Asking For a Friend (Boyfriend Material Book 1)

by Lauren Blakely

  Baldwin’s words from one of our afternoon chats echo ominously in my ears. No romances with a direct report, but others are fine. The only rule is thou shalt disclose office romances to the HR manager.

  Guilt churns inside me. I could have said something sooner. I should have gotten ahead of the situation. Now I’m playing catch up, and I hate this feeling.

  The rules didn’t change, but the players did. And now, suddenly, Amy’s my direct report.

  This is another reason why I should have stuck to my first rule—no workplace romance.

  Because when you start making provisions and exceptions, you set yourself up for trouble. Real trouble.

  I had enough trouble when I worked on a book with Karina, thank you very much. I spent the better part of a year miserable.

  And when I got out of that bad situation, what did I do?

  In less than three weeks on the job, I bent the rules, then I broke them and stomped all over them.

  When the meeting ends, I don’t have the chance to talk to Amy, because Rainey calls her aside and asks her to meet in Rainey’s office shortly.

  I know what’s coming. I’m next. There’s no doubt in my mind, especially when Raphael asks me to see him in ten minutes.

  A dark gray storm cloud rolls over the building, splits open, and rains down only on me.

  I’m so screwed.

  And I don’t even have the excuse of being a Casanova.

  I’m just a regular guy. A Dax Powers. A book-loving nerd who fell hard for a girl.

  At the wrong time. In the wrong place.

  Hell, maybe I should have been a Casanova. He was a wily one. He’d know what to do. He’d finesse the situation like only he could.

  But that’s not the character I call on. In a crisis, I have no other choice but to channel Jason Bourne.

  This situation calls for triage, nothing but triage. This is where the hero, stranded in the jungle, has to remove a bullet from his shoulder using his own teeth.

  I head to my office, shut the door, grab my phone, and call Amy.

  I will her to answer.

  One ring.

  Two.

  Three.

  “Hello?” Her voice is strained.

  “Hey.” Mine is stretched like a high-tension wire. “Antonia doesn’t know anything,” I hiss. “How could she?”

  “I don’t know.” She whispers too. “We never kissed or even said anything inappropriate at the office. Maybe she made a lucky guess?”

  I scrub a hand across my jaw, my bones tight. “Maybe. Maybe she walked by the other day when you were in my office and leaped to her own conclusions.”

  “Possibly. I didn’t realize she was so catty. So underhanded. Maybe she overheard me talking to Lola in the break room. I never used your name, though, or gave specifics. It was just general he’s a keeper stuff.”

  Her words—sweet, fantastic words—barely register because I’m Jason Bourne and I have to extract the bullet before infection spreads.

  I grit my teeth, pour some peroxide on, and yank it out.

  “So we deny it. When you see Rainey and I see Raphael, we deny it,” I say, decisive as an antihero.

  “Sure,” she says tentatively. “We can do that.”

  “Because it’s against the rules now.”

  “That much is clear.” She takes a deep breath. “But do we keep denying it and see each other on the down low . . .” She pauses like the next words taste bitter. “Or do we cool it?”

  Cool it. Put us on ice.

  I’d rather eat razors.

  “I don’t want to cool it, but . . .” I don’t know how the hell Bourne does it. “Let’s figure it out later.”

  Amy’s voice is businesslike, but a little sad, as she says, “If we have to cool it, I get it. I know you didn’t want to get involved in the first place.”

  “You didn’t either,” I point out, my tone harsher than I intended.

  But I have to focus on fixing this problem. I look at my watch. I’m due in Raphael’s office any minute.

  “Amy, let’s talk later.”

  “Bye, Linc,” she says, and it sounds permanent.

  It feels permanent.

  So I hang up.

  If I stay on the phone, I’ll become another character. The guy who grovels. The guy who begs the girl.

  Those guys never get the woman they want.

  And apparently this guy doesn’t either.

