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Authors: Kate Perry

BOOK: Project Date
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I thought about what I’d put into my bag of tricks if I were a high-priced working girl. “Vibrators. Lots of them in all sizes. And whipped cream. And that oil stuff that you blow on and it makes your skin feel hot.”
Matt blinked at me. “You’ve given this some thought.”
I felt my face flush. “I just have a fertile imagination.”
“Do you have her phone number?”
“Yeah.” I frowned. “Why?”
“If she has anything like what you just mentioned, maybe I should make an appointment with her.”
“Oh, gross!” I whacked his shoulder. “That’s disgusting. She’s my tenant.”
“It wouldn’t be like we’d have sex under your roof. We’ll go to my place. Or a hotel so that oil stuff doesn’t stain my sheets.”
I punched him again.
“Ow.” He rubbed his shoulder. Then he grinned. “Had you going, didn’t I?”
“Now every time I see her I’m going to imagine your scrawny ass on top of her.”
“No, I’d let her be on top.”
I glared at him but he just laughed. Abruptly he sobered and said, “Are you sure about this, Doc?”
“About Magda being a call girl?”
“No. About this Daphne thing. It’s not a very nice thing to do to your sister.”
“I’m not doing anything to my sister.” I took a swig of beer to stifle the guilt that swelled around my heart. Then I thought about all those years living in the black void created by Daphne’s dazzling being; my spine stiffened and my lip protruded. “What’s so wrong, Matt? It’s not like I’m hurting anyone. I just want a little—” I paused to find the right word.
“Revenge?” he offered helpfully.
“No. Just a little attention from my parents.”
Matt shook his head. “Sounds like revenge to me.”
I decided to try another tack. I leaned closer to him and grabbed his forearm. “Don’t you remember what it was like for me? Everyone comparing me to Daphne, asking me why I didn’t get as good grades or why I didn’t apply myself like Daphne. Why I wasn’t serious like Daphne. How it was unfortunate I wasn’t as pretty.”
He covered my hand with his. “Yeah, but it wasn’t as bad as you think.”
“My parents didn’t come to my high school graduation because of Daphne.”
“She was getting that special science award.” He frowned at me. “You know that was a big deal for someone so young.”
“Still,” I said stubbornly. “I was never good enough. Even now, even though I’m damn brilliant at what I do, do I get any recognition? No. Why? Because she’s out saving orphans. No one realizes without people like me, the networks and computers they need for their work wouldn’t be available.”
He studied me in that kind, all-knowing way he’d had since he was a pimply kid. Finally, he said, “I just want you to be happy.”
“I’ll be happy when I prove I can do something better than Daphne.” I smiled, hoping it reached my eyes.
Matt looked like he wanted to say something more but he didn’t. Thank God.
I diverted our conversation back to Magda, only speculating on her career wasn’t as much fun anymore.
Chapter Three
“Maybe it’s about time I expanded the realm of possibilities around here.”
—MacGyver, “The Escape” Episode #20
 
I stole a glance around the doorjamb of my server room. All clear. Before anyone saw me, I closed the door and slid the lock home.
I grinned. “Free at last.”
Plopping down on the floor, I pulled out a lime green pad of sticky notes and a pen. I tapped the pen against my lips. Where to start?
Because Matt was right—if my plan was going to work, I had to make my parents believe I was head over heels for the Barry-substitute. The catch: I didn’t have much time.
Actually, this was a good way to start on my new mission to find a soulmate as well. What if the Barry-substitute turned out to be fantastic and exciting and creative and thought the sun and moon revolved around me? It’d be very convenient.
So, best choices on top, or start off with the least viable ones?
“Best choices first,” I murmured. I didn’t have time to fool around. Hooking the pen on my bottom lip, I let it dangle while I mentally ran through all the men I knew. Then I weeded out the geeks (I knew lots—occupational hazard) and the unemployed (the tech industry has had its ups and downs). And I tossed out Matt, because that’d be like dating my brother (blech).
Rio flashed through my mind, and I started to add him to the list. But even as my heart sped up at the idea of going out with him, I froze mid-letter. He wasn’t exactly viable. I doubted my parents would be thrilled if I told them I dumped Barry and started to date a guy who teaches people to beat other people up for a living.
With a pout, I crossed him out and surveyed what I’d come up with.
Hm. I scowled. Not promising. I let my head thunk backward against the wall, hoping the impact would knock an idea loose.
Nothing.
Maybe if I whittled down my criteria. Did it matter if he was handsome? That was icing on the cake, but the cake could still be delicious even plain.
“Okay. Successful with good manners.” I had to know someone like that.
Rehooking the pen, I wiggled my lip so it tapped my chin. Then I balanced the sticky notes on top of my head.
