april
WATERCRESS VICHYSSOISE
S & M CHICKEN
CHEESE AND BACON POTATOES
CREAMED SPINACH
COCONUT LAYER CAKE
WILL SOMETIMES WONDERED IF sons would have been easier than daughters.
“I hate you,” Iris had screamed on the day after the dinner party, when Fran informed her that she’d have to return the four-hundred-dollar sunglasses.
“That sort of language is unacceptable, young lady,” Fran had said.
But Iris had simply turned and run upstairs to her room, slamming her door.
Will turned to Fran. “Young lady?”
“I know.” Fran sighed. “I sound like my mother. In fact, it’s entirely possible that I’ve morphed into my mother, as horrific a thought as that is.”
Will had to agree. Fran’s mother, Inga, was a dour, disapproving woman. Her great ambition in life had been to be an opera singer, but an unexpected pregnancy—followed by a hasty marriage—stymied her career plans. Inga never recovered from this disappointment and set about running her household with a humorless, absolute authority.
“Are you going after Iris?” Will asked. In their family, the role of disciplinarian had always fallen to Fran. It was the way they’d always done things. He took out the garbage every Monday and Thursday morning, and Fran grounded the girls. But, to Will’s surprise, Fran threw up her hands and shook her head.
“I can’t deal with her anymore,” Fran said.
“Don’t you think we should talk to her about her behavior?” Will asked. When he said we, he really meant you. But he was pretty sure Fran got that.
“What’s the point? She’s been hideous for months. I don’t think a stern talking-to is going to turn her around now,” Fran said. She turned on the kitchen faucet, filled the sink with warm, soapy water, and began to wash the wineglasses from the night before.
Will looked at his wife. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I just don’t see why I’m always the one who has to deal with Iris. You heard her. She hates me. I think it’s time for you to be the bad guy for once.”
Will did not like the sound of this. He didn’t want to be the bad guy, and he certainly didn’t want Iris to start hating him, too. It was vastly preferable to be the fun, easygoing parent. But he had a feeling this was not an argument Fran would find persuasive. At least, not in her current mood.
“Okay, I’ll talk to her, but I still need your input. How about …” Will hesitated, trying to think. “No cellphone for a week?”
“I vote for sending her off to a convent. Is that still a viable option these days? Can you send an unwilling daughter off to the nuns?”
“No, I don’t think the nuns want to deal with back-talking teenagers. Plus we’re not Catholic, so there’s that,” Will said. He hesitated, hoping for a last minute reprieve. “You really want me to go talk to her?”
“Yes,” Fran said, rinsing dish soap off a glass.
Will headed upstairs, moving slowly in case Fran suddenly remembered she was far more competent at handling these sorts of parenting issues and stopped him. But she didn’t.
The door to Iris’s room, the first on the right, was closed. Will knocked.
“Go away!” Iris shouted, her voice muffled through the door.
Will knocked again. “It’s me,” he said.
“Dad?” There was a pause and then the door opened. Iris’s face was puffy and splotched with red. “I thought you were Mom.”
“May I come in?” Will asked politely. He always hesitated entering either of his daughters’ rooms without express permission.
“Sure,” Iris said.
He opened the door. Iris sat cross-legged on her bed, a fuzzy, purple, heart-shaped pillow clutched in her arms.
“I’m not taking the sunglasses back. I couldn’t even if I wanted to, and I don’t.” Iris’s chin rose up stubbornly.
“Why can’t you take them back?”
“Store policy. They don’t accept returns.”
Will wondered if this was really true. Iris was not above lying to get her own way. This was why Fran should have been the one to come up and deal with talking to Iris. She probably knew the return policy of every store in the mall.
“Your mother really doesn’t think you should keep the glasses,” Will said, in an attempt to invoke Fran’s greater authority.
“God, I hate her! Why does she have to control everything in my life?”
“First of all, I agree with your mother,” Will said, thinking that he probably should have led with that. “Those glasses are too expensive.”
“But it was my money! I earned it!”
“And that’s something you should be proud of. I think it’s great that you’ve been working hard and saving your earnings. And you certainly should have some freedom to spend your money as you want. But you have to exercise good judgment,” Will said.
