Walk of Shame Read online

He blows out a breath and releases my hand. “You’re trying to bait me into saying something tactless again.”

  “You do a pretty good job of doing that all by yourself,” I say. My palm is still tingling, and I drop my hand into my lap and make a fist. I notice that he does the same.

  A muscle twitches in his jaw. “Never mind,” he mutters.

  I can’t decide if we just had a moment, or if I somehow dodged a moment, or…

  Well, let’s just say he’s not the only one who’s off balance.

  “So,” I say, forcing brightness into my tone. “Tell me about the rest of your family. Parents?”

  “What about them?”

  I roll my eyes. “Really?”

  Instead of answering the question, he shrugs. “They’re parents. Regular. Not like your parents, where everybody knows them.”

  “Too true.” I extend my wrist. “Cut me here, the blood runs blue.”

  “They’re how you can afford to live in our building?”

  I laugh a little at his bluntness. “I come from money, yes. Although actually the down payment for the apartment came from my grandmother. The money she left me when she passed was specifically allocated for real estate. She was old-fashioned in her way. Thought a woman’s place in the world was making a home for herself and her family.”

  “What do you think a woman’s place is?”

  I purse my lips. “Annoying you?”

  “Ah, yes.” He takes a sip of his champagne. “Well, you’re quite accomplished at it.”

  “And yet here we are.”

  “Indeed.”

  The waitress appears once more, placing our respective lunches in front of us.

  I hold up a deliciously hot french fry to Andrew. He counters by lifting a forkful of lettuce toward me, raising his eyebrows in question.

  Then his attention shifts, and he reaches into his suit jacket, pulling out his phone and glancing at the screen. His face goes immediately tense, then perfectly blank.

  “Everything okay?” I ask as he puts it away.

  “Fine. A client needs my attention, though. I need to head downtown after lunch, and it’s highly confidential. I can’t have you tagging along to this one.”

  I sigh and eat my fry, knowing exactly what he’s up to. Building his walls to keep me from getting too close.

  One step forward. Two steps back.

  Georgie

  SUNDAY MORNING, BRUNCH

  “I didn’t hear you come in, sweetie. You’re early.” My dad kisses the top of my head before going to the sideboard and pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Used to be we couldn’t get you here before noon.”

  “Been getting up earlier these days,” I say, forcing a smile as I roll my champagne flute back and forth between my palms.

  “Oh yeah? Any particular reason?” My dad sits in his usual spot at the head of the table and studies me.

  Yup. A grumpy lawyer gets up at the crack of dawn every morning, and it seems to be the only way I can see him, though I’m not even sure why I want to.

  I haven’t seen or heard from Andrew since we parted ways on Friday after lunch. On one hand, I’m not that surprised, because although my schedule doesn’t change much from weekdays to weekends, he’s never shown up for the usual five A.M. showdown on Saturdays or Sundays.

  I guess somehow I thought yesterday might be different, though. I’m a little embarrassed to say that after staying up way too late watching Outlander at Marley’s place, I dragged myself home at 4:45, then hung out in the lobby way too long hoping he might make an appearance.

  He didn’t.

  And you know, I wish I could tell you that I got the hint. That I just quietly decided to bide my time until our inevitable Monday morning meeting. But nope.

  Remember how he left me his phone number on the flower card?

  Yeah, well, I texted him.

  I texted him!

  I never text guys first, not unless I have something witty and clever, and this was not one of those texts.

  I said, and I quote: Hi.

  I groan out loud, just thinking about it, and my dad gives me a weird look. “Want to talk about it?”

  I take a sip of the mimosa. “Not so much.”

  He shrugs and opens his paper.

  “Where’s Mom?”

  “On the phone with the London manager,” he says, not glancing up. “Or maybe Paris. Tokyo. I forget.”

  Forget, or don’t care?

  “So how are things with you guys?” I blurt out.

  That has him looking up. “Meaning, like, is my blood pressure back down, and did she finally schedule the mammogram you’ve been bugging her about?”