  24

  Amy

  Antonia doesn’t look up, just stares at her screen like it’s the most fascinating damn thing in the universe.

  But I’m not letting her win.

  I saw how the supposed good girl cowered when Baldwin called her out. She’s meek.

  Her angel routine was just that—a performance to cover whatever cruelty lies under her “I’ll fix your printer” facade.

  But I didn’t let the mean girls win when I was younger, and I won’t now. I learned how to fight when I was a kid—I fight with words, and I use them well.

  That’s my talent.

  I don’t put people down to get ahead.

  I don’t trip them up and say Oops, did I do that?

  I use my powers for good.

  “Hi, Antonia,” I say.

  “Hi.” The single syllable wobbles from her bubblegum lips.

  She doesn’t look up, but I am undeterred. “How’s everything going?”

  “Fine.”

  Still no eye contact, but I won’t let her get away with this. “By the way, do you want to know something about girls who wear dresses with pockets?”

  She snaps up her gaze.

  I had a feeling that would get her attention. When she made the pocket comment yesterday, something about it resonated, but it’s just now clicking into place. She wants to be included. I don’t have the time or inclination to psychoanalyze her, but I think I understand now—she longs to be part of the party, so she spied on us and made a lucky guess.

  But that’s not how cape power works.

  I lay it out for her. “We talk to each other first, before we air dirty laundry. Especially before we air it in public,” I add.

  Holy smokes. Did I just say that?

  Oh yes, I did, and I continue, “What you did was hurtful, and I wish you hadn’t.”

  Her lower lip quivers. “I’m sorry.”

  I nod, accepting her apology. “Thank you.”

  There’s nothing more I can say because Rainey calls me in. And I’m ready for whatever comes my way.

  Except, as I cross the threshold to her office, I discover something else about myself.

  I don’t want to lie to get what I want.

  I don’t want to deny it either.

  That’s not why I worked on becoming better at self-promotion. I put myself out there to excel and advance, not to spin tales to keep the guy or save my hide.

  And if I’m giving Antonia a lesson in how to behave like a grown woman, I can’t turn around and spout off falsehoods like a brat.

  The trouble is, the truth isn’t mine to tell.

  It’s mine and Linc’s.

  And since it would be wrong to decide for both of us, I’m neither going to confirm nor deny. I’ll plead the Fifth on my relationship status when she quizzes me.

  Whatever happens, happens. If that means I’m fired, so be it. I can’t confess someone else’s actions, and I won’t misrepresent my own.

  “Thank you for agreeing to come in. Take a seat,” Rainey says.

  I sit, nerves tense as steel. “No problem. I’m ready.”

  She tips her forehead toward the conference room. “What a fascinating meeting.”

  “That’s one way to put it,” I say.

  Wait.

  It was one way to put it. She hadn’t said “interesting.” She’d used “fascinating” instead.

  And suddenly the heavens part. The skies split and sunlight illuminates another way through this swamp.

  She veered from the expected word, and it sounded
like she was making light of the meeting rather than calling me out on my transgressions.

  Maybe I don’t have to deny the truth, and I don’t have to admit it. I can steer this narrative, because “fascinating” means her mind’s not locked down.

  One word, a host of different options.

  What if I ask a hypothetical question, something like, Say I were involved with someone before I became his direct report. What rules would apply there? Could I switch to another senior editor? You know . . . theoretically.

  The words are half formed on my tongue when Rainey says, “But let’s move on. I called you in here because your editorial letter was terrific.”

  “Oh,” I say, flinching at the unexpected twist in the conversational path. But I recover quickly because I vastly prefer this direction. “Thank you. I’m thrilled to hear it.”

  She reaches for a pair of purple reading glasses, slaps them on, then powers through my letter, asking questions about my proposed edits.

  With my shoulders tall and my head held high, I explain why I made each suggestion.

  I don’t say a word about hockey.

  I don’t suck up like Antonia.