“Everyone at school wears those glasses,” Iris retorted.
“I find that hard to believe,” Will said.
“It’s true! Hayley has a pair just like the ones I bought!”
Actually, this Will did believe. Hayley Adams was spoiled rotten. The major drawback of sending the girls to private school—along with the staggering tuition—was that nearly all of their classmates came from privileged backgrounds and had lifestyles he and Fran could never provide for their daughters. The girls’ friends were always going off on expensive vacations or spending time in second homes in places like Nantucket or Mackinac Island. Iris and Hayley had taken riding lessons together, right up until Hayley had gotten her first horse. Iris had been impossible to live with for weeks afterward—she cried constantly about how unfair it was that she couldn’t have a horse—and finally gave up riding altogether.
“We’ve talked about this before. You’re going to constantly meet people who are richer than you, or who have nicer cars or clothes than you. You’ll also meet plenty of people who are prettier, and smarter, and more talented,” Will said.
Iris gaped at him. “Is this your idea of a pep talk?”
“The point is you can’t expend your energy being jealous. There’s no point,” Will said.
“So basically, you think I’m dumb and ugly on top of being poor? Thanks a lot!” Iris burst into tears again and flopped down on her stomach, burying her face in her pillow.
Will blinked. He’d been trying to teach Iris a life lesson that he’d always found invaluable.
“Of course I don’t think you’re dumb or ugly,” Will said. “I was just trying to explain that jealousy is a useless emotion.”
“Just go away,” Iris said, her voice muffled.
Will patted Iris on her shoulder. Her sobs grew louder, more dramatic, and less believable. Finally, Will gave up and left her to her tantrum. As he left her room, he closed the door gently behind him.
That went well, he thought. Only a matter of time before I get a Father of the Year award.
Downstairs, Fran had finished washing the glasses and was getting out leftover short ribs to reheat for dinner. This perked Will up—short ribs were always better on the second day. He wondered if there was any polenta left. Sometimes Fran shaped leftover polenta into a log, chilled it, and then sliced it into pale yellow disks which she fried in olive oil. His stomach gave a rumble of anticipation.
“Did she agree to take the sunglasses back?” Fran asked.
“What?” Will had been distracted by thoughts of fried polenta. “Oh. She said she can’t.”
“Can’t?”
“The store she bought them from has a no-return policy.”
“Please tell me you didn’t fall for that,” Fran said, fixing him with a bold stare. “She bought them at Nordstrom. Of course they accept returns.”
“They do?”
“Of course they do!”
“How was I supposed to know?” Will asked, stung. “You know how manipulative Iris can be.”
Fran snorted. “The understatement of the year. You didn’t tell her she can keep them, did you?”
“No, I wouldn’t do that,” Will said, trying to remember if he had. No. He definitely hadn’t said that. Instead, he’d told her that she was stupid and ugly. He wondered if he should mention this to Fran, but then decided against it. His wife was in an odd mood. “But she’s going to be impossible to live with if we make her take them back.”
“So? She’s not exactly a delight to live with now,” Fran said.
“I did tell her that she should have some latitude to buy things with the money she earns,” Will said.
Fran looked up from the leftovers she’d been arranging on the counter. “Why on earth would you tell her that?”
“We want her to have some free will,” Will said mildly. “But I also told her she’d have to make better choices.”
Fran lifted her arms and then let them fall, slapping her thighs in irritation. “You just completely undermined me.”
Will blinked. “How did that undermine you?”
“Because I told her she had to put the money in a savings account, and that from now on she’d have to talk to one of us before she spent it. It’s not just the sunglasses. I don’t want her frittering her money away on makeup or clothes, either,” Fran said, tearing plastic wrap off a Pyrex dish with more force than necessary.
“You did? When did you tell her that?”
“You were standing right there!”
“I was?” Will tried to remember back to the conversation that ended with Iris storming out of the room, yelling that she hated Fran. It had gotten a bit repetitive at one point—Fran telling Iris she would be returning the sunglasses, Iris’s insistence that she never had anything nice—and so his mind had wandered to Iggy the Rammer bot and the problems he was still having with its mobility.
