Operation One Night Stand (13 page)

“I can’t wait to go over my notes with her.”

“Why don’t you go get your coat and we’ll meet at the elevator?
Mr.
Mortimer will be joining us as well.”

“We aren’t eating here?”

“No.
Since it’s your first day, I figured somewhere special was called for.”

Waiting at the elevator, I heard someone call my name.

“Yes?”

A slight woman who looked as though she was barely old enough to drive ran up to me.
“Hi, these arrived for you a few minutes ago.”

In the woman’s hands was a huge vase filled with a bouquet of wildflowers, my favorite.
The first name that popped into my head was Brian.
I shook off the stupid thought.

“They’re beautiful,” the woman commented.

“Well, thank you, um—”

“Erica.”

“Thank you, Erica.
I’ll just put these in my office.”

“I can do that for you.
There’s a card.”
Excitement radiated in her voice.

It was obvious she was interested to know who sent them and probably wouldn’t let me leave unless I opened the card in front of her.
I pulled it out and read it.

Beautiful flowers for a beautiful girl.
Good luck on your first day.
Call me.
~Steven

Anger and annoyance vibrated through me.

“So, who’re they from?
Your boyfriend?
I wish my boyfriend would send me flowers.”

“What?
Oh, no one.
Thanks.
You can keep them if you want.”
I crumbled the card in my fist.

“Oh, I just couldn’t.
Someone put a lot of thought into these.”

“No, really.
Keep them.
I’m allergic.”
I felt bad lying to her, she seemed so nice.
But the last thing I wanted was for my past to collide with my present and future.

“Caroline, are you ready?”

Mr.
Little walked toward me.
I stifled a giggle when I saw him pull on a wool Jets hat.
Definitely not the look I was expecting from him.

“Absolutely.
Let’s go.”

“Erica, the flowers are beautiful!”

“Oh, Mr.
Little, they aren’t—” Erica responded, looking at me.

“Aren’t they?
Gorgeous.”
I winked at her as Mr.
Little and I entered the elevator.
The last thing I saw was her face break into a huge smile as the doors closed.

O
n our way to the small restaurant, Mr.
Little walked as if he wasn’t in a hurry, a departure from the hustle and bustle surrounding us.
He made a point to comment on window decor, street vendors, and random people who caught his eye.
He was certainly an interesting man.

He spoke about the company, the clients, and, more fondly, about the people who worked for him.
He liked to know what was going on in his company but liked to keep distance enough that people didn’t feel as though they were being watched.
A strategy that was foreign to me, coming from a work environment where movement, in and out the door, was constant and almost expected from those who worked there.

We turned the corner and, as we were passing a bus stop, I halted in my tracks.
My gloved hand flew to my mouth and I gasped loud enough to cause passersby to turn their heads as they moved on.
On a poster, in the middle of the city, on the side of a bus stop shelter, in his underwear, advertising some men’s brand of clothing I hadn’t heard of, was Ryan.
I was so thrown off I stumbled and dropped my phone, cracking the glass face.

I’d seen this man naked.
I’d done unspeakable, albeit memorable both mentally and physically, things with this man.
And there he was.
Full-size on a poster, in the middle of the city, on the side of a bus stop shelter, in his underwear.
The facts repeated over and over in my head like a scratched vinyl record.
A pair of underwear that he obviously filled out in ways many others could not stretched across his groin.

I caught myself staring, open mouthed, head tilted, with my eyes zeroing in on every muscle that, only a week ago, had stretched across my body.
At hands that had touched me in ways I’d never been touched.
At the mouth that…I shook my head to dispel the direction my brain was taking.

“Caroline?
Caroline?
Are you okay?”

A muffled voice was calling my name.
It was a moment before I rejoined the present.
Mr.
Little had a look of concern on his face.
With the Jets hat inching up his head and his face reddened from the cold air, it should have been comical.
But it wasn’t.

“Caroline?
Are you all right?
Do you need to sit down?
You look very pale.”

