“Your sister’s name is Libby, right?” she asked. “She still lives in Massachusetts?”
I pulled back in surprise. “Yeah.”
“You light up when you talk about them. And Boston too. Do you think about moving back there?”
Maybe I lit up over my family, but not the city itself. Since Mom’s death, Boston remained a dark cloud over my memories. “No,” I said. “Except to visit my sister’s family in the suburbs, I’ll never go back to the city.”
She tilted her head. “Never?”
A couple guys passed us on the way to the counter and said, “Nice Red Sucks hat.” One sniffed at Georgina. “Go back to Boston.”
As the guy turned his back, Georgina paled. She took off the hat and glanced up at me. “I’m a Yankees fan.”
“I know. Why are you telling me?” This was what I didn’t understand. At the office her first day, she’d practically told us, a group of men she barely knew, to love it or shove it about her devotion to the Yankees. Yet, she struggled to do the same to some drunk chowderhead. I crossed my arms. “You want to say something, say it.”
“What if they get mad?”
“Not while I’m standing here.”
She put the hat back on and spoke a little louder. “I’m a Yankees fan.”
The guy turned back. “Not with that shit on your head. A true fan wouldn’t be caught dead in that.”
“For your information, the hat is so I don’t get a sunburn. I’m a born-and-bred Yankees girl, but I’ll wear what I want.”
“Whatever,” he muttered as his friend paid the cashier. “Poser bitch.”
I stepped around Georgina. “What the fuck did you say?”
“It’s okay,” Georgina said, grasping my bicep as if she could hold me back. “I take bitch as a compliment, especially from this turd.”
Turd? I gaped at her, unsure whether to laugh at her attempt at an insult or pound this idiot.
“Ignore him, he’s drunk,” the guy’s friend said as they got their beers. “We don’t want trouble.”
I stared them down until they were out of sight. Georgina deflated beside me with a soft sigh and I glanced back at her. Her back went straight as if I’d caught her doing something wrong. “We showed them, huh?” she said.
I studied her a moment. “That took a lot of effort for you, didn’t it?”
She attempted a casual shrug, but I couldn’t help noticing her chokehold on the beer. “Nobody likes confrontation.”
“Yet, if I’d called you a bitch, you would’ve put me six feet under.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
I arched an eyebrow at her. “Come again?” I asked. “You nearly took me out at the café for far less.”
“I hadn’t had my coffee yet. Should we go back?” She picked up her bag from the table.
I took it, set it back down, and guided her onto a stool by her shoulders. She wasn’t getting off that easily. “You and I are going to have a little chat, Georgina.”
“About?”
I’d had enough back and forth from her. She’d done an admirable job of keeping me on my toes, but I needed both feet on the ground where she was concerned. Maybe it was the beer or the fact that we were far from the office, but I sensed she’d open up now if I pushed her. “How come you were quiet and shy at the café before our collision? And why was it so hard to speak up for yourself just now? And why is it okay for anyone to call you a bitch?”
She sighed. “You know what they say. Men love bitches.”
“Who says that?”
She hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. “Listen to this,” she said. “On the way here, a man offered me half an avocado. On the subway.”
“Are you serious?” I asked. “Why?”
“I have no idea.”
“Did he at least give you something to eat it with?”
“No,” she said and smiled in a cute way that made me forget what we were supposed to be talking about. Which I supposed was her plan.
“How’d you respond?” I asked.
“I told him no thanks—I only eat the bad kind of fat.”
I laughed. “Why is this relevant? Did he call you a bitch?”
“No. I just wanted to see if you thought it was strange.”
“Definitely strange.”
She relaxed, setting her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand. “How come you always call me Georgina?”
“What should I call you?”
“George, same as everyone else.”
“Not everyone uses George,” I pointed out.
“Everyone does sometimes. Georgina is exhausting.”