“Jesus, Will!” Fran turned away.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear that bit. But, look—Iris thinks that we’re trying to control her. That’s not a good dynamic to get into with a teenage girl,” Will said gently.
“We should just stand back and let her make stupid decisions?”
“To a point, yes. If she spends all of her money on lipstick or bathing suits or overpriced sunglasses, and then doesn’t have money to get something else she wants, well, that’s a good lesson for her to learn,” Will said.
“Now you think she should keep the sunglasses?” Fran shook her head in disgust, and then shrugged, as though her earlier burst of anger had sapped away all of her energy. “Fine. Do whatever you want. You can be the good guy who lets her keep the glasses. I’ll continue in my role as the evil witch who makes her life miserable.”
“Come on, don’t be like that. It’s not you versus me. We’re a team. I just don’t think it should be us versus her, either,” Will said, stepping forward, and resting his hand on Fran’s shoulder.
“I’m not making it us versus her. She is. That’s part of what being a teenager is. We set boundaries and she tests them. If we give in on this, it’s just going to teach her that if she tantrums long enough, she’ll eventually get her own way,” Fran said.
“It might. But maybe we could explain to her that we’ll trust her judgment more, but she’ll have to live with the consequences of her behavior. It could help dial back the hostilities,” Will said.
Fran sighed and shrugged. “Okay, fine. We might as well try another approach with her. God knows the current one hasn’t been working.”
Will smiled at her and rubbed her shoulder. But Fran just frowned down at the short ribs, and said, “Do you think this is enough for dinner? I thought there were more ribs than this. Oh, well. Rory would probably rather have a hot dog anyway.”
Fran moved away from him and began rummaging in the fridge again. And even though Will had prevailed—and, he thought, had done so with a well-reasoned position—the fact that Fran gave in so quickly made him uneasy.
THE TENNIS CLUB WAS bustling with activity. Kids wearing sweat-wicking T-shirts and baseball hats milled around, while their parents trailed after them, clutching bottles of water and containers of sunscreen. Bleachers had been set up courtside and people were queued up at the concession stand to buy hamburgers and grilled chicken sandwiches.
Emily was playing singles on one of the center courts—“The show court,” Mark had said proudly—and was already up one set over a taller, older girl. Wearing her long hair back in two ponytails, reminiscent of a young Chris Evert, Emily looked fiercely determined. Her small face was set in concentration and she didn’t pay any attention to the crowd that had gathered to watch her.
Jaime watched as much of her stepdaughter’s match as she could, although she spent most of her time chasing after Logan, who—unlike his younger sister—refused to sit still on the bleachers. Instead, he kept taking off in one direction and then another, running as fast as his chubby legs could carry him. At one point, he ran right onto Emily’s court. Luckily, he timed this for when the girls were taking a water break and changing sides. Still, Mark—who was sitting next to Emily’s coach, Sarah, in the front row of the bleachers—was not pleased.
“Jaime,” he hissed, “can’t you keep him under control?”
Jaime had to swallow her scalding retort. Libby was sitting just two rows behind Mark, looking coolly chic dressed in all white with her eyes hidden behind huge tortoiseshell sunglasses and obviously listening to every word. Jaime pasted a smile on her face and smoothed back Logan’s hair.
“He’s just feeling extra wiggly today. I’m going to take him back behind the clubhouse and let him run off some of his energy,” Jaime said brightly, handing Ava to Mark. She took Logan’s hand firmly in hers and retreated, not letting go of him until they were a safe distance away from the courts. A group of boys around Emily’s age were kicking a soccer ball back and forth in a grassy area, and Logan scooted closer to them, mesmerized.
This was exactly the reason she hadn’t wanted to bring the kids to the tournament today, Jaime thought. She knew she’d end up spending the entire time chasing around after one or another of them and would hardly get to watch Emily play. Plus, Ava’s naptime was in less than an hour, and she always got cranky when she didn’t have her rest. If she started fussing while Em was still playing, Mark would get annoyed.
Well, let him be annoyed, Jaime thought. He’s the one who insisted that the whole family should be here to cheer Emily on. It was nice in theory, but just not practical when you had a two- and three-year-old in tow. They should have booked a sitter and come on their own, as Jaime had suggested. They could even have stretched it into a real date and had dinner afterward.