“No, no.
Thank you.
I’m okay.
I just thought, I wasn’t, um, sure if I turned off the coffeemaker this morning.
Then I remembered it has an auto-off function.”
I hoped my stuttering lie didn’t alarm Mr.
Little.
Sneaking a sideways glance as I bent down and fumbled my phone back into my hands, I saw his face morph back to calm.

I wanted, more than anything, to run home and dive under the covers and refuse to emerge until Ryan was a distant memory.
But I couldn’t.
The butterflies in my stomach, the throbbing memory in my panties, and the perspiration sliding between my breasts told me there was no way Ryan would be forgotten so easily.
The fact that I was standing in the middle of the sidewalk with my new boss staring at me kept me from bolting.

Why couldn’t I have picked up a nice, normal man?
Why couldn’t I have homed in on a target that was obscure, unknown, and didn’t look so damned good in—and out—of his underwear?
I decided to throw caution to the wind and planned out my first one night stand.
My first true act of irresponsibility and I bring home a fucking underwear model.

Go big or go home.

Thankfully, Mr.
Little was quietly whistling to himself the rest of the short walk to the restaurant.
As he held the door for me, I thought I would normally be thankful for the warmth of the indoors but, truthfully, I was warm enough from my photographic run-in with my very own, honest to goodness sex god.

Michael Mortimer was sitting at a window table chatting on the phone.
To his left was a thin black woman with her hair pulled severely back into the tightest bun I’d ever seen.
It gave me a headache just looking at it.
Her attire commanded respect.
Wearing a deep navy pants suit with matching heels and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, the woman studied the menu with intensity.
Despite the severe outer shell, she emanated warmth and approachability.
From just the one time we’d met, she made me feel welcome and comfortable.
It was because of her that I knew this was the job for me.

“Yolanda!”
Mr.
Little called to the woman as the maître d’ took his coat.

The woman stood and stepped toward him.

“Oscar, how lovely to see you.”

She kissed the air on either side of his cheeks.

“You remember”—Mr.
Little motioned for me to step forward—“Caroline Frost.
She’ll be your new editorial assistant.”

I held out my hand.
“Nice to see you again.
I hope your vacation was restful.”

She smiled.
“It wasn’t quite as restful as it should have been, but then again, when is it ever?
Have you read the manuscript?”

“Yes.
I brought the notes with me if you’d like to go over them.”

“Don’t be silly.
We”—she motioned toward the table—“are at lunch.
We will go over them when we return to the office.”

She turned from me and resumed her position at the table studying the menu.

The waiter held my chair out for me and I ended up sitting between Michael and Mr.
Little, with Yolanda directly across from me.
She snuck a glance at me over the menu.
I smiled but her brow furrowed and she went back to the menu.

Michael put down his phone and looked at Mr.
Little.
“Sorry, Oscar.
That was my agent.
Something about foreign rights and some production company snooping around.
Caroline, nice to see you could join us.
Have any notes for me?”

“Oh, let’s not make this a working lunch.”
Yolanda didn’t make eye contact.
You’d think with the way she was scrutinizing the menu she’d have the thing memorized already.

“Oh, Yolanda.
You’re no fun.
I’d like to hear what Caroline thinks.”

“I really liked it.”
I began, careful not to give too much information.
I’d rather not piss off the woman I’d be spending the next however many months with editing a manuscript.

“You liked it?
How pedestrian, darling.
Are you sure you read it thoroughly?”
I did a double take.
Where did the nice Yolanda go?

“Not everyone can be as hard-nosed as you, my dear Ms.
Page.”

If I didn’t know any better, and I probably didn’t, I’d have thought Michael was flirting with her.
I had the feeling he flirted with everyone.

“If she is going to work with me, Michael, she’d better learn to be.”

Nothing like having someone talk about you as if you weren’t in the room.
Mr.
Little was looking at me with an expectant look on his face.
What did I have to lose?

“Actually, Ms.
Page—”

“For goodness sake, call me Yolanda.”
She waved me off with her hand, bracelets clinking as she did.
At least the smile reached her eyes.

