“Come on, who, who?” Lucy begged as Robin moved to answer the door.
“Forget it. I’m not saying,” Robin said as she picked her way through the scaffolding. She winked at Jake as she went by, opened the door, but could not see the delivery guy behind the huge spray of yellow baby roses in a crystal vase. “Robin Lear?”
“For me?” she asked with delight. Jesus, she was going to have to write Time magazine and insist he be named Man of the Year.
“Two bouquets?” Lucy said from the dining room. Taking the huge bouquet, Robin thanked the deliveryman, shut the door, and stepped around the scaffolding to where Jake was standing. “I should be sending you flowers,” she whispered low as she carefully stepped by him.
But Jake’s smile was not nearly as cheerful. In fact, it looked more like a frown. And Robin suddenly had the rotten feeling that perhaps Jake had not sent her another bouquet of flowers, which left only one valid possibility as to who did send them. Damn it all to hell! Robin marched into the dining room, put down the flowers, and reached for the card. You did a great job yesterday. Keep up the good work! Evan.
Butthead!
“Who are they from?” Lucy asked.
“No one,” Robin said, barely able to contain her exasperation. She picked up the flowers and strode to the kitchen, opened up the trash, and tossed the flowers inside.
“God, what are you doing?” Lucy cried, watching her.
That would teach him, the asshole. Robin turned, marched back into the dining room and glared at Lucy. “Men can be so stupid.”
Her buoyant, day-after-great-sex mood effectively doused, she hunkered down over her computer and began to review the figures they had gotten from Peerless Packing Supply. Robin did not look at Jake—she couldn’t look at Jake. Embarrassed, humiliated, and altogether put out with Evan’s high-handed ways, she blocked all men out and delved into the numbers before her. Meanwhile, Lucy went through some paperwork, snorting at Zaney’s many verbalized observations about life.
And frankly, no one could have been more amazed than Robin when, in forcing herself to be productive, she began to see a pattern emerging in the numbers. She was so sure about what she saw that she placed a call to LTI’s financial manager, who, based on what she told him, helped confirm her suspicions. Peerless Packing Supply was losing money. No wonder Lou Harvey was so anxious to sell.
Feeling pretty good about her analysis—or rather, her ability to do the analysis, something she had secretly feared, given her status in the company as Senior Window Dresser, her better mood was restored by the time Mia showed up.
“Okay, I’m outta here,” Lucy said when she heard Mia’s Yoo-hoo from the kitchen. Robin could hardly blame her—Mia treated Lucy like she was inconsequential, but then again, Mia treated everyone as if they were inconsequential, even Robin. Lucy believed Mia thought she was somehow better than a Mexican secretary, but Robin knew that Mia disliked Lucy because she was exotic and very attractive. If there was one thing Mia could not abide, it was competition.
She did not, and had never, considered Robin competition. And to this day, Robin didn’t quite know how to take that.
Mia was wearing a pristine white linen dress with black Manolo Blahnik sandals that were totally inappropriate for the rainy spring weather. Oblivious to the workmen, and moreover, their ogling of her, she came in, flopped down in a dining chair as Lucy gathered her things, and propped her chin on her fist. “I hate men,” she announced.
Behind Mia’s back, Lucy gave Robin an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “Later.”
Robin waved; Mia acted as if she hadn’t even seen Lucy. “Any man in particular? Michael, perhaps?”
“Especially Michael.”
Nothing new there. Robin sighed wearily, accustomed to Mia’s frequent breakups with Michael. “Okay, so what happened?”
Mia flipped her hair back, turned slightly to pass a cool glance over the workmen, then slumped in her chair. “We went to Juanita’s last night. You know, the artist?”
Some artist. She painted blobs on canvas. Wait—that wasn’t doing Juanita’s art justice. She painted colored blobs on canvas and she was, for reasons that completely escaped Robin, all the rage in Houston.
“Anyway, there was this girl there, little girl, like eighteen. Someone said she’s related to the Bushes. Michael couldn’t take his eyes off her. He practically crawled down her dress to have a look at her fake boobs.”
“Ah.” It was all Robin could say, knowing full well Michael’s thirst for chasing skirts. Even she had been the object of his attentions on more than one drunken occasion, with Mia only steps away.
“We had a huge fight about it and I think I hate him.”
“So, did you break it off?”
“What, the wedding?” Mia asked, surprised. “Of course not!”