by Monroe, Max
He just smirks like a lunatic.
Instead of engaging in this crazy conversation anymore, I lean forward, turn up the radio, and stare out the window while Cap heads in the direction of my loft in Harlem.
Pretty sure I’m going to need to have a talk with Ruby ASAP. If anyone can prevent my brother from doing something unreasonable like going on dates with me, it’s her.
Yeah, but you’re on a man ban, remember?
Well, you were on a man ban until you did something stupid like accidentally start falling for a guy whose last name you don’t even know…
Fucking hell. When is he going to stop popping into my brain like a freaking jack-in-the-box?
It’s been over two weeks since I wrote Theo that cowardly note and left Positano without uttering goodbye, yet the time hasn’t lessened the pain of my actions.
I still feel like an asshole. If anything, I’ve only grown to regret how I handled things more. It feels like I haven’t gone a single day without thinking about him and, evidently, today is no different.
I try to remind myself that eventually it will all just be a memory.
He will just be a memory.
I mean, one day I’ll realize that, even though it felt all sorts of wrong, I did the right thing…right?
Theo
After this morning’s conference call with the team that’s heading up the Paris club, I ran across the street to get some fresh air and grab a cup of coffee from Macchiato Espresso Bar, an establishment a few blocks from my office.
One sip of the fresh brew as I’m stepping back into pedestrian traffic and I’m already grateful for the caffeine boost.
Allowing two Cruz Nightlife clubs to open one week apart from each other might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever signed off on. And because of that, this has to be the Monday-est Wednesday that’s ever existed.
The workload is all-consuming, and while I’m normally the kind of guy who thrives off a jam-packed business schedule, I’d be a real prideful son of a bitch if I didn’t admit this is a bit much even for me.
But, thankfully, the teams that are running the shows for our Paris and Venice locations are on their fucking A game, and even though the grand openings are just around the corner, everything is in order.
As I’m crossing Fifth Avenue and heading back toward my office, my phone vibrates inside my pocket, and I pull it out to see the screen flashing with Incoming Call Cap.
Jesus. I don’t have time for this…
Despite my better judgment, I hit accept and say hello.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Mr. Casanova,” he booms into my ear. “Did the Twitterverse ever lead you to your mystery girl?”
Of course he hasn’t forgotten about my momentary mental breakdown on social media. Apparently, two weeks isn’t enough time for the memories of my embarrassment to fade from his nosy fucking head. It’s true what they say—the internet is forever.
“What do you want, Cap?”
“Complete avoidance, huh?” he questions through a laugh. “I see how it is.”
Unless I want to do something rash like set up a press conference or use her friend Pippa’s number that I obtained illegally from my own resort, the odds of me finding Lena are slim to fucking none. Not to mention, she clearly didn’t want me to.
So, yeah, definitely complete avoidance in all aspects that pertain to her.
Too bad you won’t stop thinking about her, though.
That’s a real kick to the balls, eh?
I shake off my bastard of a subconscious and focus on the priority—keeping this conversation with Cap short and sweet. Which will be a monumental feat because Caplin Hawkins never keeps anything short and sweet.
“While I’d love to sit here and gossip with you, I have a meeting to get to.” I step inside my office building and head toward the elevator. “So, if this conversation even has a point, I’d get to it soon.”
“Book club. Tonight. You coming?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there.”
“Good, good,” he says. “I trust that you’ve done the reading.”
“Yes, Mom,” I lie.
Note to self: Get Carey’s notes on whatever book I was supposed to read before I leave the office tonight.
“Oh, and don’t make any plans on Saturday.”
“Why?”
“Because you and I have plans, bud,” he says, and his voice is far too cheery. Instantly, my brow rises suspiciously. “We’re gonna bro out and shit.”
“Bro out?” I question. “What are you even talking about?”
“Just wear your best suit, and I’ll pick you up at three, sweetheart. It’s gonna be epic.”
I narrow my eyes and sigh. “What are you trying to rope me into?”
“Just a little party. A real shindig. Considering everyone in New York wants to be there, you should feel real fucking special right now.”
“Cap.”
“Fine,” he mutters. “I wanted to surprise you, but I guess since you’re hell-bent on ruining everything, I’ll just tell you,” he mutters. “I got us tickets to New York Fashion Week.”
New York Fashion Week? What in the fuck does that have to do with me?
“I know. I know,” he prattles on. “It’s mighty generous of me, but as you know, I’m a generous kind of guy. You don’t even need to thank me, bud.”
A laugh jumps from my lungs. “I’m not going to thank you because I’m not going.”
“C’mon, Theo,” he whines. “I got the tickets for Ruby and me, but she can’t go because of a last-minute recording session, and I need to be there. My little sister is working with Loro Gianni. It’s going to be a big day for her.”
“Who the fuck is Loro Gianni?”
“Dude, he’s a well-known designer. Do you know anything about fashion?”
I know fuck all about fashion, and he doesn’t know any more about fashion than I do.
