by Sara Ney
We’re not out of the woods yet; she hasn’t seen the notes I wrote then tucked away in the folder on her desk…
“I’m going to leave you alone—go home, relax. Take a hot bath and have a good cry.” Another one, apparently, because it looks like that’s all she’s been doing. “Come back tomorrow, and when you have the chance, look over these notes. I’ll have my secretary set up another meeting at the beginning of next week, and we’ll touch base then. In the meantime…” Pat, pat, pat on her back. I feel like I’m soothing a sleeping lion. “Pack it up and get out of here.”
“Thanks boss.” She sniffles, and I pause.
Whoa.
Did she just call me boss?
Holy hell. Is that an acknowledgment that I’m a higher-up? Finally?
She’s delirious and feeling vulnerable, Abbott—slow your roll. Bambi won’t remember on Monday, and she almost certainly isn’t going to repeat the phrase.
“Okay. I’m heading to my lunch date a little early. When I get back, I expect you to be gone.” I give her a mischievous grin, kissing her ass the tiniest bit, because honestly? Bambi Warner intimidates me.
No big secret there, I know.
The list of people who do isn’t long: my grandfather, my father, and Nan’s sister Auntie Dibs who has nine cats and is terrifying and intriguing.
And Bambi Warner, based on her palpable dislike for me.
If she’s going to be sweet and simpering, I’m going to take full advantage.
There are keys in the pocket of my slacks, and I give them a jingle. “Alright. I’m headed out.” I crane my head toward Ryan, making a show and pointing a finger at him, putting him in charge. “You make sure she gets out of here. Don’t you dare let her linger.”
Wink-wink at Bambi, who eats it all up.
I give them both a wave as I exit the office, letting out a breath and straightening my spine, running a pair of sweaty palms down the front of my pants.
They’re black and pleated, chosen with care, Brooks in mind. I didn’t want to wear a skirt and look like I was trying too hard for this mini date with Nan and my neighbor, but I didn’t want to look like I wasn’t trying either. If that makes sense.
My blouse is demure but sexy, high collar with a bow that ties at the neck. It shows nothing but is somehow alluring, at least in my opinion.
My hair is straight, falling in dark sheets down my back. Sleek. Glossy. Thick. Tucked behind my ears, simple diamond studs in my lobes.
Minimal makeup, but red lips.
It’s a gorgeous day, so I pass on grabbing a jacket but do make the quick jaunt to Sophia’s office one block over, one last time before I won’t see her over the weekend, and to fill her in on my afternoon activities.
My bestie oohs and aahs at my cherry red lips when I pucker them. “Them’s blow job lips,” she declares.
I deflect. “There’s no way I’d be any good at a blow job. I haven’t given one in ages.”
“Men don’t care. Brooks is going to see those lips and that’s all he’s going to be able to think about. Those lips, his dick.” Sophia clicks out a few lines into her spreadsheet. “Just watch—he won’t be able to peel his eyes away.”
“Blah blah,” I say for lack of anything better.
Is she right? Will he stare at my lips and think about blowies?
In the car on the way to the restaurant, I give my face another look, make sure my lips are on straight and not smudged.
It’s perfect, so I confidently exit the cab and step one heeled foot out onto the concrete curb, surprised when a masculine hand extends to steady me.
It’s Brooks.
He’s early. Really early.
“You’re early,” I say dumbly when he fails to release my hand.
“So are you.” He flicks the wrist on the opposite hand so the cuff of his shirt moves, giving him a view of his watch face. “By almost twenty minutes, you weirdo.”
“I had a meeting end before it began, so I thought I’d scout the place out.” Although knowing Nan, when she made the reservation, she chose a specific table.
“Grab a drink?” he asks, releasing my hand and tweaking his shirt, pulling the fabric over his watch. Brooks also gives me a cursory side glance as he holds the restaurant door open, allowing me to enter first. “You, uh, look nice, by the way.”
I catch a whiff of his fresh, woodsy cologne as I breeze past him. “Thank you.”
