feel guilty?

  Because of that smile. Those eyes.

  She looks dishy. Delectable. And so damn pretty in a blue-flowered dress with pockets.

  “How was your weekend?” I ask.

  “Not nearly as exciting. I worked on my promotion pitch and spent time with my dog,” she says, and her lips twitch at those words—my dog.

  I want to ask, Is his name Christian Grey? Though that’s impossible because I know her dog’s name. “How’s the Inspector?”

  “He’s a total ladies’ man. Yesterday at the park, he was trying to hit on a female Great Dane. What is he thinking? How is that going to work exactly for a min-pin?”

  When I laugh, I’m struck by a sharp awareness—this is exactly what it felt like to chat with Betty this weekend. It felt like talking to Amy. And that’s why I liked talking to Betty so much. She talks like Amy, sounds like Amy, acts like Amy.

  And for a split second—hell, for a minute—I’m wishing Betty were Amy.

  But that’s ridiculous, so I focus on the woman in front of me, the one who’s still chatting.

  “Oh, and Tiffany wants to talk to me tomorrow—give me pointers for the pitch—so that’s exciting.”

  “That’s fantastic news,” I say, smiling widely.

  “The only thing that’s potentially more exciting is—wait for it—I have to see the dentist today.”

  I arch a brow. “And that’s exciting?”

  “Yes. Can I confess something?”

  Tell me you’re Betty. Tell me you’re the woman I’m making plans with tonight. Tell me she’s you.

  “I was hoping you would,” I answer.

  “I love seeing the dentist. Most people don’t, but I do.”

  “You secretly love having your teeth cleaned,” I say in a knowing whisper.

  “Yes! Isn’t that weird? But I do. I love it. I love that super-squeaky-clean feel afterward, and I kind of spend the day running my tongue over my teeth. They feel great,” she says, shifting a little closer as she shares her secret. When she moves into my space, I catch a faint whiff of her shampoo. That peach scent drives me wild. It makes me want to ditch all my rules. It makes me forget I have them.

  “I love it too,” I say, offering my confession as well.

  With her hand on her heart, Amy exhales deeply, like she was getting something weighty off her chest. Her fingers fiddle with the neckline of her blouse as she tugs at a silver chain. She pulls out the necklace, running a hand over the pendant. “Well, when you see me again, I’ll be the girl running her tongue over her teeth.”

  And I’m the guy staring at her necklace. I can’t look away. Because I can’t believe my eyes.

  Her pendant is Betty Boop, holding a slice of cake, wearing pink boots.

  I blink in case I’m seeing things.

  I
magining things.

  But nope. It’s real. Her pendant is the avatar, and everything clicks.

  Amy is friends with Peyton from last night. Peyton looked familiar to me because she was with Amy the very first night at Gin Joint. Amy said that night her friend’s ex was a dick.

  Meanwhile, last night Betty Boop told me she was online-dating to help a friend who’d been heartbroken.

  Plus, Betty has a dog named after a famous literary character.

  So does Amy.

  Fine, her dog is Inspector Poirot, not Christian Grey, but it’s another piece of evidence.

  Betty loves to floss. Amy loves the dentist.

  And then, the necklace. Amy’s wearing the lesser-known Betty Boop image because . . . of course she is.

  My heart fox-trots with hope.

  “Nice necklace,” I say, my voice a little gravelly.

  She runs a finger across it absently. “Thanks. Got it on Etsy. Tracked down an artist to make it for me.”

  I fight like hell to stave off a grin, to resist smiling as wide as the sea and saying I know.

  Instead, when she heads to her office, I head to mine.

  I shut the door.

  Stare out the window.

  Pinch the bridge of my nose. I need to remember why what I want to do next is a bad idea.

  Why I first laid down rules. What I promised myself.

  And I do. I’m keenly aware of every damn reason I have to kill this profile, ignore Amy, and forget I ever started to fall for her.

  I’m aware, too, that there’s that looming issue of “disclosure.”

  But fuck my rules.

  Against all my better judgment, all my experience telling me not to get involved with someone I work with, I send Betty a note.

  Dax Powers: I’ll be at Tristan’s at eight. I’ll be wearing Clark Kent glasses.

  Amy

  As the hygienist scalpels my teeth, I think of Linc.

  I picture him in the break room.

  I replay our conversations over the last few weeks. I rewind the conversation from this morning.

  I return to the way he looked at me the night we met at Gin Joint.

  The way we talk.

  Our banter.

  Our chemistry.

  The zing I feel every time I see him.

  The zing he seems to feel too.

  “So how’s everything going at work? Acquire any new books?” the woman in the pink scrubs asks as she saws floss between my teeth. Why does the hygienist always ask me questions when she has tools in my mouth?

  “Mrfghtsmh,” I say.

  She flashes a huge smile. “Oh, that’s great. I bet it’ll be fabulous.”

  Does she know what I said?

  “Trghtyh,” I add.

  She laughs lightly. “Definitely. So great.”

  I try again. “Grhtthtty.”

  “Yes, I’m the same way.”

  Holy shit.

  She has been faking it all along. She pretends she knows what I’m saying when I talk with my mouth full.

  I can’t wait to tell Linc. He will get such a kick out of this story.

  And for the second time in as many days, he’s the person I want to share with.

  I’ve only known him for a short while, yet we completely click.

  There’s something else too. Last night when I was telling Peyton how I felt about Dax, there was a part of my brain wishing Dax could be Linc.

  Hoping.

