After the Kiss
Page 4
Then she pictured Kelli’s gloating face. If she didn’t do this, it would be Julie who’d be assigned to fridge-cleaning duties, while Kelli moved her tiny butt into Julie’s office.
Not happening.
“So how do we do this?” Julie asked. She tried to keep the trepidation out of her voice. She’d never really paid much attention to the length of her previous relationships, but now she couldn’t seem to think about anything else. Once they’d run out of quips and banter, and after the sex haze had worn off . . . what did people do?
“Let’s split up,” Riley said. “We’ll cover more ground that way. Everyone keep an eye out for the quiet, rich, husband-material type.”
“Yeah, that should be a breeze,” Julie said. “Not like ninety percent of the women here aren’t looking for one of those.”
But Riley was already gone.
“I hate it when she does that,” Julie muttered. Grace started to glide away, but Julie grasped her arm. “Don’t leave me. Not yet.”
“Sure,” Grace said, sending her a curious look. “Camille’s over there. Shall we say hello?”
Oh, by all means. Let’s go see the woman who got me into this mess.
“Nah, let’s dodge her for a while. I’m not in the mood to be talking about how wonderful love is.”
Grace grabbed for Julie’s wrist so quickly that Julie’s champagne sloshed.
“I think I’ve got him.” Grace sounded positively giddy.
“Got who?”
“The guy. The one you’ve been looking for!”
“Oh, you mean Mr. Movie Night,” Julie said, looking around for one of the cute tuxedo-wearing gentlemen carrying the trays of booze.
“What?” Grace wrinkled her nose in puzzlement.
“Never mind,” Julie mumbled. “And what do you mean, you’ve found him? The plan has been in existence for all of ten minutes. How did you come up with my pseudo-boyfriend in the last fifteen seconds?”
But Grace ignored all of this, looking incredibly proud of herself. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of him earlier. I just talked to him this past weekend, and he mentioned that he’d broken up with his girlfriend of a couple of years. Trust me, this guy is definitely the type to be seeking a relationship.”
“That’s just great,” Julie said, glaring down at yet another glass of champagne. Didn’t this joint have any vodka? “I have an idea—how about you go talk to him? Then you guys can start picking out a first course for your wedding reception and names for your Stepford babies. Meanwhile, I’ll be over at the bar exploring new cocktails and enjoying a variety of men.”
Grace didn’t look the least bit impressed with Julie’s speech. “Don’t you snap at me, Greene. This is your idea. I’m just here to help.”
Help? Help with what, selling my soul? Julie sighed. “Okay, you’re right. Where’s the guy?”
“You can’t look now. He’s facing this way and it’ll be obvious.”
“So I’m just supposed to bump into him, spill wine on his shirt, and then make my move?”
Grace glanced at her in approval. “Not bad!”
“Grace, it’s horrible! It’s the most obvious ploy in the book. I might as well go for the whole ‘You look familiar’ cliché.”
“Oh, come on. Guys don’t care how original you are as long as you’re hot.”
Julie opened her mouth to argue but was forced to concede. Grace did have a point there. Most men put originality somewhere between knitting skills and snoring on the list of must-haves.
Grace snapped her fingers in front of Julie’s face. “You got this. You can do it. Just keep your eye on the ball.”
Julie batted her hand away. “Okay, coach, I’m ready. What do I need to know about this guy?”
Grace pursed her lips. “I’m trying to remember something interesting.”
Julie groaned. Not a good sign.
“Actually, all I really know is that he works with Greg. And according to Greg, he’s kind of a workaholic. Not big on the social stuff. But he’s been nice enough at those stuffy Wall Street functions Greg’s always dragging me to.”
Julie choked on a bacon-wrapped fig. “Wall Street? You want me to date a guy from Wall Street?”
“Not date. Woo. And what’s wrong with guys from Wall Street? Greg works on Wall Street.”
Exactly.
Julie pictured her best friend’s boyfriend: his navy suits, his slicked-back hair, that sharky smile, and his inability to talk about anything other than stocks and golf. Not to mention his insistence that argyle would never go out of style. Julie tried not to shudder.
Still, she had to admit that Grace’s reasoning was sound. Most Wall Street men she’d encountered were of the trophy-wife set. They needed someone young and shiny to show off along with their high-rise condos. Julie could be young and shiny. Granted, the first one was getting further and further out of reach, but she made up for it with a push-up bra and an affinity for trendy cocktails.
You can do this. It’s no different from any other dating expedition. Smile. Keep your lipstick off your teeth. Don’t slur.
Easy peasy.
“Okay, where is he?” Julie asked.
“Over by the chocolate fountain. He’s talking to Allen Carsons.”
Julie’s eyes bugged. “Allen Carsons of the New York Tribune? As in Camille’s ex-husband? As in Stiletto’s enemy number one?”