  “No. I mean, well, yeah, that. But, like…how are you guys? Together?”

  My dad precisely folds his paper before setting it aside and studying me over the cup of his coffee. “What’s going on, sweetie?”

  “Nothing. I just…I don’t know, I feel like you guys are so disconnected. I feel like I’m only ever talking to each of you individually, never as a couple.”

  “Yes, well, we’re both busy. Our schedules don’t always overlap.”

  There’s a touch of defensiveness there that has me even more worried. My dad has always been one of those completely confident guys who never gives a crap about other people’s criticism. He only defends himself when he knows there’s a sliver of vulnerability.

  “But you guys are happy, right?”

  “Sure, of course.”

  He holds my eyes, but it feels deliberate, like he’s trying too hard to convince me. Or convince himself.

  “Besides, I don’t think it’s your parents’ romantic life that has you holding that champagne in a death grip,” he says, lifting his eyebrows.

  I smile wanly. “Nice deflection.”

  “Talk to me, Georgiekins. Who’s the boy?”

  My smile is real this time. The boy. Such a dad thing to say.

  And maybe a little advice can’t hurt. I decide to go for it. “Okay, you’re a smart guy,” I say.

  He smiles. “Thank you, daughter.”

  “You’re welcome, Father. And as a smart guy, and someone who’s coming up on his thirtieth wedding anniversary…do you think it’s possible that opposites really can attract, or are opposites just…opposites?”

  “Well.” He sips his coffee. “I know for your mother and me, it was our similarities that attracted us. We were both driven. Focused. Both wanted a darling daughter named Georgie—”

  “Naturally,” I say, miming a sitting curtsey.

  “As for whether opposites can attract, certainly they can. But whether they can last…”

  His gaze goes kind of far away, an expression I’ve never seen, and I lean forward, eyes wide. “Dad,” I whisper. “Are you thinking about an ex-girlfriend right now?”

  He laughs, but it’s too quick, and it’s nervous.

  I gasp in mock horror. “You are.”

  His eyes dart toward the door, but my mom’s still in her home office talking to Europe or Asia or wherever.

  “Spill,” I say. “I won’t tell Mom.”

  “Oh, she already knows. I was dating someone else when I met her.”

  “Scandalous!” I say. “Who!”

  “Nobody you know.”

  “Well, I should hope not—that would be weird. But come on, details. I had no idea you were a ladies’ man.”

  I swear to God, he blushes, just a little. Adorable. “Her name was Heidi. We dated, just for a year or so. And then I met your mother and decided she was a better long-term match.”

  My heart twists a little as I realize his voice goes just a touch flatter when he talks about my mother than when he talks about this Heidi.

  “What was she like?” I ask, after looking guiltily over my shoulder at the still-empty doorway. I feel dreadfully disloyal to my mother, yet wildly curious.

  “She was colorful and…delicate,” he says, looking uncomfortable with the word.

  “Like a rainbow,�
� I say.

  “Uh, I guess. Heidi was a dreamer, always talking about the things she wanted to do and the places she wanted to go, but no one dream ever lasted for more than a day before it was replaced by another. It was exhausting, and yet…”

  “Enchanting?” I say, putting my chin on my hand and batting my eyelashes.

  He laughs. “I suppose. Anyway, we weren’t really suited. My place was here in the city, taking over the family business. She wanted to see Bali and Paris and Reykjavik—”

  “Iceland?” I ask, surprised.

  He shrugs and takes another sip of coffee. “Like I said, she was colorful.”

  “What about the delicate part?” I ask, not really sure why I’m so interested in this woman.

  My dad stands and refills his cup, taking just a bit too long to do so, as though gathering his thoughts. “Perhaps that wasn’t the right word,” he says finally. “But I always got the sense that she needed me, just a little bit. Like a little part of her happiness would always be wrapped up in me.”

  He shakes his head and turns, his expression closed. “Anyway. It was a long time ago.”

  I force a smile and take a sip of my mimosa even though I’m dying to ask more questions. I want to ask if my mom ever needed him, but I suspect I know the answer.

