by Sierra Rose
WE MOVED FROM THE SUSHI bar, to an actual bar across the street. This time, we got a private room in the back—one that was strategically off-limits to both patrons and the inevitable paparazzi hovering on the sidewalk. Those cameras Ella had been craving the entire time.
Buttons were loosened, jackets were removed. A bottle of aged whiskey was set in between us on the table. Nick opened it without a word and poured two glasses.
Then he leaned back and waited for an explanation.
...an explanation I was having a hard time giving.
I took one look at his face, and abruptly panicked. He didn’t look particularly mad, but the fact that I was even in this ridiculous situation, speechless as a guilty school girl sitting in the principal’s office, was making my head spin. I took a big gulp of whiskey. Then another. Then one more after that. After that...I realized my glass was empty.
He pursed his lips with a little smile and poured me another.
Oh...how the tables have turned.
How many times had the roles been reversed? How many times had I been sitting on the other side of the table, watching Nick have a silent panic attack before confessing his latest batch of sins? Gentling them first with copious amounts of alcohol.
I picked up the glass with shaking hands, then set it down again—at a complete loss for words. When it became clear I needed help, Nick gave me a little push.
“So...what are we into this time, Abby?”
My head snapped up, and I stared into his eyes. It was the exact same line I used to begin my routine rescue attempts. The standard preamble to unlock whatever new kind of mess he’d found himself in. I must have used it a hundred times.
His eyes twinkled back into mine, and in spite of all the odds, I started to smile.
“I’m sorry.”
There. Might as well just get it over with. Give him enough time to gloat.
He cocked his head teasingly to the side, frowning with false confusion.
“And what, pray tell, are you sorry for?”
The whiskey was taking effect. A nervous giggle rose up in my throat, but I swallowed it down—bowing my head with a grin as we started reading each other’s lines.
“You know...the usual.” I took another sip, shaking my head with regret. “Lions, and tiger, and bears.”
“Oh my.”
The glass went back on the table, and I dropped my head into my hands.
“I did this really stupid thing...to a really good friend of mine.”
A pair of warm fingers slipped beneath my chin, lifting it back up again. An almost crippling wave of guilt crashed over me, but when I looked at Nick, all I saw was a gentle smile.
“I’m sure he had it coming.”
I froze for a split second, then a burst of actual laughter escaped my lips. My hands clamped over my mouth, desperate to apologize, but the second I laughed, he started laughing as well. Before long, it was over-taking us completely, filling our eyes with tears as we bounced back and forth—replaying the bizarre events of the day, slowly emptying the whiskey as we did.
As the bottle got lower and lower, our voices got louder and louder. More buttons were loosened. Twenty minutes in, I kicked off my uncomfortable shoes. The manager was summoned to bring in round two and disappeared with a smile—shaking his head at the thousands of dollars us crazy kids were spending to just to cut lose.
“I literally had no idea what to think,” Nick admitted, when conversation finally turned to the now-infamous grope. “For a second, I actually thought she might be blind or something. Poor thing just didn’t know where she was reaching.”
I slumped over the table, shaking with uncontrollable laughter. Nick tried to swat at me, but he was too far away and it didn’t help that he was still laughing himself. For the last hour and a half, it was like the two of us had been caught in a wave of it. Unable to stop. Unwilling to try.
“You’re just lucky she didn’t try to give you a hug,” I finally caught my breath enough to speak, rubbing absentmindedly at my collarbone as I remembered her crushing embrace. “I think those implants might have broken something...”
He snorted with laughter, pouring himself another glass.
“You know, if we ever actually had sex, she would kill me with those things.” His smile abruptly faded as he stifled a shudder. “I’m not even entirely sure it would be an accident.”
We shared a grave look, before collapsing once more.
It was all just too much.
The headlines. The merger. The trouble with his father. Something had to break, and our little Miss Oklahoma had been that proverbial tipping point.
Of course...she would have never factored into the equation if it hadn’t been for me. A fact that Nick was just starting to realize, through his drunken stupor.
“Hey,” he scooted suddenly closer to me in the booth, kicking off his shoes as we both reclined against the designer cushions, “about Ella...”
Even as intoxicated as I was, my chest tightened nervously at the name.
Shit—so we’re back to this again?
“Who?”
Not my best defense, but it was worth a try.
He flashed me an indulgent grin, but then grew suddenly serious—his eyes dilating thoughtfully as they met mine. “Why did you pick her?”
That’s a damn good question. One that I’d like the answer to myself.
What the fuck had come over me last night? Why—when I opened up Ella Campbell’s file—had I picked up the phone? What had possibly possessed me to be so foolish?
“You said that being with a stranger would be awkward, but professional,” I quoted his exact words from the day before, my voice lowering to a soft murmur. “A mutually beneficial arrangement. One with no real emotion—everything would be staged.”
He tilted his head to the side, trying to understand.
“So you found me a real-life succubus?”
“No.” I laughed quietly, then the alcohol took hold. “Well actually yeah...kind of.”
