Walk of Shame
Page 46
“Andrew,” Liv says, in an obviously voice.
“Oh, man, did everyone see that Page Six article?” I say, pressing my fingers against my forehead. I don’t really mind, but it doesn’t get much more private than kissing, and that was definitely a kissing moment. I resent, just a little, that I have to share it with the world.
“Pretty much,” Liv and Marley say at the same time.
“So is he here?” Liv asks.
I give her an oh please look. “You’ve met him. What do you think?”
Liv laughs. “Good point. But he doesn’t mind you being here?”
I shrug. “Nope. Told me to have fun.”
“That’s a good one right there,” Liv says with a little shake of her head, waggling her fingers in thanks as a server appears with a glass of champagne. “Gotta appreciate the ones who let you do what you want without getting all whiny and insecure about it. Did he pass along my message?”
“Um, no,” I say, nudging Marley under the table with my stiletto. She’s all but salivating, clearly loving that she’s on the verge of hearing Liv Dotson confirm outright that she’s hired a divorce attorney.
Liv waves. “I should have just asked you myself. I was saying that the four of us should totally do dinner some time. I think Chris and Andrew would get along great. They’re both a little shy but sarcastic.”
Understatement.
And also, wait, what? Liv wants her divorce attorney and soon-to-be ex to have a dinner party together?
Marley can’t help herself any longer. “So how do you and Andrew know each other?”
Liv glances at Marley, her expression cooling just a tiny bit. “I’m sure you ladies put the pieces together when you saw me with Andrew at Del Frisco that day. Chris and I were having . . . problems. I took the coward’s way out, thought divorce sounded easier than working through it.”
“You’re speaking in the past tense,” I say with a hopeful little smile.
Liv blinks. “Well, yeah. I called it off. Didn’t Andrew tell you?”
Both women are looking at me. I swallow. No, he didn’t tell me. Come to think of it, he doesn’t tell me much. We’ve come a long way since our early days of him talking to me not at all, but most of the time he seems to live in his head unless coaxed otherwise.
“He takes client confidentiality super seriously,” I say, rolling my eyes dramatically as though it’s no big deal.
Both women smile in understanding, but Liv’s expression is skeptical, and I can feel what she’s thinking: More seriously than your relationship?
I shake it off. I knew what I was getting into when I started dating a workaholic with a big old brain.
“Damn, you weren’t kidding, this DJ does love Beyoncé,” Marley says as the music shifts into a remixed version of “Single Ladies.” She nods at the dance floor. “Shall we? This is our jam! Or . . . used to be.” Marley nudges me with a wink.
I force a smile as I stand and do an abbreviated version of the “Single Ladies” dance.
Liv laughs. “Have fun. Let me know about dinner!”
Right. The dinner invitation. Another thing he didn’t mention.
It’s not a big deal. Is it?
Georgie
THURSDAY, 4:57 A.M. Here we are again.
I tell myself the only reason I’m going through the familiar routine is for Ramon. Between Andrew’s sickness, my sickness, and then our, um, nighttime activities, poor Ramon’s been deprived of his early morning donuts!
I push through the revolving door of my building, pink donut box in hand, determined to pretend like I’m not still stinging a little from the embarrassing realization of how little I actually know the guy I’m falling for.
“Morning, Ramon,” I sing, my high heels clicking in the quiet reception area.
No sign of Andrew yet.
“Miss me?” I say with a wink, opening the lid and pushing the box toward him.
“I’ve missed this,” he says reverently, pulling out a maple bacon donut. “And it’s lovely to see you as well, Ms. Watkins.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m perfectly happy coming in second place behind the bacon-and-sugar combo. How have you been? How’s Marta?”
“Cranky,” he mutters. “And beautiful,” he amends quickly.
I laugh. “Remember, the pregnant woman is always right.”
“I’ll keep it in mind. How have you been? Mr. Mulroney mentioned you were feeling under the weather last week.”
“Ah . . .” I give a nervous laugh, suddenly aware how awkward it is to hook up with someone in your apartment building, where the staff knows every habit, every morning you’re not there, and quite often why you’re not there.
He gives me a bland I don’t suspect a thing look, then nudges the box toward me. “I see a cinnamon sugar one with your name on it.”
“Well, okay. Twist my arm.”
I take the still-warm donut out of the box, as well as a napkin from the pile Ramon pulls out from behind the desk.
The first delicious granules of sugar are rolling over my tongue when I feel the air in the lobby change.
When I turn toward him, it’s a strange combination of déjà vu and wonderfully new.
Black workout shirt? Check. Black workout pants? Check. Red sneakers? Check.
Same goes for the briefcase, the duffel and garment bags, the stupid mug full of what I now know is chocolate banana protein shake (barf).
But there’s a key difference today as he walks toward me.
Andrew is smiling.
“Morning,” he says, his voice low and intimate. His gaze flicks to Ramon. “Hey, Ramon.”
I blink. What is this? Did he just use Ramon’s first name? Am I . . . rubbing off on him?
He stands in front of me, and my heart pounds, as though I’m seeing him for the first time. His eyes roam my face. “You have sugar on your lip.”
His expression tells me that if we were alone, he’d lick it off himself, but apparently he’s not so reformed that he’ll indulge in a PDA.
I lick it off, deliberately slowly, and his eyes narrow.
“How was your night?” he asks, leaning against the counter and studying me.
Damn. Damn him for being so appealing. For not judging me for going out, for offering to clean up after dinner last night so I could go get ready. For not acting suspicious or jealous. For just being . . .