I do know, however, that New York Fashion Week is fucking chaos. The crowd is massive, and there’s bound to be about one hundred too many paparazzi and journalists in attendance.
Basically, it is the last place I want to be.
“Can’t you go by yourself?”
“I have two tickets,” he says like that explains everything. “Two tickets that I pulled some serious strings to get. You have to go with me.”
“What about Harrison?”
“Fuck Harrison.”
“Or Thatch or Kline?” I’ll name off every single one of our goddamn friends if I have to. “Or Milo? I bet Milo would love to go.”
Milo wouldn’t love to go, but hell, I’ll throw anyone under the bus at this point.
“Ah, Theo, but you’re the one I want by my side. Not any of those clowns.”
I stop just before I reach the elevators, already knowing the truth behind his words. “Let me guess, everyone else said no.”
“Do the logistics really matter?”
“You’re such a dick,” I mutter on a sigh, running a hand through my hair. “And now I’m hanging up on you.”
“Wait,” Cap says. “Before you go, I’m curious if you’ve seen Merl’s latest Facebook post…”
“My grandpa’s latest Facebook post?” I scrunch my brows together and step onto the elevator. “I didn’t even know he had a Facebook.”
“Oh, man.” Cap’s laugh booms again. “You are missing out on some serious gems, my friend. Your grandpa Merl is a riot.”
“How do you even know about this? Has it been on the news or something?”
“Me and Merl are Facebook friends, dude,” he says like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “You aren’t?”
“I’m related to him by blood and obligation. I don’t need to troll social media to connect with him.”
“You’re doing an admirably convincing impression of a social media hater for someone who took to the Twitterverse two weeks ago when you were searching for your mystery girl,” he retorts, and I mentally flip him off. Goddamn bastard and
his elephantesque memory.
“Anyway, your dirty grandpa is a fucking legend. They should have cast him instead of Robert De Niro in that movie.”
“Cap—”
“Anyhoo, I gotta run. See you tonight… And I can’t wait for our date Saturday, lover!”
And then, he ends the call.
Motherfucker. I grip the back of my neck and take a deep gulp of air into my lungs before releasing it on a long exhale. I swear, causing migraines in ten minutes flat is Caplin Hawkins’s superpower.
Once the elevator reaches the twentieth floor, I head toward the conference room, but on the way, I can’t stop myself from pulling up the Facebook app and searching Merl Cruz.
His profile picture—a shot of the two of us when we went fishing in the Bahamas two summers ago—is instantly and undeniably recognizable.
Honestly, everything seems in order—until I go to his timeline.
Merl Cruz: Just started a new bra company. Ladies, if you’re interested, just send me a picture of your breasts, and I’ll let you if I have your size in stock.
What. The. Fuck.
Merl Cruz: Just bought some pants from Nordstrom’s, and they’re like a cheaply made castle. No goddamn ballroom.
Merl Cruz: My email just said there is a woman on Facebook waiting to flirt with me. I’m here, honey, and my big dick energy is engaged.
Big dick energy? How does he even know about that saying?
And, of course, my asshole friends Cap and Thatch show up in the comments in nearly every one of his posts, fucking encouraging my grandfather’s behavior.
Caplin Hawkins: Let me know how the bra business turns out, Merl. Maybe I’ll buy a few shares.
Thatch Kelly: Merl got swag, yes he do.
The conference room is filled with expectant staff by the time I step inside, but I don’t hesitate to send out a text message to Mr. Inappropriate before we get started.
Me: Love how you’ve pulled me into your Facebook schemes by having me in your profile picture.
He responds almost instantly.
Grandpa Merl: Theo, you have no idea how many messages I get because you’re in my profile picture. You’re the perfect wingman.
Wingman. For the love of everything.
Me: And big dick energy? Is that really your go-to?
Grandpa Merl: I can’t help it if the good Lord blessed me with a big dick.
Now, he’s bringing God into this.
I swear, old age has only made him more nuts.
But he gives me no time to respond before hitting me with yet another ludicrous text.
Grandpa Merl: Hey, by the way, do you like Tinder? I’m thinking about giving it a shot.
My grandma would come out of the grave and strangle him herself if he started trolling around on Tinder.
Me: If I ever find out you’re on Tinder, I’m taking your phone.
Grandpa Merl: What about Match.com? I think Courtney and I would get along real nice. ;)
Me: Who is Courtney?
Grandpa Merl: The pretty blonde in their commercials. I’m pretty sure she’s been looking for the last two years, Theodore. Surely, she’s ready for Merl’s brand of BDE.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Just shoot me now.
Me: NO DATING SITES, GRANDPA.
Grandpa Merl: Buzzkill.
Thirty faces stare back at me, heads bobbing mindlessly like the sea gulls in Finding Nemo, ready and waiting for me to get the show on the road.
But when I get an idea—an idea about a possible way to track Lena down—I can’t move on without trying it.
I head back to the Facebook app and type Pippa Parker into the search bar.
Immediately, a long list of Pippas populates, and my head spins.