  “So who’s your opposite?” Dad asks.

  “Hmm?”

  His smile is a touch smug as he turns the tables. “I told you mine. Now you tell me why you asked about the opposites-attract thing.”

  I run my red nail along the seam of the two leaves in the table. “It’s that guy. The one in my building I mentioned last week.”

  “The divorce lawyer?”

  I nod.

  “Can’t say I ever saw you being interested in an attorney.”

  “I don’t know that I am interested. I’m just…intrigued. He’s so different from any other guy I know. He’s so different from me.”

  “Does he like you?”

  I snort. “No. Not even a little bit.”

  He thinks I’m perfectly ridiculous. And I’m starting to think I misinterpreted that card. That it really was a dismissal, not an endearment.

  “Do you think maybe that’s part of the appeal?” my dad asks gently.

  I give him a look. “You’re implying that I want what I can’t have?”

  He shrugs. “Human nature.”

  “I suppose that’s part of the allure,” I admit. “It’s not like I want to have him eating out of my hand or anything. I just…”

  My dad leans back in his chair and studies me. “You want my advice?”

  “Sure.”

  “Forget him,” my dad says. “You’re smart, you’re beautiful, and you’re fun. If he doesn’t see that—doesn’t appreciate that about you—from the very beginning, he’s not the one.”

  I blink. It’s good advice. Solid. Smart. Logically sound.

  And yet it leaves me feeling a little…I don’t know.

  Sad.

  My dad’s right, though. Do I really want to win over a guy who thinks I’m brainless and then can’t utter a proper apology for it? Or a guy who eats only salad for lunch and power shakes for breakfast, and who can’t even acknowledge receiving a text message, no matter how lame?

  Andrew Mulroney may have been right to drag me along during his daily routine in an attempt to show me I don’t belong.

  And I don’t have to drag him along for a day in my world to know he wouldn’t fit any better there than I do in his.

  “Surely there’s someone in your life who does appreciate you,” he says. “If not, Joseph’s son just moved back from San Diego, and you guys always got along so well—”

  I laugh and hold up a hand. “Please. Do not set me up with Caleb Myers. He used to try to wipe boogers in my ponytail.”

  “Well, I see I’ve missed some riveting conversation,” my mom says, striding into the dining room. “Georgie, hon, love the silk blouse. Michael Kors?”

  I look down and shrug. “How’d the call go?”

  “Hmm?” She gives me a sharp look.

  “Your call? Dad said you were on the phone?”

  “Oh, right.” She waves her hand. “Paris didn’t get their swatches on time, and I had to assure Celeste it was simply a shipping hiccup.”

  My dad’s attention is already back on his newspaper, and I study my mom as she fixes herself a mimosa. I hear a faint strain of off-key music, and—

  “Mom, are you humming?” I ask.

  She stills, and my dad peers at her over the top of his newspaper.

  Her laugh is nervous. “Just in a good mood, I guess.”

  My dad and I exchange a glance, and he shrugs, turning his attention back to his paper.

  Mom joins me at the table, suspiciously free of her iPhone and laptop. I know I should be glad that she’s in such a good mood, but I can’t shake the feeling that something seems off. I’d asked her about that during our chat last week, but she said nothing’s up.

  She’s lying, but maybe I can’t blame her.

  I keep thinking about what my dad said about that Heidi woman.

  How she needed him, just a little.

  Did my mom ever need my dad? Did he ever need her?

  I mean, I’m a modern woman and all—I know I’m supposed to subscribe to the notion that a woman can be complete without a man and vice versa, and I do. I really do.

  And yet, sitting here with two people who somehow share the same air, the same life, but barely seem aware of the other person’s presence, I can’t shake the sense that while maybe I don’t need someone to need me, I really, really wouldn’t mind spending time with someone who at least wants me.

  Georgie

  MONDAY, 4:59 A.M.

  What am I doing? What the hell am I doing?

  It’s a question I’ve repeated about a hundred times to myself on the cab ride home.