Logan turned again and ran smack into a woman who was wearing a white tennis skirt and holding a clipboard in one hand and a Diet Coke in the other. She looked down at him in surprise.
“Hello, small person,” she said.
Logan—who wasn’t really shy but occasionally liked to pretend that he was—ducked his head and didn’t answer.
“Sorry about that,” Jaime said, reaching forward to take Logan’s hand in hers again.
“No problem.” The woman smiled at Jaime. She had brown shoulder-length hair and was very tan with very white teeth. “I’m Becky.”
“Hi, I’m Jaime. Oh, wait, Becky? You’re the one who runs the club, right?”
“Yes, although on a chaotic day like today, I don’t know if I should admit to it,” Becky said with a laugh. “Do you have a child playing? This little guy looks young to be competing.”
One of the problems of being a stepparent was that there wasn’t a great way to introduce yourself. Thanks to an entire genre of Disney movies, the very term stepmother was tainted. Cinderella’s stepmother enslaved her, forcing her to cook and clean and wait on her stepsisters. Snow White’s stepmother attempted to murder her with a poisoned apple. In fact, you rarely even heard stepmother without evil smack in front of it.
“His older sister is playing,” Jaime said. “Emily Wexler.”
“You’re Emily’s little brother?” Becky smiled at Logan, who had apparently forgotten about pretending to be shy. He held up a faded yellow tennis ball he’d found deserted under the bleachers.
“Look, a ball,” he said, holding it up to her.
“Very nice,” Becky said. Then, turning back to Jaime, she said, “You must be Emily’s stepmom.”
Stepmom. Okay, I can live with that, Jaime thought. It sounded nicer, friendlier than stepmother.
“Yes, I’m Jaime,” Jaime said, squeezing Logan’s hand to prevent him from running off again.
“How’s Emily doing?” Becky asked.
“Last I checked, she was ahead. But this guy keeps racing off on me, so I haven’t had a chance to watch as much as I’d like,” Jaime said.
“Her game has really been coming along. I know Sarah’s been pleased with her,” Becky said.
“That’s good to hear. Emily works really hard,” Jaime said.
“It helps that she has such dedicated parents. Both Mark and Libby are very supportive, which is nice to see. Sometimes, once there’s a divorce, the parents aren’t so good about putting their child’s interests ahead of their own grievances,” Becky said.
Jaime nodded. Libby frequently got under Mark’s skin. He was always much happier communicating with her via text messaging or email rather than talking to her on the phone. But, it was true, both Mark and Libby worked hard to keep any differences they might have hidden from Emily.
“And I know that Emily must appreciate having you and her little brother and sister out cheering her on today,” Becky continued, smiling at Jaime.
Jaime felt instantly contrite for her earlier irritation with Mark over his insistence that the whole family attend the tournament that day. That was the whole point, to cheer Emily on. And of course it would make Emily feel good to know that they were all there for her.
“I’m going to try to catch the end of the match,” Jaime said. She looked down at Logan. “Come on, buddy. We’re going to go cheer your big sister on.”
“Have fun,” Becky said with a wave.
Jaime picked up Logan and set him on her hip—which he normally hated, but was now sufficiently tired that he didn’t fight her—and backtracked to Emily’s court. She didn’t join Mark on the bleachers, but instead stood to one side, swaying gently to soothe Logan. This had an almost magical effect on him. The head resting on her shoulder instantly grew heavy, and his thumb disappeared into his mouth.
Emily’s opponent served a ball to her, and Emily crushed it back with a stinging forehand. The other girl just barely got to it, popping it up over the net. Emily smashed an overhead past her. The crowd cheered. Jaime wanted to cheer, too, but was afraid she’d wake the now dozing Logan, so instead she raised one hand in a fist pump, before looking over at Mark to see if he was pleased.
Ava was snuggled up on Mark’s lap. She was awake, but rubbing her eyes and looked like she might doze off at any moment. But Mark wasn’t looking back at Jaime, or even out at Emily. Instead, he was leaning toward Sarah, listening intently to whatever she was saying. Sarah was gazing back up at him, her eyes bright, her young face animated. As she spoke she reached out and lightly touched Mark’s arm.