How many fucking people can be named Pippa? It can’t be that common.
I hurriedly scroll through about fifty of them, but when none of their profile pictures ring any bells, I realize Pippa must be insanely fucking common.
What color hair did she have again? Brown? Blond? Or is she a redhead?
Fuck. The details of Lena’s friend are too damn foggy, and unless I want to start messaging each of these strangers in an act of privacy breach, I’m in the same damn place I was when I left Positano.
With no last name and nothing but that fucking goodbye letter.
I look up from my phone again to find my employees still sitting there, patiently waiting for me to do something.
Shit. I put my phone in my pocket on a deep inhale and refocus my energy on something that will get me somewhere—more work.
Between that and Cap’s insanity and my grandpa’s penchant for trouble, this day is a real motherfucker, and it’s only noon.
Yeah, and tonight, you get to deal with more Cap at book club…
Fucking hell.
While everyone is making themselves a drink before going into the cigar room of Thatch’s Manhattan apartment, I don’t waste any time.
Grabbing a beer out of the fridge, I head down to the room before everyone else and start scrolling through Carey’s email that contains his notes about this week’s book club pick before we get started.
The book that you did NOT read is called You’ve Got Fate.
It’s a contemporary romance inspired by the movie You’ve Got Mail.
Which, I have to say, I love that movie.
Seriously, LOVE that movie.
But I’m a sucker for Tom Hanks, so I’m probably a bit biased.
Bill always teases that Tom Hanks is the only man who could ever take me away from him. He’s right, by the way.
Internally, I sigh. For the love of God, get to the point, Carey.
I scan another three paragraphs of my assistant’s Tom Hanks-fueled ramble, before I eventually reach the part where he tells me about the book.
So, You’ve Got Fate.
The Kraft macaroni and cheese of hetero romance.
Beth, the female lead, is cute, but she’s so fucking indecisive. At one point, it was so bad, I was hoping the author would just kill her off to end my misery.
Luckily, Henry, her love interest, was sexy and charming, and the way he stayed patient with Beth throughout all of her back-and-forth bullshit only made me love him more.
It was that patience and understanding that really helped that bitch Beth get her fucking priorities straight.
I finish Carey’s long-ass email and slide my phone into my jacket pocket just as everyone starts to file in with their glasses of bourbon and scotch and whatever else they took the time to make.
Just in the nick of fucking time.
Thatch is the last one to sit down, lighting a cigar and setting his copy of You’ve Got Fate on the table. “Here, here!” he bellows and proceeds to bang a fucking gavel on the velvet of his poker table. “Tonight’s book club meeting is officially in session!” The gavel hits the table three more times, and when the vibrations start sloshing everyone’s drinks out of their glasses, Wes tries to take it from him.
“Give me the gavel, T.”
“Uh-uh,” Thatch responds and holds it up high over his head. “Only the leader of the book club can touch the gavel.”
“Which means it should be in my hands,” Cap chimes in. “I started this book club, you asshole. Not you.”
Thatch tilts his head to the side. “But did you really start the book club? If I do recall, it was my idea.”
This has been an ongoing battle between Cap and Thatch since this book club was started over a year ago, and no one but these two bozos cares about who started this whole charade.
If anything, we’re all secretly hoping they’ll grow tired of it and stop forcing romance books down our throats.
That’s probably why Quincy Black—one of the nicest men alive—has decided to stop speaking at these things almost entirely. I’m betting he’s hoping that, one day, he’ll be able to just stop coming without it going noticed.
Either that or he’s in a perpetual state of almost-sleep because he’s a
parent to a toddler.
Whichever it is, I haven’t outed him. In fact, by some miracle, no one has.
“Are we really going to go down this fucking rabbit hole again?” Milo asks, and both Cap and Thatch ignore him and proceed to stay in some kind of telepathic standoff.
“I think the real conversation we should be having right now is why in the fuck does Thatch have a gavel in the first place?” Kline suggests with a smirk.
“Because we fluffing needed a gavel, Klinehole,” Thatch breaks his staring contest with Cap long enough to retort. “Every great book club has a gavel.”
“Where in the hell did you even get a gavel?” Harrison asks.
“Christ. Enough about the gavel,” Wes mutters, trying to regain some order in what is always madness. “Can we move this shit along so I can eventually go home?”
Thankfully, the focus in this group tends to resemble that of a fucking squirrel, and the two giants drop their beef momentarily to get down to the meat and potatoes of tonight’s meeting.
“I take it you’ve all done the required reading,” Cap announces and proceeds to look each one of us dead in the eyes. “I’ve heard rumors that some people may or may not be having their wives read their books for them, and I would like to reiterate that this goes against book club rules.”
“I think we all know you’re talking to me,” Wes responds without hesitation. “And even though we all know there are no actual rules, I will understand if I have to be released from book club.” He feigns disappointment and sighs. “I mean, it’ll be hard, but I’ll understand.”
“Nice try, Whitney,” Thatch states on a smirk, and Trent chuckles.