Still nothing.
Someone banged on the door. I startled and bumped my head against one of the servers.
“Mena! You in there?”
Shit—it was Lewis, my intern. He was the reason I was locked in the server closet. Him and the fact that when I’m at my desk, people stop by to tell me their computer woes. I needed some sanctuary to get this list done, and the server room seemed the most optimal place.
I debated not answering, but Lewis was persistent. It was one of his most infuriating traits. Why couldn’t he be like any other punk teenager and shirk his duties by playing video games?
“Mena!” He pounded harder on the door.
Shit. I got up, unlocked the door, and swung it open. “What?”
Then I realized I still had the pen dangling from my lip. I snatched it off and gave Lewis a look that said he’d better not comment. “What?” I barked again.
He pointed. “You have a pad of sticky notes on your head.”
I narrowed my eyes at him and reached for the pad. It pulled a few strands of my hair. I grimaced and tried to lift it off gingerly.
“Do you need help? I can help you.”
“I got it,” I said quickly. “Thanks, though.”
He looked disappointed for a split second, but then he bounced back to his normal puppy eagerness. “I finished dusting all those computer cases. I’m ready for my next assignment.” He looked around the server room. “Is there something wrong in here? I can take a look around. Want me to straighten all the cables? I bought these really cool cord organizers. They’re corrugated tubes that are color coordinated—”
“Lewis,” I interrupted, “have you taken lunch yet? Maybe you should take a break.”
“A break?” His brow furrowed. Two seconds later his expression cleared. I could almost see a light turn on inside his head. “Do
you
want lunch? I can get you lunch.”
“Um. No, thanks. I’m fine.”
“I can get you something. What would you like? I have my bike.” He looked at me with adoring eyes. “I’d go anywhere for you.”
Oh, God. I patted his arm—briefly, so he wouldn’t turn into a puddle of mush at my feet. “Thanks. I’m fine though. Let’s go find you something to do.”
Lewis monopolized the rest of my afternoon. Spending it with a pimply nineteen-year-old wasn’t the way I’d envisioned it, but at some point while I was showing him the finer points of coding in Perl I got inspired. I knew just who to call up and ask for a date: Johnny Morgan.
Several times during the day I picked up the phone to give him a call, but I stalled. Was it a good idea to talk to him at work? Though I had to—I didn’t know his home number and he was unlisted. But what if he had clients with him? What if his secretary wouldn’t patch me through? What if he was busy?
Oh, hell—what if he had a girlfriend?
“Get a grip,” I finally told myself. Resolutely, I picked up the phone and dialed.
“This is Johnny.”
Where the hell was his secretary? I glanced at the time and realized it was well past seven. She’d probably gone home.
I entertained the idea of hanging up for only a second before I cleared my throat and said, “Hi, Johnny. This is Philomena Donovan. The sys admin?”
Did I mention Johnny was the VP of Business Development for the same company I worked for?
I knew I probably should have thought twice before asking out a coworker. That never seems to end well. But we were on opposite spectrums in the work chain, so I didn’t think anything bad could come of it. Worse case scenario: He’d laugh at my question and then I could avoid him for the rest of my life by hiding in the server room. (It’s a multipurpose room, really.)
There was a long pause after I said who I was—significant enough that I felt I needed to fill it. “You know, Philomena, the woman who helps you out every time you have trouble accessing your email?”
“Oh, yes! Of course.” Then he groaned. “Don’t tell me the network is going down. I have an urgent proposal to finish for the Japanese next week. I need Web access.”
“Oh.” I shook my head, stopping abruptly when I realized he couldn’t see me. “No, the network’s fine. Great, in fact. We haven’t had to send out any Saint Bernards for lost packets in days.” I chuckled at my little joke. I loved tech humor.
“Uh, right.” He coughed. “Well, what can I do for you, then?”
The moment of truth. I rubbed the tip of my nose and blurted it out. “I was wondering if you’d like to go out sometime.”
Silence.
Oh, shit. I closed my eyes, wondering if I could build some kind of time machine to go back and erase this call. I think MacGyver once built one out of a cardboard box and a couple of Q-Tips.
The silence on the other end was so great I could hear the seconds tick by. I opened my mouth to take the offer back—I could find someone else to take me out. I wasn’t beautiful like Daphne but I had merits. And I wasn’t desperate (at least, not yet). I could find another guy, no problem. “Well, I just—”
“You’re the one with the long blond hair, right? Athletic looking with the great legs?”
I glanced down at the legs in question. “I think so.”
“And you’re kind of bohemian in the way you dress, with those colorful
tight
T-shirts.”
“Um—”
“And you have that Catholic schoolgirl outfit with the short skirt and the thigh-high socks!” He whistled. “Sure, I remember you.”