Jaime felt a knife-sharp flash of realization, followed by an even deeper throb of anger.
Sarah.
Was it possible Mark was having an affair with Emily’s tennis coach? Jaime wondered, before quickly realizing that it was a stupid question—of course, it was possible. Anything was possible. Sarah was pretty—young and fit, with shiny dark hair that fell down her toned back.
The far more important question for Jaime to consider: Was it true?
COOP SAT IN THE SMALL, cramped editing studio, going over footage of migrating gray seals.
In the three weeks that had passed since the last meeting of the dinner party club, Coop had put Audrey firmly out of mind. She clearly had issues of her own that she was dealing with. It wasn’t anything for him to worry about.
His cellphone rang.
He clicked the answer button. “This is Coop.”
“Hey, Coop, it’s Julia Britton. You called last week? I was out of town and only just got the message.”
“Hey, Julia. Thanks for calling me back,” Coop said.
“I have to say, I was surprised to get your phone call,” Julia said.
“Why’s that?”
Julia let out a short bark of laughter. “Are you serious? The last time I saw you, you promised me you’d call me the next day.”
Coop’s heart sank, and he rested his head on his hand, the palm spread out over his forehead. “Did I call you?”
“No. You didn’t.”
Damn. He had been afraid of that. But at this point, it was hardly surprising. He’d decided to disprove Audrey’s accusations by calling old girlfriends—or, at least, women he had gone out with—for reassurance that he was really a good guy. Gallant, thoughtful, a good time. Instead, he found himself hitting up against a wall of seriously pissed-off women, most of whom relished the opportunity to tell him off. Apparently, the majority of them also thought that he was selfish and egotistical, not that he’d been given much of a chance to talk about it in-depth with any of them. After he’d been called a bastard four times and a prick twice, he’d given up. Unfortunately, he’d left a few messages—for Julia and others—and was still having to deal with the returned calls.
“I’m sorry,” Coop said automatically. He tried to remember how many times he and Julia had gone out. Three? Four?
“You should be,” Julia said. “I thought we had a nice time together.”
“We did,” Coop said. Probably. To be honest, he couldn’t really remember. Not exactly. But he usually had a good time. And he remembered liking Julia. Just apparently not enough to call her again.
“Actually, you ended up doing me a favor,” Julia said.
Coop perked up. She didn’t sound particularly angry. And she hadn’t called him an a*shole. At least, not yet.
“How so?”
“I was really upset for a while after you blew me off, so I decided to take some time off from dating. I started training for a marathon, which is something I’d always wanted to do. My gym was sponsoring a training group for marathon runners, so I signed up for it and ended up meeting my fiancé there,” Julia explained. “So really, in a weird way, my engagement is all thanks to you.”
“Does that mean I’m invited to the wedding?” Coop asked.
Julia laughed, this time sounding genuinely amused. “No. But maybe we’ll say a toast in your honor,” she said. “Why’d you call? I assume it wasn’t to ask me out again, fourteen months after our last date.”
“No,” Coop admitted. “But there is something I want to ask you.”
He hadn’t gotten this far in any of his conversations with the women he’d contacted. But Julia was decidedly less hostile than any of the others. What the hell, he thought. Might as well see what she says.
“Shoot,” Julia said.
“When we went out, you didn’t think I was full of myself, did you?”
“Yes,” Julia said.
“You don’t have to answer right away. You can think about it for a few minutes.”
“I don’t have to think about it. You were really full of yourself,” Julia said.
“Then why did you go out with me in the first place?” Coop asked.
“Good question,” Julia said. She laughed.
She had a nice laugh, Coop thought. A low, intimate chuckle that was really quite sexy. Coop found himself wishing he had called her again.
“You were also very charming. We had fun together,” Julia said. “Like I said, I was really disappointed when I didn’t hear from you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to keep saying that.”
“But it’s true.”
“Why the call? Are you having a crisis of conscience?”
“Not exactly.” Coop hesitated. “A woman I was interested in turned me down and told me it was because I’m too full of myself. I wanted a second opinion.”
Julia laughed her sexy laugh again. “I guess you came to the wrong woman for that.”