I fight the urge to tell him he looks nice, too. We match—or coordinate—both of us in soft, baby blue shirts. His is a French cuff button-down with thick, silky fabric under a navy jacket. Dark trousers. Brown polished dress shoes.
He’s wearing sunglasses but removes them when we step over the threshold, casing the joint. Smiling at the hostess behind the counter.
“We have a reservation. I believe it would be under—” He glances at me. “What’s your grandmother’s actual name? I can’t call her Nan.”
That makes me giggle. “Maureen.”
Brooks leans against the counter. “Maureen Margolis.”
The hostess schools her impressed expression, a face I’ve encountered a thousand times since I was old enough to recognize when someone was fascinated by my last name, then gestures toward the dining room beyond.
“Mrs. Margolis is already seated at your table. Please follow me right this way.”
“Of course Nan is already here,” Brooks quips. “Good old Nan.”
“Yeah—good ol’ breaking and entering Nan,” I volley back, throwing in to remind him, “who claims to have seen all your best bits.”
I feel the faint hint of Brooks’ fingertips grazing the small of my back as he lets me lead the way. “No way did she see my downtown bonanza—she didn’t actually walk into the room.”
“To be fair, I didn’t see them either, and I was there in the room when you stripped off your pants.”
“How could you have missed it? It’s huge. Ginormous,” he boasts, causing us to both laugh.
“I’m sure it is. How do you fit into regular pants?”
“It’s a challenge.”
And then.
There is Nan.
My grandmother, the icon, sitting in a corner booth, silver hair coiffed to perfection, radiating joy once she lays eyes on Brooks and me. Napkin already in her lap (a rule I was taught growing up—napkin goes in your lap as soon as you sit at a dining table), my grandmother sets it aside so she can rise and greet me with a kiss on the cheek.
One cheek, then the other. Kiss kiss.
She does the same to Brooks, the French-style greeting always a quintessential favorite in our household. If there’s one thing Nan loves, it’s anything European and cultured.
“Darling,” she coos into my ear when we slide back into the booth. “You look beautiful.”
I could be wearing a brown paper bag and my grandma would think I looked stunning, but I take the compliment as gospel because Nan never lies.
“Thanks, Nan. So do you—that pink is spectacular.” She is striking in a true pink, Elle Woods all grown up and come to life. All Nan is missing is a pet Chihuahua and bleach blonde hair. “It’s nice that your table was available.”
“My table is always available, dear,” she remarks, placing the white linen napkin back on her lap. Brooks and I follow suit.
“They wouldn’t dare put you somewhere else,” I tease. In truth? This restaurant wouldn’t dare put Maureen Margolis at the wrong table.
Not that Nan is difficult or catty or would throw a fit, but she likes what she likes and is a known figure in the city. Most establishments want to keep her happy so they can keep her as a patron of their establishment.
Where Maureen Margolis goes, people will follow.
Old people, but still.
Once we’re settled and drinks have been ordered, Nan relaxes into the rich burgundy material of the booth, hands clasped in front of her.
“So, what exactly was it that I walked in on last night?”
I
choke on my water, wishing it were vodka. “Nothing!”
“You think I don’t know fooling around when I see it? You’re lucky I didn’t walk straight into the living room when I entered the apartment. Who knows what my poor eyes would have witnessed.”
“Nothing!” I repeat, perhaps a bit too loudly. “Nothing,” I say for the third time, now in a lower tone.
“I like your style, Nan. Way to go for the jugular.”
“That poor cat—what has it seen?” she goes on. “Perhaps I should get little Desdemona a mask so you don’t blind the creature.”
“I thought you liked Desi.” After all, it was Nan’s idea to get a cat in the first place. “Just one cat, dear,” she instructed. “We don’t want you turning into a cat lady. And some men don’t like cats. You don’t want to acquire a passel of them and turn anyone off once you start dating.” As if dating to find a man was my single objective in life.
She is so old-school, straight out of the 1950s. Even though she met Grandpa at work, Nan became a healthy mix of housewife and business professional I don’t think I could master if I tried.