“Okay.
I did notice a small plot hole in the story.
The protagonist’s wife could not have been a witness to the crime.
She was out of the country.
In addition, there are a few other issues I’ve taken note of and you and I can discuss those after lunch.
Back at the office.”
I added the last part to let her know she and I were on the same page.
I would be working closely with the woman and I certainly didn’t want to start things off on the wrong footing.

I held my breath.
Mr.
Little was beaming at me and Michael was watching me with his chin resting on his hand.
His long fingers stretched up the side of his cheek and for a moment I could focus on nothing but those fingers.
They reminded me of Ryan’s.

“Well, Caroline.”
Yolanda placed her napkin in her lap.
“I look forward to speaking with you, at length, about the manuscript.
For now, however, I think we need to order.”

I slowly blew out the breath I was holding.

“Yes.
I am starving.
What’ll it be?”
Michael picked up his menu for the first time since I arrived.
I followed suit as the waiter arrived at our table.

Yolanda ordered first.
“I’ll have a cup of the vegetable soup with the grilled Brie and pear panini.
Half sandwich, please.”

“Make that two.”
I figured if she thought we had similar interests, even if it was just a lunch order, she might warm up to me.

Mr.
Little ordered the lobster bisque and steak sandwich.
I was surprised to find Michael order nothing but a plate of French fries.

“French fries?”

“What can I say?
I love them.
And they aren’t your regular plate of potatoes.
These are smothered in cheddar, horseradish, and roast beef au jus.
Of course, I have to run five miles a day in order to keep eating them.”

I took a sip of my water and Michael winked at me.
I swallowed wrong and felt like I was coughing up a lung.
I excused myself and choked the whole way to the bathroom.
Slamming the stall door shut, I finally gained control of myself, pulled out my phone, and texted Sarah.

Change of plans.
Forget Murphy’s.
Meet me in front of my office building.
Tell Mel.

She replied:
K.

Fixing my lipstick in the mirror, I thought about all the changes in my life over the past few months.
I decided then and there that I would learn as much from Yolanda Page as I could, no matter what it took.

As soon as I stepped out of the bathroom I ran into Michael.

“Hi.”
God, he was close.

“Hi.”

He smelled like coconut.

“Hi.”
I already said that.

“Listen, I hope you didn’t get the wrong impression about me back there.”
He rubbed his thumb across his lower lip.
I wanted to reach up and bite it.

Wow.
He was really close.
I pressed my back against the wall and shook my head to loosen the dirty thoughts swirling through.

“Good, because, well, Yolanda is an amazing editor and Mr.
Little has been great to me.
I wouldn’t want them to get the wrong impression about our…”—he trailed his long fingers down my arm—“relationship.”
That was confusing.

I watched his mouth as he spoke with perfect pronunciation.
His lips were full, giving way to beautiful white teeth.
A small dimple formed at the corner of his mouth whenever he smiled.
I knew he was saying more, talking more, but I couldn’t concentrate.
My knees wobbled and he caught me when I buckled.

Stepping back, he looked at me and smirked.
“So, it’s a date?
See you at the table.”

He retreated into the men’s room and I was relegated to what felt like the walk of shame back to the table.
A date?
What did I miss?
I really needed to rein in my sex brain when people were talking to me.
Thankfully, Yolanda and Mr.
Little were talking, so I was left to sit in silence.
I wasn’t sure what, if anything, I would say.
Was I just sexually harassed?
Was Michael Mortimer just full of himself?
Did I really care?
After five years of being the good girl, the quiet girl, the responsible girl, was I really too terribly concerned that not one but two very good-looking men showed interest?
Okay, three if you counted Jim from Kansas.
And I did.

Michael arrived back at the table just as the food arrived.
He was right, he did not order an ordinary plate of French fries.
They were the most addictive things I’d ever tried.
For the most part, I ignored his subtle—and not so subtle—come-ons.
I think Yolanda, on the other hand, caught on to each.