“No, I appreciate your candor,” Coop said. “And if things don’t work out with your fiancé …”
“They will,” Julia said. “But thanks for the offer. You’ve officially made my day.”
After he got off the phone with Julia, Coop found he was having a hard time concentrating on the footage he was supposed to be editing. Was it true? Was he cocky? Maybe. But was that necessarily such a bad thing? He was basically a good guy in all the ways that mattered. He’d never killed anyone, didn’t take drugs, and had excellent personal hygiene.
An unbidden image of Audrey flitted through his thoughts again, before Coop had a chance to dismiss her with an irritated shrug of his shoulders. A neurotic widow was the last thing he needed in his life right now.
AUDREY LAUGHED OUT LOUD when she read Leland’s email containing the menu for his upcoming dinner party.
“S and M chicken?” she said aloud.
“Excuse me?” Lisa asked from the doorway of Audrey’s office. Lisa was the receptionist at the Seawind Day Spa. She was young and pretty and not very bright. But what she lacked in intelligence, she made up for in dependability. Plus the customers liked her.
Audrey glanced up. “Oh, nothing. Just a funny email. What’s up?”
“The mail arrived,” Lisa said, handing over a packet of envelopes.
“Thanks,” Audrey said. Audrey shuffled through the mail quickly. Bills, bills, and more bills. Nothing that needed immediate attention. She put the stack in her in-box.
“The new mailman is so cute,” Lisa said, sitting down in the spare chair without being invited. Audrey had to stifle a sigh. She’d told Lisa over and over again that she had to stay up at the front reception desk, even if there wasn’t anyone there. You never knew when someone might stop in to set up an appointment or buy a gift card. And Lisa would always nod enthusiastically, say she completely understood, and then drift away from her post again at the first opportunity.
“I hadn’t noticed,” Audrey said.
“Really? He’s got amazing legs. Very muscular calves,” Lisa said dreamily. “But he’s not as cute as Marco.”
“Who’s Marco?”
“Our UPS guy,” Lisa said, giving Audrey an odd look. “You don’t know the delivery guys?”
“I’m not usually at the front desk when they come,” Audrey said. She could have added, That’s your job, but didn’t want to sound bitchy. Besides, she had to admit, ever since Lisa had started working at the spa seven months earlier, there had been a definite step up in the quality of their deliveries. Packages used to get dumped by the front door; now they were all carefully hand-delivered to the pretty young receptionist.
“You should be. I bet Marco would really like you. He’s more your age than mine anyway,” Lisa said.
Ouch, Audrey thought. And why did everyone keep trying to set her up?
“Thanks, but no thanks. Marco and all of his fellow delivery men are all yours,” Audrey said. She turned back to her computer, hoping Lisa would take the hint and leave.
She didn’t. Instead, Lisa giggled and said, “I don’t think my boyfriend would like that.”
Ugh, Audrey thought. I walked right into that one.
Lisa’s boyfriend, Jared, was a relatively new addition to her life—they’d only been dating for a few weeks—and Lisa was completely besotted. She required no encouragement to discuss him at length. Audrey had been forced to endure long, in-depth conversations about every word Jared spoke, every gesture he made. And since Audrey’s impression of Jared—based on a single meeting when he picked Lisa up from work one night—was that he had the personality and intelligence of a Labrador retriever, she found these discussions beyond tedious.
“I should get back to …” Audrey gestured to her laptop.
“Last night, Jared asked me if I’d drive down to Key West with him,” Lisa announced. She stretched her arms over her head, looking smugly content. “What do you think of that?”
“It sounds like fun,” Audrey said, although in truth, she hated Key West and all of its tacky, touristy trappings.
“No, I mean what do you think it means?” Lisa said, leaning forward.
“If I were going to take a wild guess, I’d say I think it means he’d like to go to Key West. And that he’d like you to accompany him,” Audrey said.
“You don’t think it means he’s ready to get serious?” Lisa asked.
“I have no idea. I don’t know Jared well enough to say,” Audrey said. Thankfully, the bell on the front door to the spa jingled just then. “You’d better get up front. Someone just came in.”
Lisa reluctantly got to her feet and clumped out of the office on four-inch platform heel sandals. She was back a moment later.
“It’s for you,” Lisa said.