Maybe calling him wasn’t such a great idea. “Well, I’ve gotta go—”
“I’d love to go out with you.”
“You would? I mean, okay.” I grinned.
“How about Saturday?” I heard him flip some pages. A calendar? How novel. I didn’t know anyone who still kept a paper calendar. “I play tennis at four, so how about if I pick you up at eight? We can go to Hurley’s for dinner and take it from there.”
Hurley’s? I stifled a groan. “That’d be great.”
“I need to get your address.”
I considered telling him I’d meet him for drinks and we could go from there. But then I thought if he picked me up I could check out his car. (My parents’ philosophy on cars was too complicated to get into.) So I gave him quick directions and got off the phone before I could embarrass myself in any way.
I sat back in my chair and tapped a pen against my lips. Then I grinned, wide and hard. “Damn, I’m good.”
 
Where the hell were they? I pushed aside my clunky Steve Madden boots and delved deeper into the abyss (otherwise known as my closet). The shoes had to be in here somewhere.
Daphne would say (after a slow shake of her head) that it was amazing someone who was a compulsive list-maker (i.e., me) could live in such disorder.
Daphne, of course, is one of those freaks who’s always put together, from her hair to the last spoon in her kitchen drawer. So it stood to reason that she wouldn’t understand my organization methods. Ask me where anything I owned was and I could find it in two seconds flat. Except for my cell phone. And the damn Via Spiga heels.
“They have to be here.” I crawled into the void and began tossing things over my shoulder into the bedroom. Eventually I’d get to the shoes.
I did. They were at the bottom of the pile. Probably because I hadn’t worn them in eight months or so, since the last time it’d been warm enough (sandals don’t get much play in Portland, as it rains nine months out of the year).
Slipping them on, I turned my feet this way and that to admire the pedicure I got this afternoon. The woman who did my feet assured me Baghdad Nights was my color. I never realized nights in Baghdad were purple.
I got up and glanced at the alarm clock that was once again on the nightstand next to my bed. I’d attached the broken piece with the only thing I’d had on hand—strawberry bubble gum. The clock tilted to one side drunkenly, but at least it worked.
Sort of. No amount of gum could repair the digital numbers, and I noticed the hour number had a light bar missing. It read six o’clock, but I had a feeling it was really eight. I scrounged around for my cell phone to double-check, just in case.
Johnny was due to arrive any second, so with one last look in the mirror, I winked at myself, grabbed my handbag (no jacket because it was unseasonably warm today), and went to the living room to wait.
The doorbell rang precisely fifteen minutes later. When I answered it, Johnny was leaning against the door. “Wow.”
I tried to look demurely modest. I may not have been angelically beautiful like Daphne, or stunning like Magda, but when I made an effort, guys noticed. And tonight I’d made an effort: short black skirt, red tank with a sequined dragon circling one breast, my hair à la Nicole Kidman, lips to match the top. And the shoes.
“For you, Philomena.” He held out a perfect red rose.
Props to me for not rolling my eyes. I smiled sweetly, said “Thank you,” and tossed the flower onto the staircase behind me.
I realized that might have been the wrong thing to do when I turned around and saw he was frowning. But I flashed him my most flirtatious smile and his frown cleared right up.
The cheesy rose aside, I was glad to see him. He looked good. He wore black slacks, a dress shirt, and a blazer. I tried to picture Rio dressed like this, but I could imagine him in only a torn wife-beater and jeans that were dangerously worn in strategic places.
“You look hot. Damn hot,” he said, doing that blatant, all-over perusal guys do.
I didn’t mind. I wanted him to find me irresistible. I gave him a siren smile—or what I hoped was a siren smile. As I turned to lock the door, I bent slightly at the hips and stuck a leg out. I was no dummy—if he liked my legs, I was going to shamelessly use them to my advantage. It worked, too; I felt his gaze like a brand on my bare skin.
When I turned around, I could read the anticipation in his eyes. I waited for that little part inside me to tingle in response. Nothing. So why was it one glance at Rio’s hands and I was panting for his touch?
I shrugged mentally. It’d come. It was sure to. Johnny was a stud. He kind of looked like Brad Pitt (who my mom adored) and if half the stories I’d overheard about him in the restrooms at work were true, I was in for a good time.
“Shall we go?” He took my elbow and guided me down the porch steps.
I thought we’d walk since Hurley’s is only three blocks from my place, so I was surprised when he stopped at the curb in front of his car.
A Jaguar. I almost groaned. My parents were
not
going to like that. I could almost hear their lecture on disrespecting the environment with a gas-guzzling hog.
And then it occurred to me that my parents weren’t going to like what he did for a living either.
Biz dev
equaled
capitalist pig
in their book.

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