Grace gave a rueful smile, and Julie rolled her eyes. Great. This just keeps getting better and better.
Schooling her face in a casual, indifferent expression, Julie oh so slowly turned in the direction Grace had indicated. Almost immediately her eyes landed on Allen Carsons’s distinctive bald head. There were rumors going around that he shined it up with duck fat before special occasions, but Julie was inclined to think that was a Camille-fabricated detail. Apparently their divorce had been spectacularly messy.
Her eyes moved to Allen’s companion, a tallish man in a pinstripe suit.
Pinstripes. Good lord. Ten bucks says he has a pocket protector.
“Grace,” she said desperately, “I don’t think—”
“Give him a chance.”
Julie took a deep breath and looked at him again. Maybe she was underestimating him. Julie braced herself and waited for it. The zing, the sizzle.
And she felt . . . absolutely nothing. He was like dry toast.
Julie could have identified this guy as a broker even without Grace’s introduction. He was fit but not bulky. His brown hair was just on the chocolatey side of mousy, and while she couldn’t see the color of his eyes from here, there was nothing to suggest that they’d be any more interesting than the rest of him.
And the man wore glasses. Call her judgmental, but she couldn’t imagine getting hot over a dude with glasses.
Then again . . . She tilted her head and took in the serious expression, the polished shoes, and the perfectly shaven jaw. Grace had been dead right. A man like this was just screaming for a little woman by his side.
If she played her cards right, he’d be eating out of her hand by midnight.
“Name?” Julie asked distractedly.
“Mitchell something. Ford? Forbes?”
Mitchell. It was so . . . yawn.
The man in question gave Allen a bland smile that did absolutely nothing to her lady bits. This man was a movie night waiting to happen.
Julie allowed herself a small victory smile.
Mitchell Ford-slash-Forbes was absolutely perfect.
Chapter Three
A bored-looking bartender pushed glasses across the makeshift bar, and Mitchell resisted the urge to ask if he could get something stronger than watered-down whisky. As if reading Mitchell’s thought, the bartender dumped another scoopful of half-melted ice into the glasses.
Perfect. Just perfect.
Out of habit, Mitchell fished a five out of his wallet for a tip, then grabbed the two glasses. He handed one to his ever-jovial colleague, Colin.
Halfheartedly Mitchell clinked his glass against Colin’s. “Here’s to f**king fund-raisers. And thanks, by the way. I owe you one for rescuing me.”
Not happening.
“So how do we do this?” Julie asked. She tried to keep the trepidation out of her voice. She’d never really paid much attention to the length of her previous relationships, but now she couldn’t seem to think about anything else. Once they’d run out of quips and banter, and after the sex haze had worn off . . . what did people do?
“Let’s split up,” Riley said. “We’ll cover more ground that way. Everyone keep an eye out for the quiet, rich, husband-material type.”
“Yeah, that should be a breeze,” Julie said. “Not like ninety percent of the women here aren’t looking for one of those.”
But Riley was already gone.
“I hate it when she does that,” Julie muttered. Grace started to glide away, but Julie grasped her arm. “Don’t leave me. Not yet.”
“Sure,” Grace said, sending her a curious look. “Camille’s over there. Shall we say hello?”
Oh, by all means. Let’s go see the woman who got me into this mess.
“Nah, let’s dodge her for a while. I’m not in the mood to be talking about how wonderful love is.”
Grace grabbed for Julie’s wrist so quickly that Julie’s champagne sloshed.
“I think I’ve got him.” Grace sounded positively giddy.
“Got who?”
“The guy. The one you’ve been looking for!”
“Oh, you mean Mr. Movie Night,” Julie said, looking around for one of the cute tuxedo-wearing gentlemen carrying the trays of booze.
“What?” Grace wrinkled her nose in puzzlement.
“Never mind,” Julie mumbled. “And what do you mean, you’ve found him? The plan has been in existence for all of ten minutes. How did you come up with my pseudo-boyfriend in the last fifteen seconds?”
But Grace ignored all of this, looking incredibly proud of herself. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of him earlier. I just talked to him this past weekend, and he mentioned that he’d broken up with his girlfriend of a couple of years. Trust me, this guy is definitely the type to be seeking a relationship.”
“That’s just great,” Julie said, glaring down at yet another glass of champagne. Didn’t this joint have any vodka? “I have an idea—how about you go talk to him? Then you guys can start picking out a first course for your wedding reception and names for your Stepford babies. Meanwhile, I’ll be over at the bar exploring new cocktails and enjoying a variety of men.”
Grace didn’t look the least bit impressed with Julie’s speech. “Don’t you snap at me, Greene. This is your idea. I’m just here to help.”