“Really? Okay, I’ll be right there.”
Lisa didn’t move. She stood at the door, her eyes gleaming expectantly.
“What?” Audrey asked.
“It’s a guy,” Lisa said. “A really cute guy. Actually,” she said, lowering her voice, “he’s not cute so much as he is sexy. Like, really, really sexy.”
Audrey had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. “Did you ask him what he wants to see me about?”
“No, I forgot,” Lisa said, without a hint of apology in her voice. “I’ll go tell him you’re coming.”
Lisa turned and clattered off again, before Audrey had a chance to ask her to find out what the man wanted or perhaps get his business card. Audrey closed her email and stood, shaking her head. She was going to have to have yet another talk with Lisa about her professional duties.
She headed out of her office, took a left, and walked down the short hallway to the doorway that led into the reception area. Then she stopped dead.
“Hey, there,” Coop said.
He was leaning against the counter, propped up by one arm. Lisa was sitting in her chair, watching him with an avid sort of interest that Jared would most certainly not approve of.
“Oh. Hello. Can I help you?” Audrey said. She clasped her hands together, knowing she looked and sounded stiff, but not sure what she was supposed to do. Why was he here? Hadn’t she made it clear that she wasn’t interested in him?
“Actually, yes,” Coop said, grinning lazily at her.
Audrey knew that the smile was meant to be sexy—and, in truth, it was—but the fact that he knew it was sexy just irritated her. It was exactly why she’d turned him down when he asked her out. His ego was out of control. She folded her arms and waited.
“I’m interested in signing up for one of your treatments,” Coop said.
Audrey’s eyebrows shot up. “You want a spa treatment?” she asked.
“That’s right,” Coop said. He shrugged. “But I’ve never done this before, so I need some guidance.”
“Lisa would be more than happy to help you select a treatment and make an appointment for you,” Audrey said smoothly.
Lisa nodded enthusiastically. “Sure,” she said.
“I appreciate that,” Coop said, flashing his smile in Lisa’s direction. “But Audrey here was telling me all about the spa treatments she’s developed especially for her male clients, and I was hoping to get some of her seasoned advice.”
Smug bastard, Audrey thought, flushing. He was bringing up that night just to embarrass her. And seasoned advice? It made her sound geriatric.
Lisa’s head was bobbing up and down. “Actually, Audrey knows a lot more about all of the procedures and stuff than I do. I’m just the receptionist,” she confessed.
“Of course. How can I help?” Audrey asked smoothly.
Coop grinned at Audrey again and said, “What do you recommend?”
Audrey ran down the various treatments the spa offered, pointless as it seemed. He was surely going to opt for a massage. It was practically the only service straight men came to the spa for. This thought reminded her again of when she’d made a fool of herself trying to talk Coop into a man-icure. She could feel heat staining her cheeks, and knew by Coop’s deepening grin that he’d noticed.
That’s it, Audrey thought. He asked for it.
“Why don’t you just leave yourself in my hands?” Audrey suggested.
“I like the sound of that,” Coop said flirtatiously.
“Lisa, show Coop back to Farrah’s station,” Audrey said.
Lisa looked confused. “Farrah?” she said.
“That’s right,” Audrey said. “She has an opening for an m/p.”
Lisa looked from Audrey to Coop and back to Audrey again. “But I wouldn’t think …,” she tried again. Then, catching the quelling expression on her boss’s face, Lisa shrugged helplessly, stood, and said, “Come right this way. Would you like some ice water with lemon in it?”
“I never say no to ice water with lemon,” Coop drawled.
Audrey smiled, while fantasizing about kicking him in the shin with the pointy toe of her four-inch pumps. “Farrah will take good care of you,” she promised.
Lisa led Coop away. Audrey went behind the desk and busied herself checking the appointment schedule again, while she waited for Lisa to come back. When the younger woman returned, she looked perplexed.
“Are you sure about this? He doesn’t strike me as the sort of guy who’d want a mani-pedi. He looks more like the massage type.”
“I’m sure,” Audrey said. “Is Farrah with him?”
“Yes. She was just getting started with the manicure. He seemed a little confused when she told him to put his hand in the bowl of warm water, but he went along with it.”