It will be one or the other with me; I cannot multitask…
“I do like Desi,” Nan is saying, sipping along the rim of her martini glass. “That’s why I want to get the scamp a mask.” She raises her professionally shaped brows. “Maybe some ear plugs?”
My cheeks flush.
Brooks shifts uncomfortably, fiddling with the links on his cuffs. I inspect them and discover the crest of our alma mater, hewn in shiny silver.
Pleased, my secret smile is hidden when I take a drink of my own beverage, an unsweet tea Nan had brought around—no alcohol for me when I’ll be returning to work after lunch. No one wants to see a tipsy Abbott, except perhaps Bambi Warner, and I sent her home for a damn spa day.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“Abbott, sweetie, would you like a shot of tequila? You’re looking a little stiff.”
Good lord, Nan can be such a bad influence sometimes.
“I’m good, thanks.”
“Actually, that’s not a bad idea.” Brooks sits up straighter in his seat. “Maybe just what we need. I’m keyed up from a shitty—oops, excuse my language—from a meeting I left at the office.”
Same, same, same. “Right, but it’s still the middle of the work day.”
“Oh darling, don’t be such a pooh.” Nan lifts an elegant hand with its collection of thin gold and diamond bracelets, motioning for the server. “We’ll take two shots of tequila, please.”
“Two? Why only two? Aren’t you going to take a shot?” After all, it was her idea. But now that I think of it, I’ve never seen Nan drinking anything other than champagne or a cocktail from a martini glass.
She pulls a face and picks up a menu, pretending to study it. “Don’t be silly, darling—it’s Wednesday.”
Brooks and I exchange glances.
When the shots arrive at the table, we tip our heads back like champs, Nan looking on, a satisfied smile etched across her graceful face.
We order more food than I’ll ever be able to eat, mostly because I’m nervous and couldn’t stop myself. The bread basket was a given—I always order that—shrimp cocktail as an appetizer, lobster bisque as my soup, a wedge salad with blue cheese dressing, and for my entrée, a crab salad.
Evidently, for me, it’s all about seafood today.
I always hesitate to order seafood when I’m on a date (not that I go on many) because it’s so much more expensive than most other entrées on the menu, and typically I date men I know cannot afford to feed me lobster at every meal.
However, since I’m with Nan and Brooks and neither of them are going to judge me, I splurge. Plus, since it’s so much food, I look forward to boxing up the leftovers for takeaway and eating them for dinner.
“How is everyone at the office, dear?” Nan asks to catch up. She stopped coming in when Grandpa decided to semi-retire, she herself having quit years before that to meddle in the lives of her grandchildren.
Her interference has become a full-time job for her, and I’ve come to consider the ceaseless prying a comfort, oddly enough. There will come a day Nan when won’t be poking her nose into everyone’s business, and we will surely miss it. The thought doesn’t escape me, and I refuse to take her for granted.
Even if she does drive us bonkers.
“Everything is…” I hesitate, not wanting to lie. “It’s alright. I was scheduled to have a meeting before our lunch, but the girl was having a meltdown at her desk, so that was shot.” I swirl the ice around my water glass. “This woman has been a thorn in my side for months.”
“Oh, tell me more,” Nan enthuses, as if I’m about to dish on celebrity gossip and not the dysfunctional inner-workings of her husband’s company.
“Her boyfriend broke up with her and she can’t stop crying. I swear, she’s the type who would set fire to the building if he didn’t text her back.”
Brooks shakes his head. “Why should he text her back if they broke up?”
“It would make my life easier, that’s why.” I laugh. “She was impossible to communicate with before, and now I’m afraid all she’s going to do is cry every day. I can’t afford to send her for spa treatments whenever she decides she’s in a funk. It’s not productive.”
Brooks nods. “Two things that should be outlawed in the corporate marketplace: cigarette breaks and breakups. Bad for productivity.”