I would’ve steered the conversation back to the issue at hand, but I had a feeling we were somehow circling the heart of it. In her eyes, was there some differentiation between George and Georgina? I stayed standing, looking down at her as I chose my words carefully so she wouldn’t get defensive. “You think Georgina is burdensome to others?”
She blew out a breath, meeting my gaze. “It’s a mouthful.”
“If you think that, why not call me Seb? Or ‘hey you,’ which has less syllables than Sebastian. My name is longer than yours.” She furrowed her brow as if tallying the letters, so I saved her the mental strain. “Yours has eight, mine has nine.”
“Okay, I’ll call you Seb, Seb.”
“I still won’t call you George.”
“Because George feels like your equal,” she reasoned, “whereas Georgina is easier to see as an inferior.”
“Jesus, no.” I pulled back. That had nothing to do with it. Her name could be fucking Fido but while we were both humans, I’d see her as an equal. An equal who potentially held my fate in her hands. The only way to dig my way out of this was the truth. “When I met you—let’s just say, I had impure thoughts.”
With the way her eyes widened, I couldn’t keep the hint of triumph off my face. It was fun to surprise her. “About me?”
“About you. And since then, I refuse to picture you as George.”
“Well . . . that makes things difficult,” she said.
“Only if you yourself favor George over Georgina.”
She opened and closed her mouth. “I—I don’t know what that means.”
“Yes, you do.”
With a quick glance around me, as if searching for an exit, she stood. “I should get back to—”
I put my hand on the table to block her with my arm. “You’re like one of those complex, jumbo puzzles with hundreds of pieces. Even when I manage to put a corner together, I can’t help feeling further from completing the picture.”
“You’re wrong.” She moved around me, but I caged her against the table.
“Am I?” I couldn’t ignore the way her cheeks flushed as her breathing sped. She didn’t look happy to be cornered in more than one way, but I wanted answers. Not just the job kind anymore, like if Vance had said anything to her about my work, or whether my fate rested on her shoulders—now, I was curious about other things too. Like exactly which nerve I’d hit in the café to make her blow up at me. And why she allowed François and the loudmouth Yankee to treat her one way, but she never let me get away with shit. “I’m not even sure I’m playing the right game.”
“Try checking the box,” she said. “If it says ‘ages three and up,’ you probably are.”
We narrowed our eyes at each other without so much as a blink between us.
“Do you see Georgina as inferior?” I asked, my eyes on her full, pink mouth, just inches from mine.
She dropped her gaze to the zipper of my hoodie. After a couple seconds, she said, “Not inferior, just . . .”
“What the hell is taking so long?” Justin appeared out of nowhere, causing each of us to flinch. “And where’s my dr—oh. Shit. Am I interrupting?”
I straightened up, and Georgina stepped out from under me. “No,” she said, relief passing over her face.
I watched her closely. She really didn’t like me poking around her head. Tha
t only made me want to do it more, especially now that I was getting somewhere. But I owed Justin a beer, and he wasn’t going to let me off the hook until he got it. I took my wallet from my jeans. “What d’you want?”
“Whatever you’re having,” he said.
I walked away. If I had been hitting on Georgina, this would be the perfect opportunity for Justin to fuck with me. So, it shouldn’t have surprised me to overhear him say to her, “Well, well. It’s a fine line, isn’t it?”
* * *
If Justin wasn’t careful, I was going to knock the smug right off his face and onto the baseball diamond. It was the second time since we’d returned to our seats that he’d caught me watching Georgina and François instead of the game.
Justin’s face split with a grin. “Enjoying the view?”
“Of course not. I’m at a Yanks game.”
“That’s a pretty big sacrifice you’ve made for Georgina. You told me we were coming here to judge her dating skills.”
“What do you think I’m doing?”
Justin folded his hands in his lap and shrugged. “I think you’re trying to figure out how you feel about her. And seeing her with another dude is making it pretty clear.”