Help? Help with what, selling my soul? Julie sighed. “Okay, you’re right. Where’s the guy?”
“You can’t look now. He’s facing this way and it’ll be obvious.”
“So I’m just supposed to bump into him, spill wine on his shirt, and then make my move?”
Grace glanced at her in approval. “Not bad!”
“Grace, it’s horrible! It’s the most obvious ploy in the book. I might as well go for the whole ‘You look familiar’ cliché.”
“Oh, come on. Guys don’t care how original you are as long as you’re hot.”
Julie opened her mouth to argue but was forced to concede. Grace did have a point there. Most men put originality somewhere between knitting skills and snoring on the list of must-haves.
Grace snapped her fingers in front of Julie’s face. “You got this. You can do it. Just keep your eye on the ball.”
Julie batted her hand away. “Okay, coach, I’m ready. What do I need to know about this guy?”
Grace pursed her lips. “I’m trying to remember something interesting.”
Julie groaned. Not a good sign.
“Actually, all I really know is that he works with Greg. And according to Greg, he’s kind of a workaholic. Not big on the social stuff. But he’s been nice enough at those stuffy Wall Street functions Greg’s always dragging me to.”
Julie choked on a bacon-wrapped fig. “Wall Street? You want me to date a guy from Wall Street?”
“Not date. Woo. And what’s wrong with guys from Wall Street? Greg works on Wall Street.”
Exactly.
Julie pictured her best friend’s boyfriend: his navy suits, his slicked-back hair, that sharky smile, and his inability to talk about anything other than stocks and golf. Not to mention his insistence that argyle would never go out of style. Julie tried not to shudder.
Still, she had to admit that Grace’s reasoning was sound. Most Wall Street men she’d encountered were of the trophy-wife set. They needed someone young and shiny to show off along with their high-rise condos. Julie could be young and shiny. Granted, the first one was getting further and further out of reach, but she made up for it with a push-up bra and an affinity for trendy cocktails.
You can do this. It’s no different from any other dating expedition. Smile. Keep your lipstick off your teeth. Don’t slur.
Easy peasy.
“Okay, where is he?” Julie asked.
“Over by the chocolate fountain. He’s talking to Allen Carsons.”
Julie’s eyes bugged. “Allen Carsons of the New York Tribune? As in Camille’s ex-husband? As in Stiletto’s enemy number one?”
Grace gave a rueful smile, and Julie rolled her eyes. Great. This just keeps getting better and better.
Schooling her face in a casual, indifferent expression, Julie oh so slowly turned in the direction Grace had indicated. Almost immediately her eyes landed on Allen Carsons’s distinctive bald head. There were rumors going around that he shined it up with duck fat before special occasions, but Julie was inclined to think that was a Camille-fabricated detail. Apparently their divorce had been spectacularly messy.
Her eyes moved to Allen’s companion, a tallish man in a pinstripe suit.
Pinstripes. Good lord. Ten bucks says he has a pocket protector.
“Grace,” she said desperately, “I don’t think—”
“Give him a chance.”
Julie took a deep breath and looked at him again. Maybe she was underestimating him. Julie braced herself and waited for it. The zing, the sizzle.
And she felt . . . absolutely nothing. He was like dry toast.
Julie could have identified this guy as a broker even without Grace’s introduction. He was fit but not bulky. His brown hair was just on the chocolatey side of mousy, and while she couldn’t see the color of his eyes from here, there was nothing to suggest that they’d be any more interesting than the rest of him.
And the man wore glasses. Call her judgmental, but she couldn’t imagine getting hot over a dude with glasses.
Then again . . . She tilted her head and took in the serious expression, the polished shoes, and the perfectly shaven jaw. Grace had been dead right. A man like this was just screaming for a little woman by his side.
If she played her cards right, he’d be eating out of her hand by midnight.
“Name?” Julie asked distractedly.
“Mitchell something. Ford? Forbes?”
Mitchell. It was so . . . yawn.
The man in question gave Allen a bland smile that did absolutely nothing to her lady bits. This man was a movie night waiting to happen.
Julie allowed herself a small victory smile.
Mitchell Ford-slash-Forbes was absolutely perfect.
Chapter Three
A bored-looking bartender pushed glasses across the makeshift bar, and Mitchell resisted the urge to ask if he could get something stronger than watered-down whisky. As if reading Mitchell’s thought, the bartender dumped another scoopful of half-melted ice into the glasses.
Perfect. Just perfect.
Out of habit, Mitchell fished a five out of his wallet for a tip, then grabbed the two glasses. He handed one to his ever-jovial colleague, Colin.
Halfheartedly Mitchell clinked his glass against Colin’s. “Here’s to f**king fund-raisers. And thanks, by the way. I owe you one for rescuing me.”