“Oh, man, did everyone see that Page Six article?” I say, pressing my fingers against my forehead. I don’t really mind, but it doesn’t get much more private than kissing, and that was definitely a kissing moment. I resent, just a little, that I have to share it with the world.
“Pretty much,” Liv and Marley say at the same time.
“So is he here?” Liv asks.
I give her an oh please look. “You’ve met him. What do you think?”
Liv laughs. “Good point. But he doesn’t mind you being here?”
I shrug. “Nope. Told me to have fun.”
“That’s a good one right there,” Liv says with a little shake of her head, waggling her fingers in thanks as a server appears with a glass of champagne. “Gotta appreciate the ones who let you do what you want without getting all whiny and insecure about it. Did he pass along my message?”
“Um, no,” I say, nudging Marley under the table with my stiletto. She’s all but salivating, clearly loving that she’s on the verge of hearing Liv Dotson confirm outright that she’s hired a divorce attorney.
Liv waves. “I should have just asked you myself. I was saying that the four of us should totally do dinner some time. I think Chris and Andrew would get along great. They’re both a little shy but sarcastic.”
Understatement.
And also, wait, what? Liv wants her divorce attorney and soon-to-be ex to have a dinner party together?
Marley can’t help herself any longer. “So how do you and Andrew know each other?”
Liv glances at Marley, her expression cooling just a tiny bit. “I’m sure you ladies put the pieces together when you saw me with Andrew at Del Frisco that day. Chris and I were having . . . problems. I took the coward’s way out, thought divorce sounded easier than working through it.”
“You’re speaking in the past tense,” I say with a hopeful little smile.
Liv blinks. “Well, yeah. I called it off. Didn’t Andrew tell you?”
Both women are looking at me. I swallow. No, he didn’t tell me. Come to think of it, he doesn’t tell me much. We’ve come a long way since our early days of him talking to me not at all, but most of the time he seems to live in his head unless coaxed otherwise.
“He takes client confidentiality super seriously,” I say, rolling my eyes dramatically as though it’s no big deal.
Both women smile in understanding, but Liv’s expression is skeptical, and I can feel what she’s thinking: More seriously than your relationship?
I shake it off. I knew what I was getting into when I started dating a workaholic with a big old brain.
“Damn, you weren’t kidding, this DJ does love Beyoncé,” Marley says as the music shifts into a remixed version of “Single Ladies.” She nods at the dance floor. “Shall we? This is our jam! Or . . . used to be.” Marley nudges me with a wink.
I force a smile as I stand and do an abbreviated version of the “Single Ladies” dance.
Liv laughs. “Have fun. Let me know about dinner!”
Right. The dinner invitation. Another thing he didn’t mention.
It’s not a big deal. Is it?
Georgie
THURSDAY, 4:57 A.M. Here we are again.
I tell myself the only reason I’m going through the familiar routine is for Ramon. Between Andrew’s sickness, my sickness, and then our, um, nighttime activities, poor Ramon’s been deprived of his early morning donuts!
I push through the revolving door of my building, pink donut box in hand, determined to pretend like I’m not still stinging a little from the embarrassing realization of how little I actually know the guy I’m falling for.
“Morning, Ramon,” I sing, my high heels clicking in the quiet reception area.
No sign of Andrew yet.
“Miss me?” I say with a wink, opening the lid and pushing the box toward him.
“I’ve missed this,” he says reverently, pulling out a maple bacon donut. “And it’s lovely to see you as well, Ms. Watkins.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m perfectly happy coming in second place behind the bacon-and-sugar combo. How have you been? How’s Marta?”
“Cranky,” he mutters. “And beautiful,” he amends quickly.
I laugh. “Remember, the pregnant woman is always right.”
“I’ll keep it in mind. How have you been? Mr. Mulroney mentioned you were feeling under the weather last week.”
“Ah . . .” I give a nervous laugh, suddenly aware how awkward it is to hook up with someone in your apartment building, where the staff knows every habit, every morning you’re not there, and quite often why you’re not there.
He gives me a bland I don’t suspect a thing look, then nudges the box toward me. “I see a cinnamon sugar one with your name on it.”
“Well, okay. Twist my arm.”
I take the still-warm donut out of the box, as well as a napkin from the pile Ramon pulls out from behind the desk.
The first delicious granules of sugar are rolling over my tongue when I feel the air in the lobby change.
When I turn toward him, it’s a strange combination of déjà vu and wonderfully new.
Black workout shirt? Check. Black workout pants? Check. Red sneakers? Check.
Same goes for the briefcase, the duffel and garment bags, the stupid mug full of what I now know is chocolate banana protein shake (barf).
But there’s a key difference today as he walks toward me.
Andrew is smiling.
“Morning,” he says, his voice low and intimate. His gaze flicks to Ramon. “Hey, Ramon.”
I blink. What is this? Did he just use Ramon’s first name? Am I . . . rubbing off on him?
He stands in front of me, and my heart pounds, as though I’m seeing him for the first time. His eyes roam my face. “You have sugar on your lip.”
His expression tells me that if we were alone, he’d lick it off himself, but apparently he’s not so reformed that he’ll indulge in a PDA.
I lick it off, deliberately slowly, and his eyes narrow.
“How was your night?” he asks, leaning against the counter and studying me.
Damn. Damn him for being so appealing. For not judging me for going out, for offering to clean up after dinner last night so I could go get ready. For not acting suspicious or jealous. For just being . . .