  Not a solo cab ride. Nope. For reasons I can’t quite seem to wrap my head around, I’m in a cab with Brody Nash, and we’re headed back to my place.

  It all started when I let him kiss me, sometime around three A.M. The rest of the crew was on the dance floor, and I’d switched over to my usual early morning round of sparkling water. He joined me in the San Pellegrino party, and it was a nice change. Usually I’m the only one sobering up while the rest of my friends are still pounding shots.

  He was sitting close, his attention all on me. He laughed at my jokes and asked me about my day, and I just kept thinking about what my dad had talked about. About how I deserved someone who wanted me. Someone I didn’t have to convince of my worth.

  And then Brody leaned over, pausing, giving me plenty of time to move away. Instead, I’d closed my eyes and let his mouth meet mine.

  It had been, well…

  Underwhelming. Wildly so.

  But, but…I’ve learned something in the past few years: first kisses are never like they are in the movies. There’s never fireworks and foot lifting and butterflies. It takes a while for two people to get used to each other, to learn what the other one likes.

  So I’m giving Brody a chance.

  I mean, don’t freak out on me—I’m not going to sleep with him. But I don’t feel like sleeping at all, don’t feel like being alone with my thoughts, so when he suggested coming back to my place and having some coffee…

  Why the hell not? Maybe a cup of coffee with a nice guy is precisely what I need to make me forget the time I’m not spending with a not-so-nice guy.

  The cab pulls up in front of my building, and I feel a knot in my stomach as I watch Brody pay the cab driver before grabbing the pink donut box I made us stop for.

  I resist the urge to snatch the box back. My donuts. For me to share. For me to provoke Andrew with.

  Instead they’re in Brody Nash’s hands, and his hands are…well, his fingers are a little stubby, now that I think about it. How did I miss that?

  Knock it off, Georgie.

  I step out onto the sidewalk, careful not to jer
k back when he puts a supporting hand under my elbow. Instead I smile in thanks, and it feels brittle.

  He doesn’t let go as he leads me inside, and even without looking at my phone, even before we’re all the way through the revolving doors, I know what time it is.

  I know I’m late.

  And then I’m inside the building and it’s confirmed. Andrew Mulroney is already there, elbows resting on the counter, looking uncharacteristically relaxed as he talks with Ramon.

  Damn it.

  My high heels click against the marble floor, he turns around, and for one heart-stopping moment, I swear there’s gladness on his face.

  Only it vanishes altogether when he sees Brody.

  Andrew slowly straightens, his eyes going cold and flat.

  “Hey, man!” an oblivious Brody says as he pulls Andrew in for a one-sided man-hug thing, made extra awkward because of the donut box. “Adam, right?”

  “Andrew.”

  “Right! I’m Brody. We met at Georgie’s dinner party last week.”

  Andrew’s eyes are ice cold when they flick to me. “Sure. Good to see you again.”

  Desperate for something to do, I yank the donut box out of Brody’s grip and shove it awkwardly across the counter at Ramon. “Ramon! How are you?”

  Yikes. Is that my voice? It sounds manically chipper, even for me.

  Ramon gives me a startled, slightly concerned look, but he never loses his professional smile. “Ms. Watkins. Welcome home.”

  “This is Brody,” I say. “He’s my friend.”

  All three men give me a look at that, although I suspect none of them believes that Brody’s coming back to my apartment at five A.M. as a friend.

  Andrew certainly doesn’t believe it; that’s clear from the stony expression.

  I force myself to meet his eyes. “Red shoes, Dorothy!” I say, desperate to get back to our usual place of caustic banter.

  He merely inclines his head backward, in the bare minimum of acknowledgment. He doesn’t have his travel mug today, and for some reason it bothers me. I mean, maybe he just wasn’t hungry, but I don’t like when he’s out of his routine.

  No—I don’t like when we’re out of our routine.

  But I’m also almost glad. It proves my point that he is not the right guy for me, that I shouldn’t have to fall all over myself just in order to get a man to be polite.