  And I don’t pretend to be someone I’m not.

  I’m me, and I’m good at what I do.

  When we’re through, her lips curve into the slightest of smiles. “Very well.” She takes a deep breath, and I tense. This must be where the inquisition starts.

  “Just one more question,” she says.

  I’m braced for it—the moment of truth. “Sure. What is it?”

  She shifts some papers around on her desk, scanning a schedule, it seems. “Would you be able to do the pitch this morning instead of this afternoon? We’re moving things along faster than planned.”

  I blink, surprised. But I give her the only possible answer. “Yes.”

  “Thank you. We’ll see you in the conference room in twenty minutes.”

  She returns to her screen, and I’m dismissed.

  She didn’t say a word about Linc or Antonia or my personal life.

  I’m delighted and also incredibly confused.

  I have no clue what happens next.

  25

  Linc

  As I pass the men’s room on my death march to Raphael’s office, the door opens and a hand darts out to grab my collar and yank me into the washroom.

  I flinch, but then stifle a laugh when Baldwin sets his finger to his lips, shushing me as the door swings closed.

  “Why did you grab me?” I whisper. “Why not just lay a trap in my office?”

  “Because I only now broke free,” he whispers harshly. “Tiffany cornered me to tell me I ought to become ruler of the universe, and of course I agreed. But I just escaped her shower of praise, which I absolutely earned, and I knew you’d walk past the men’s room on the way to Raphael’s office, so I’m here to give you a talking to, which you richly deserve.”

  “Is that so?” I can’t believe that, even at a shitty moment, this man still makes me laugh.

  “Yes!” he says, exchanging his whisper for a shout.

  “Then, by all means, give me what I deserve.”

  He heaves an exhausted sigh. “Listen. Considering I don’t know you all that well, I feel like I know you pretty well. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “Sure.” He’s spot-on there. We got along well from the start, only a few weeks ago.

  “And I know you don’t want work trouble again. I get it. I understand you have battle scars. And that’s why I’m betting there’s a part of you that’s resigned to ending things with Amy. Or you’ve already decided to call it quits. Am I right?”

  Busted.

  I look away, wishing he hadn’t nailed it.

  “So, I’m correct?”

  “Maybe,” I admit, a little embarrassed at my own answer.

  He groans and rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “I’d hoped you weren’t going to say that.”

  “Why?”

  He scoffs, jerking his chin toward the stalls. “Because I really didn’t want to flush your head in the toilet. It’s too late in the game for me to become a bully. But I swear I’ll flush your ridiculous male pride and send it swirling all the way to Queens if I have to.”

  I laugh at the absurdity of his comments. “Is that what you were going to do? Locate my pride and dispose of it in another borough?”

  “Yes,” he says. “That’s my job as your friend—to save you from the dumbest impulses of our species. And it would be dumb to end things with a fabulous lady over some stupid HR rule.”

  I let out a long, frustrated breath, and I can’t seem to unclench my fists. I’m not pissed at Baldwin. I’m annoyed with myself. “I know, but I’m the new guy here. I moved across the country for this job. This is my fresh start. A chance to leave behind one massively bad decision. Don’t you see?” I tap my chest. “This is my Achilles’ heel, this stupid organ, and it’s tripping me up again. I met a fantastic woman, and it’s threatening to ruin everything I’ve worked hard for. I’m trying to make a name for myself professionally, and it’s working. I have a great list and great books. I’m simply trying to do things the right way, but it turns out I’m doing it wrong again.”

  He claps a hand to my shoulder, shaking his head once more, his jaw tight. “Linc, do you know how lucky you are?”

  I furrow my brow. “What do you mean?”

  “You moved to a new city, you have a plum job, you’ve made fantastic friends literally within the first hour on the job, and trust me, I’m not one of those people are awesome people. I’m more like one of those I hate people people. But I like you. That’s saying something.”