  That’s because Linc is the guy I want. He’s the guy I’m interested in. He’s the one I want to meet tonight.

  As much as I loved chatting with Dax Powers all day Sunday, I liked it best when I was imagining I’d hand him off to Peyton. When I wasn’t truly picturing him for me.

  I liked it when there wasn’t a real possibility I might date him.

  Now, there is a real chance, and I don’t want to take it. I can’t.

  Because I’m into someone else.

  It would be wrong to see Dax when I feel this way about Linc. Not right, and not fair.

  “And what are you doing tonight?” the hygienist asks as she squirts water in my mouth.

  “Mrftthyup.”

  Her eyes twinkle. “Sounds like fun.”

  When I leave the dentist office and find a new message from Dax in the app, I swallow roughly.

  I know exactly what I’m doing tonight.

  Because Linc is the one I want.

  That’s why I finalize my plans for this evening.

  Nothing. I’m doing nothing.

  Betty Boop: I have to cancel. It’s not you. You’re great. But there’s someone else I like, and it wouldn’t be fair or right to see you knowing I have feelings for another guy. Thank you and goodbye.

  I delete my profile.

  Amy

  There’s only one thing I can do now.

  Wallow.

  Make a blanket fort and disappear for the night.

  Buy a thick slab of cake and stuff it into my mouth, forkful by sad forkful.

  But I’m not a wallower, so instead I turn my phone to “do not disturb,” go to Dr. Insomnia’s, and double down on work.

  I need to focus on this manuscript. I power my way through another few chapters, marking up sections, taking ample notes, then crafting the start of my editorial letter.

  I might not be Madison Turnbell, but damn it, I can write the freaking hell out of an editorial letter. I’m going to spit shine this to within an inch of its life. I can make it sing.

  I channel my coconut cake and vanilla latte saleswoman, mix in a little Truly Goodman, and do my damnedest to be awesome.

  Two hours later, I’ve made admirable progress, and I’m more than ready to meet with Tiffany Chilton tomorrow.

  I say goodbye to Tommy, sling my messenger bag across my chest, and head into the Manhattan evening.

  Popping my earbuds in, I hop over to my audiobook app, hunting for something to listen to as I make my way across town.

  The first book I see is Casino Royale. My heart twinges then flutters, and I unleash a sad sigh.

  I’m missing something.

  That’s the feeling, but who am I missing? Or what?

  Do I miss who Dax Powers might have been? Or do I wish that Dax were Linc? Or maybe I’m missing the possibility of more flutters like the ones I felt when I saw the book Linc gave me?

  I sidestep a barrel-shaped man in a Yankees cap who trundles out of a bodega. I push my earbuds in further, like I can close out the noise of the city and only hear what’s in my head and my heart. But I can’t, because there’s too much static.

  That makes no sense—nothing should be confusing now that I’ve said goodbye to Dax. My life should be neat and clean. My path clear.

  There are no more distractions on the road to a possible promotion.

  Except there is.

  There’s the other guy. The one I told Dax about. The one I can’t stop thinking about.

  I should focus on work. I should be thinking of promotions, and nailing my meeting with Tiffany, and getting a good night’s sleep, and plotting how to be a total badass, and grabbing a bite to eat, because I’m hungry.

  But all I want to do is tell Linc about the dentist, ask him what audiobook he’d listen to next, find out what weird sport he plays.

  I don’t know because we never finished our discussion from Saturday night at the party. As I walk across town, it replays idly in my head.

  Everyone should have an unusual athletic skill, especially a sports hater. Actually, that’s a perfect skill for a sports hater.

  And what’s your unusual athletic skill?

  I play a mean—

  Suddenly, the answer takes on critical importance. I open up my email and fire off a quick note to him.

  Hey! You never told me what your unusual athletic skill is. We were talking about it on Saturday night when our conversation was truncated. I’m still dying to know!

  Also, I’m meeting Tiffany tomorrow to go over pointers for my pi
tch and would love to chat more with you about that too.

  And finally, I have big news about my hygienist. She’s literally been faking conversations with me the whole time I’ve been seeing her.

  I read the note again, but before I hit send, I listen one more time to my heart and my head.

  My head says stay the course, but my heart thumps louder, wanting what it wants, wanting something different.

  I don’t know where this is going. I don’t know if it’s going anywhere, but I’d rather talk to him in person.

  I don’t want another online conversation with a guy, a string of emails that bounce back and forth between us all night long.

  I want to spend time with him.

  And as soon as that thought crystallizes, the noise and the static die down, leaving only clarity and choice.

  I add another line to the note.

  I know this is last-minute, but I’m borderline starving, and if you want to grab dinner, I know the best cheap taco shop in the whole city.

  There.

  I’m ready.

  Once I hit send, I notice my “do not disturb” icon still inhabits the corner of my screen.

  I turn it off, and my emails from the last few hours download.

  Ooh! There’s a note from him in there. Hot babycakes. He’s fast.

  But when I click on the email, my brain registers that it has a different subject line than the one I just sent.

  The subject line is Tonight, and he sent it a few hours ago.

  Why would Linc email me and say Tonight?

  And why the hell do I feel like a shaken-up bottle of soda as I click on the envelope?

  With nervous fingers and a brand-new rush of flutters in my chest, I open it, read it, and clasp my hand to my mouth.

  No way.

  No effing way.

  This can’t be happening.

  This is finding out you won an auction for the hottest book on the market. It’s a huge print order from Target for your new title. It’s your book becoming a big best seller.

  This email is better than ten thousand vanilla lattes.