“I remember when I used to smoke, I’d take my break out on the rooftop for an entire hour when we were only allowed fifteen minutes.” Nan looks at me and fluffs her hair. “Grandpa was none the wiser.”
“Nan, you probably reeked like an ashtray—I’m sure he knew what you were up to.”
“Those days were different, darling. I smoked these long, sleek menthols, and Grandpa smoked a mahogany pipe—so debonair. We played bridge and went dancing, he would cop a feel, and that’s how things were back in the day.”
“Cop a feel?”
“That was your grandfather’s way of flirting—he was so terrible at it. Barely cracked a smile, so serious all the time when the company was in its infancy.”
“By infancy, do you mean a high-rise with fewer floors? Because as long as I can remember, it’s always been nutty.”
From what I can recall, once Grandpa started the company, it expanded within months, his office going from the living room of his one-bedroom apartment to a rented office space on the outskirts of town. To an office in an actual office building. To an entire floor. To the entire building.
All you need is an idea, a dream, and a little drive, he always says.
“Well yes, fewer floors.” She sips her cosmo, hot pink lipstick staining the rim of the glass. “You know what I mean.”
I shoot a glance at Brooks, who seems amused. I give him a wan smile of apology that my grandmother is so naively high maintenance, bless her heart.
“What about the two of you?” Nan’s blue gaze is directed at Brooks, pointed and unyielding.
“Ma’am, I can assure you, I don’t cop any feels where Abbott is concerned. I’m a proper gentleman.”
Nan’s mouth contorts, disappointed. “That’s a shame.”
I agree, tipping my head in acknowledgment, only Nan catching the subtle motion.
She winks.
Raises her hand slightly to catch the eye of a passing server and asks, “Would you be a doll and bring us a few glasses of your best white?”
“Ma’am?” The server’s hands are behind her back, a black apron tied around her narrow waist. Black shirt. Black tie. Sleek, brunette hair.
“We’re celebrating,” Nan tells her in a not-so-hushed whisper.
This piques my interest. “What are we celebrating?” I thought this was just lunch.
“New friends.” She’s beaming at us, and I’m not sure if she’s referring to her meeting Brooks, or to me meeting Brooks—if we’re here celebrating my new relationship with my neighbor, I might die
and shrivel up from humiliation.
The subject of my humiliation raises his glass when the drinks arrive on a silver tray. Ooh la la.
Nan picks the napkin up from her lap and dabs at the corner of her mouth. Scoots to the end of the seat and rises. “Well, I just remembered somewhere I have to be.” Her purse gets slung over her shoulder; it’s expensive, beige and silver braided chain complimenting her hair. “I hate when I double-book myself.”
Double-booked my ass, I cogitate, narrowing my eyes.
That double-crossing monster! She did this on purpose, and now I’m stuck here waiting on lunch, on a date orchestrated by my grandmother, of all people.
Talk about awkward. “Let me walk you out,” I begin, starting to rise.
She puts a hand out to stop me. “No time, dear. I’ve got to be off.”
Yeah, so you can scurry out of here like a rat—because you know I’m onto your antics!
Her soft hand pats me on the cheek. “You’re so pretty when your cheeks are flushed.” She leans in to hug me, whispering, “Freshen up your lipstick, dear. The red rubbed off during the bread basket course.”
My lips open.
Close.
Indignant.
I’d sputter if I could get words out.
Brooks is on his feet, enveloping my tiny grandmother in his arms, rubbing her back and checking to see that she has everything she came with.
“Do you need me to call you a cab?”
“Aren’t you a dear.”
I’m a dear, he’s a dear. She’s laying it on pretty damn thick, this one.
“No worries, the maître d' will be glad to call one for me.”
There’s probably been a taxi waiting around the corner the entire time we’ve been sitting here, I wager to myself, confident I’d win if I were a betting woman.
I’m not.
In fact, I never win anything, let alone bets—therefore, I’ve learned to never make them.
I have the worst luck.
“Where are you headed?” Brooks politely inquires, waiting while Nan pulls an answer out of her ass, avoiding my penetrating gaze.