I looked back at François’s arm around her, tempted to go down there and interrupt one more time. The last time. “I’m just going above and beyond for my job,” I said. Justin might’ve been right, but he already had all the ammunition he needed. “Making sure Georgina is up for the position she took on.”
Justin adjusted his sunglasses. “You’re telling me you betrayed your precious Red Sox and gave the people in these seats a two-hundred-dollar gift card to Peter Luger just to make sure Georgina sucks at her job?”
“To make sure she sucks at my job,” I pointed out. “You forget my ass is on the line here. Vance warned me I was on thin ice, meanwhile he can’t stop fawning over Georgina.”
Justin glanced over at me. “You think she’s gunning for the creative director position?”
She wouldn’t be the first to try, but judging by Vance’s reaction to her, she could be the first to succeed. She’d never mentioned wanting to stay on full-time, and she didn’t run the office as if she planned to stay, but it’d be a lie to say it hadn’t crossed my mind. Tussling with Georgina could be many things, including fun, but I’d given everything I’d had to this job, including my reputation. I’d never give it up without a down-and-dirty fight. “Maybe.”
“Don’t get paranoid,” Justin said. “I happen to like her. She’s smart, funny, and looks cute in your baseball hat, don’t you think?”
She looked adorable in the hat. I grunted my assent.
“What do you think she’s like in the bedroom?” Justin asked. “All business, or you think she’d let you take the lead?”
Unprepared for the vivid image of sheet-wrestling with a bossy Georgina, my throat locked up—and then my balls. Georgina and I might’ve been on a level field in the office, but our entire relationship had been a power play. I wanted to be on top. So did she. I imagined that would carry over into the bedroom as well, but taking it to the sheets sounded way more fun.
The more pressing question, though, was whether she was having a good time with François. We’d arrived at the game to find her shoulders square. She’d looked tense and neglected without food or drink. This guy seemed more into the game than her, but some chicks dug that. They liked to work for the attention—I knew from firsthand experience dating an actress here, a model there. The less attention you showed, the harder they tried to get it.
“How long are we going to sit here?” Justin asked. “This is like watching sports in slow-motion.”
I rubbed my jaw, not even trying to hide the fact that this time, I was looking at Georgina. “We stay as long as they do,” I said. “You think it’s fun for me listening to everyone root for a rival team?”
“Fun? No. But clearly a price you’re willing to pay.”
I ignored him. I didn’t have the patience to try to throw him off the scent. “What were you saying to her when I went to get your beer?”
“Just commenting on how cozy you two were.”
“You nosy fuck.”
“You know, I don’t think I ever got a ‘thank you’ for the lengths I went to so you could sit here and stalk her.” He crossed an ankle over his knee. “My spies aren’t cheap.”
“Yeah? How much did you pay for this info?”
“It cost me three trips to the vending machine before my operative was able to get a clear view of Georgina’s phone screen while she was waiting for a bag of chips.”
I heaved a sigh. “Sometimes I can’t believe what I’ve been reduced to.”
“Man, don’t worry. The date obviously isn’t going well, and now you not only have something over Georgina, but you also get some peace of mind about her dating life.”
I craned my neck as François leaned over to say something near Georgina’s ear. “She made it seem like she was enjoying herself. You really think it’s not going well?”
“Can’t you read her body language? She’s stiff as a board. You should know what that looks like.”
“Fuck off,” I said, but I was secretly pleased. Because Justin was right, but not only about her body language. As if me braving a Yankees game hadn’t made my feelings clear enough, seeing Georgina with François did.
And I realized what it was that bothered me about him. I wanted to be sitting where he was.
14
GEORGINA
Justin reclined in his chair and crossed his ankles on Sebastian’s desk. “Destiny’s Child, ‘Bootylicious.’ Boom. I know all the words, and the dance too. This one time—”
“Get your shoes off my desk,” Sebastian said.
“Relax, I just took them from wardrobe,” Justin said but sat up immediately, removing his feet.