The room spun, and all of a sudden, I was having trouble meeting his eyes.
These were not the conversations we were supposed to be having—the two of us. These were not the sorts of situations we were supposed to be getting ourselves into.
I was supposed to be in my office. Doing my job. Going home across the bridge to my apartment in Brooklyn to watch TV, drink some wine, and fall asleep holding all my phones.
He was supposed to be gallivanting around the Upper East Side. Going home with a beautiful woman, maybe two. Creating some fresh bit of mischief for me to fix in the morning.
We weren’t supposed to be sitting alone in a bar, drinking bottles of expensive liquor, recapping our day together with our shoes off. It just wasn’t...us.
“I shouldn’t have done it,” I said abruptly. “It was a bad call. I apologize.”
My hair had long ago come loose from its pins—releasing itself from its strict bun to fall in messy waves down the front of my blouse. On instinct, I started gathering it back up. Twisting and confining it once more. Grasping at some small semblance of professionalism.
His hands caught mine, freezing them in place.
“Abby...”
It was only with the greatest reluctance that I looked up to meet his gaze.
“...why her?”
My breath hitched in my chest, and all at once, I couldn’t stand to be in the room a second longer. The lights were too dim. The conversation was too honest. And Nick?
Nick...was too close.
“I really should be getting home.”
With no further preamble, I grabbed my bag and pushed to my feet...only to tilt with drunken imbalance and fall straight back into a pair of waiting arms.
Correction: now Nick’s too close.
For a second, the two of us just froze. Half-inclined on the sofa. His arms around my waist, me lying back in his arms. My hair spilling across his shoulders.
Then reality came crashing back.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, struggling and failing to get to my feet. The whiskey bottle smirked knowingly on the table behind us. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Please—don’t apologize, not for that.” He lifted me gently to my feet and stood up as well, the English accent coming out as strong as ever. “Are you alright?”
It was a bad sign that even he had started to slur. It meant I was in for a rough night.
“I’m fine,” I said quickly, trying to extract myself from his arms. “Just need some water.”
He refused to let me go. If anything, he only held on tighter.
“Let me get you some.”
“Nick, it’s not—”
“Is there a bell we’re supposed to ring for service, or—”
“I’m really okay, just let—”
“You’d think there would be a bell—”
“Just let go!”
It came out a lot sharper than I’d intended. Heavy with accusation. Scalding the air in the little room, before echoing out into a stiff, ringing silence.
The hands disappeared at once. A sudden chill sprang up between us. And all our banter, and laughter, and games faded permanently into the past. Leaving nothing but the question.
“Why did you pick Ella?” he asked again.
Cold, this time. Unyielding.
I turned slowly to face him, still shaky on my feet. I didn’t know why, exactly, but the question made me strangely upset. Almost angry. An echo of his abrupt departure from the park bench the other day.
“With the option you chose, you’re not supposed to build attachments,” I answered shortly. “Ella’s the antithesis of your type. I thought she would be the perfect solution.”
“That’s bullshit, Abby.” Nick’s eyes flashed, then cooled to a low simmer. The way they did when I knew he wasn’t going to let something go. “There were a dozen other girls you could have picked. Girls you knew I wouldn’t attach to, but they also wouldn’t drive us both mad.”
I didn’t miss a beat.
“Those girls take time to find. We needed someone quickly.”
“Oh—come on,” he snapped. “You’re really going to—”
“You saw her resume!” I interrupted heatedly. “It’s exactly what we—”
“Stop trying to spin this!” he yelled, finally pushed past the limit. “I’m not just a fucking client, Abby—don’t talk to me that way! Why did you pick her?”
I glared up at him. Overly-confident with the booze. Overly-willing to speak my mind.
An idiot, through and through.
“...why did you buy me that necklace?”
Chapter 17
IN MY ENTIRE LIFE, I had never been as hungover as I was the next morning.
Water didn’t help. Food didn’t help. Not even my precious coffee. And it certainly didn’t help, that behind every wave of nausea, there lay an over-whelming feeling of guilt.
You yelled at Nick last night. Screamed at him. Did exactly the thing he accused you of, the thing you promised you’d never do: You lied to him, the same way you lie to the press.
But what was the alternative? Tell him the truth? I didn’t know it myself!
My thought process was literally: he decided to go along with my PR plan then walked abruptly away...so I found the most wretched girl in the world to stick him with.
In what possible dimension did that make sense? What impulse in the world had possibly inspired such a ludicrous lapse in judgment? And then I yelled at him on top of everything else?
I was lucky he hadn’t fired me on the spot.
Don’t worry about that...there’s still time.
With the speed and coordination of a shell-shocked turtle, I managed to yank some clothes over my head, stick my feet in some shoes, and head out the door. My purse was still packed with all my work equipment from the day before (thank goodness—so I didn’t need to do my customary ‘racing all over the apartment to find things’ routine), so without another moment’s delay, I hailed down a cab and headed into the office.
“Morning,” I mumbled to the cabbie, before giving him the address. “And I know everyone says this—but if you could hurry, that would be greatly appreciated.”