  “Thank you. I’m honored you don’t hate me like you hate everyone else.”

  “And then on top of all that, you met a person you clicked with right away. Do you have any idea what I’d give to be you? Well, not with a woman.”

  I laugh. “I didn’t think you were going to tell me you suddenly liked the ladies,” I say, letting the lighter mood wash over me. “But I thought you liked being a player?”

  “Oh, please. I like being a player as much as I like My Little Pony. And I do not like Sparkle Dash or any of her crew. No one actually likes being a player. It’s a revolving door of misery.”

  “I thought you liked man candy?” I say, sketching air quotes.

  “Fine. I do have a sweet tooth, and that’s fun for a few nights, maybe a month. Okay, possibly a few years, but not forever. I’d like to meet someone I can love. Someone I want to be with, who feels like my forever, the way you feel for Amy.” There is no more chastisement in his voice, only support, only friendship.

  “You would?”

  He nods, big and long. “Absolutely. I want my own SweeTart, my Junior Mint, my peanut butter cup. And you”—he punches my arm—“you found one.”

  He’s right.

  My God, he’s as right as candy corn is wrong.

  I found someone when I wasn’t looking.

  When I met Amy, I tried to do anything but fall in love.

  But fall I did, hard, fast, and fantastically.

  And I can’t believe I was going to let her slip through my fingers. Life isn’t a soap opera. This isn’t Pine Crest View with complications we can’t navigate. This is the real world, and real people can choose to work things out, even if it’s hard, even if you work together.

  She’s worth it.

  I panicked after the meeting and let shock rule my tongue. I need to rewind and rewrite.

  “What do I do now?” I ask.

  As soon as the words come out, the road clears and I see the way forward. It’s not what Jason Bourne would do, or Ferris Bueller, or Mr. Darcy.

  It’s what I’d do.

  I’m not a guy who plays the “deny it” game like I suggested to Amy. I’m not interested in elaborate cover-ups.

  I am, however, excited by honesty.

  I dig it. I dig it a lot.

  But I’m also a smart guy, and I can be f
orthright while still respecting Amy’s wishes.

  I’ve got this.

  “I’m good. I know what to do.” I clap him on the back. “And you are the real superhero, Baldwin.”

  “Aww, you flatter me.”

  “It’s all true. But we can do the compliments later. I need to go.”

  He shoos me away.

  I walk into Raphael’s office, and before my boss speaks, I raise a hand. “Hypothetically, if a senior manager were involved with someone before that person became his direct report, would the rule forbidding a relationship between them still apply, or would there, say, be a grandfather clause for preexisting relationships?”

  Raphael tilts his head back and frowns at the ceiling like it has the answer. “That’s a question for HR. But I believe the scenario you outlined would be fine.” Reaching for his strawless cup, he contemplates the wall next, then finally turns to me. “Or another solution—theoretically—might be to switch direct reports.”

  I smile inside, wishing I’d thought of that. But I’d been blindsided, which isn’t conducive to long-term planning. “That’s a great option too. Hypothetically.”

  “Yes, I can think of several ways to resolve things to the senior manager’s satisfaction, especially if handled properly.”

  “That makes perfect sense,” I say. “Good to know.”

  He smiles, chuckling to himself, muttering “Young love . . .” before he clicks on his computer and shifts to business. “Now, about this thriller you want to acquire. That’s why I called you here. I ran the profit and loss statement, and it’s looking good . . .”

  And that’s all he says on the romance front.

  But I have more to say, plenty that I need to express—but not to him. They’re all things I need to say to Amy.

  When I leave his office, I text her.

  Linc: That guy who thought we should maybe put this on ice? The one who said “cool it”? I kicked him off my phone. He’s an idiot, and he was dead wrong. This thing between you and me should be on the front burner, hot and bright and turned all the way up. Meet me outside during your lunch break? I’ll be the guy wearing the Clark Kent glasses.