“It’s the fashion department, not wardrobe,” Sebastian said as he reviewed the next issue’s flat plan with a red marker. “This isn’t a movie set.”
“Whatever. What was I saying?” Justin asked.
“Your favorite song to sing in the shower,” Boris supplied.
“Yeah, but I had a story.” Justin scratched his temple. “Lost my train of thought.”
Sebastian sighed. “More like the conductor’s asleep at the wheel.”
I stifled a laugh—not my first of the morning. Sequestered at my small desk across the room, I’d been trying to answer e-mails for the last hour when I wasn’t distracted by the guys.
“How about you, boss?” Boris asked, unwrapping a stick of Trident.
Sebastian pointed a paperclip he’d bent between his thumb and index finger. “Easy,” he said. “‘American Woman.’ Guitar and all.”
Warmth crept up my chest as I pictured Sebastian, tall, trim, and unabashedly naked for his shower guitar solo. If I remembered correctly, the song had its fair share of grunting. When he caught me staring, I averted my eyes back to my computer screen.
“You wish you were Lenny Kravitz,” Justin said, working a toothpick through his teeth. “Last time we did karaoke, you were all about *NSYNC. You didn’t even need the prompter for ‘Tearin’ up My Heart.’”
“It’s a classic.” Sebastian brushed what I assumed were invisible crumbs off Justin’s side of the desk. He’d already thrown out all the wrappers from lunch, called janitorial to get the trash, and wiped down his desk. “How about you, Georgina?”
I didn’t miss the way Sebastian drew out my name, probably to remind me of my embarrassing admissions at the baseball game. I was pretty sure I’d hinted at having multiple personalities.
I tapped a fingertip on my upper lip as I waited for data from my office to load. “I always get Ace of Base stuck in my head.”
“Maybe it’s a sign,” Justin said.
“It’s definitely The Sign,” I said, humming a few bars. “Or that one from Fifth Harmony, ‘Work from Home.’ I catch myself singing it some mornings when I’m getting ready.”
<
br /> “I can’t imagine why,” Sebastian said, glancing at Boris, who wiped sauce from his mustache with his sleeve. “Who wouldn’t want to come in to this dream team every day?”
“Actually, you guys have been making me laugh all afternoon.” I shut my laptop. “And I’ve decided Modern Man needs a podcast. You need a podcast.”
“Us?” Boris asked.
“Well, Justin, Sebastian . . . and friends,” I clarified. I wouldn’t listen to Boris for an hour unless I was getting paid. “You have a great rapport. Our readership needs to hear from you—and then tell their friends.”
“We already have Peterson’s team working on the webisodes we laid out last week,” Sebastian pointed out.
“Then they’ll have to work a little harder. What’re some reader questions you have left over from Badvice?” I asked.
“Oh, now you want to bring it back?” Sebastian asked.
“No, but this could be what Badvice should’ve been—readers getting thoughtful, humorous, legitimately good advice.”
“Goodvice?” Boris suggested.
Sebastian ignored him, opened his phone, and started to scroll. “Here’s one. ‘Do women ever shave each other?’”
“Shave?” I was afraid to even ask for clarification. “As in . . .”
Sebastian shrugged. “That’s the whole question.”
I put my face in my palm. I was discovering that men had many misconceptions when it came to women, particularly anything involving sleepovers or our bathroom buddy systems, but this was next level. “Who’s spreading this myth that we shower together?” I asked. “That’s the dumbest question I’ve ever heard. Next.”
“All right, geez,” he mumbled, flicking his thumb over the screen. “You’re going to hate all of these.”
“Try me,” I said.
He sighed. “Greg H. from Madison, Wisconsin says his ex would never let him touch her during her period, but his current girlfriend is begging for it. He wants to know if women like sex on the rag and how to do it.” Sebastian raised his eyebrows at me. “I’ve brought it up with the team, and . . . there seem to be conflicting schools of thought.”
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