The man’s eyes twinkled as he glanced at me in the rear view mirror.
“Late night, sweetheart?”
I fought back another wave of nausea, and twisted my grimace into a smile.
“...you could say that.”
He chuckled and pulled out into the gridlocked rows of cars.
“Don’t worry about it. You’re not the first walk of shame I’ve driven into work today.”
Walk of shame?
I looked down at my clothes in dismay, only to see that in my zombie-esque state, I’d pulled on a floral baby doll—not my usual work dress. The thing twisted up in a halter, before dropping just beneath my knees. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I’d also pulled it on backwards.
“Oh, that’s just perfect,” I muttered, “because nothing says New York City winter like halters and daisies...”
For a second, I considered yanking the thing around right there in the car. Then I saw the cabbie was still watching with a little smirk.
...probably best to wait until I’m at the office.
Ten minutes later, we had arrived. I over-paid the man, too hungover and embarrassed to count out the correct bills, then climbed out and waved him on his way with the world’s biggest tip. From there, it was just a quick, freezing dart inside to the elevator.
“Morning Ms. Wilder,” Joe—the doorman—called out as I ducked inside. “Late night?”
For the second time, I glanced down at the sundress with a scowl. It was only then that I noticed the two mismatched pairs of shoes. My cheeks flushed and I glanced back up, ready with a hasty excuse, only to see him smiling. I flipped him off instead and hurried to the elevator.
That bastard. Guess who’s not getting a Christmas card from me this year...
By the time the doors opened on my floor, I was in a particularly foul mood. My head was spinning, my stomach was queasy, and freezing gusts of air kept flying up the skirt of my ridiculous summer dress. The interns recognized the look and ducked for cover.
Allison, my unassuming secretary, was not so lucky.
“Messages?” I snapped, pausing at her desk to remove my coat.
Her eyes widened slightly at my ensemble, but she said not a word. She also had the good sense to hand me her own cup of coffee.
“Harold called from the Times, said that he’ll retract the lobster piece, but he wants a sit-down at the company’s annual party on the Fourth of July.”
“Fine. What else?”
“Cynthia called from Denver, said they discontinued that cologne Nick wanted, but she did get some definitive information on, and I quote: time-share adopting a bear.”
“Fine. What else.”
She flipped through her notes at the speed of light, disregarding and prioritizing as she went. “Oh, your mother called—”
“What else?’
“I think...I think that’s about it.”
“Good.” I handed back her now empty coffee and looked down at my dress. “I going to fix this really quick in the bathroom, and then—”
“Abigail!”
I looked up to see Jake waving to get my attention. Both hands on his keyboard, and a blinking phone glued to his ear.
“What was that one guy’s name?” he called from across the office. “The one with that girl from that show that we said we looked like Tommy Tamica’s cousin? Dressed in drag?”
“Ryan,” I answered automatically. Then I looked down at the fading lettering on my hand with a sudden burst of illumination. Oh my gosh—that’s who it was. “RYAN!”
I raised my hands in silent victory, drawing curious looks from the staff, before lowering them back down with a decided smirk. At least one thing was going right today.
...or so I thought.
“Oh—and Nick’s
on his way to the office.”
The smirk melted right off my face, replaced with a cold chill as I glanced automatically towards the elevators. He was coming here?! He NEVER came here!
“What?!” I hissed. “Why the hell didn’t you lead with that?!”
Her eyes widened with confusion as she shook her head.
“You’ve only been here a minute, I thought—”
“You always, always lead with the client,” I snapped, misdirecting a good deal of pent-up nerves. I glanced again at the metallic doors. “Did he say what he wanted?”
She shook her head quickly, looking more and more confused every second. “He said you’d know what it was about. I’m assuming it’s about Ella?”
With a soft gasp, I sank onto her desk. My face as pale as a ghost.
Yeah...I bet he wanted to talk about Ella. I also bet I would no longer be in charge here by the time he was finished.
“Is everything okay?” Allison asked quietly, brow furrowing with concern as she perched on the desk beside me. “Did you two have a fight or something?”
My head jerked sharply. “Why—did he say that?”
“No, I just—”
“What did he say, Allison? Exactly.”
She glanced down at her notes. “Just that he was on his way into the office with Ella and that you’d know why. They need to start planning out events.”
All my panic came screeching to a halt, replaced instead with sudden confusion.
“Wait...what?”
“Events,” Allison repeated. “They want to get started planning—”
“Events with Ella?” I shook my head. “No, that’s not happening anymore. Ella’s not going to be a good fit, I’m afraid. It’s back to the drawing board—”
“Apparently not,” she disagreed apologetically. “Nick called to leave the message himself. I think it’s actually the first time I’ve ever talked to him...”
Without another word, I rushed into my office—slamming the door behind me, whilst muttering something about lobsters and mismatching shoes.
There was a momentary hush from the rest of the staffers, but by now, they were used to such bizarre antics. The world of public relations was a strange one, and they had seen stranger things in the office than me.