“Good,” Audrey said with satisfaction. That would teach Coop not to play games with her. What was he thinking bothering her at work like this? Hadn’t she made it perfectly clear that she wasn’t interested when he asked her out to dinner? She had obviously been right about him. He was cocky, so much so that he obviously couldn’t conceive of any woman rejecting him.
“Where do you know him from?” Lisa asked, interrupting her thoughts.
“What?” Audrey glanced up. “Oh. We have mutual friends.”
Lisa smiled coyly. “You know that he’s into you, right?”
Audrey’s pulse gave a quick, nervous jump. “No, he’s not. Not really.”
“He totally is,” Lisa said with relish.
“Why do you say that?” Audrey asked, although the conversation was starting to make her feel like a teenage girl with a crush on the star of her high school lacrosse team.
“I could tell by the way he was looking at you. And he obviously came into the spa to see you,” Lisa said.
Audrey realized that this had officially become a conversation she didn’t want to have with her airheaded, twenty-two-year-old employee. “I’ll be in my office,” she said, turning away.
But once she was back at her desk, staring at her computer screen and futilely trying to make sense of the payroll, Audrey realized that Coop’s presence in the spa was making it impossible for her to concentrate.
Audrey’s eyes fell on a cardboard box full of organic face creams she’d stashed in the corner of her office. She’d been meaning to make room for them on the bamboo display shelving that lined the entrance to the spa. It was just the sort of mindless busywork she could manage in her current state, she decided, and grabbing the box, headed back out of her office. But instead of taking the shorter route straight to the front, she hooked left and then right, so that she’d loop past Farrah’s station, tucked back next to the massage room. She hadn’t planned to spy on Coop, but once she was up and moving, she couldn’t help herself.
I’ll walk briskly past them and just sneak a peek, Audrey decided.
But the sight that met her eyes stopped her in her tracks.
Coop was sitting in one of the two raised pedicure chairs, his faded jeans rolled up to his shins and his feet soaking in soapy water. Farrah—short and round, with hennaed hair and tattooed arms—was sitting at his feet, looking up adoringly at him. Coop grinned when he saw Audrey.
“Having fun?” she asked.
“I had never had my nails buffed before. I feel like one of those mob guys in the movies,” Coop said. He held up his hands to show her his nails, which did look especially clean and shiny.
“Mob guys get manicures?” Audrey asked.
“Apparently. At least, Hollywood’s version of the mob. The wiseguys are always getting manicures, and those hot towel shaves and massages,” Coop said.
“And this is behavior you want to emulate?” Audrey asked, her eyebrows arching high. She shifted the box of face creams to her left hip.
“Fuggedaboutit,” Coop said in a throaty voice, waving one manicured hand around.
Farrah giggled and held up a towel. “Give me one foot,” she said.
Coop obliged, lifting one tanned foot out of the water. Farrah toweled it off and then began rubbing it with exfoliant cream. Coop laughed and squirmed.
“That tickles,” Coop said.
“It smoothes your skin,” she explained. “You don’t want to have nasty scaly patches on your feet, do you?”
“I don’t know. Do I?”
“No, you don’t,” Farrah purred, clearly deeply infatuated.
“I’ll leave you to your pedicure,” Audrey said.
“No, don’t go,” Coop said. “Keep me company.”
Audrey hesitated. Just go, she told herself. Don’t feed into his ego.
“There’s an empty seat right here. We can have a lemon water together,” Coop said temptingly, gesturing toward the empty pedicure station. Even though Farrah was the only nail technician on staff, Audrey had opted to put in a double pedicure station when she opened the spa, which allowed girlfriends or a mother and daughter pair to get pedicures together.
“I guess I have a minute,” Audrey said, setting the box down in a corner.
“Okay, put that foot back in the water, and give me your other foot,” Farrah instructed Coop, as Audrey climbed somewhat tentatively up onto the pedicure chair. It wasn’t the easiest task to manage in four-inch heels.
“Did you see Leland’s email with the menu for the next dinner party club?” Audrey asked.
“No. What’s he serving?”
“Something called S and M chicken,” Audrey said. She smiled. “What on earth does that mean?”
Coop laughed. “Let me guess—bacon is somehow involved.”
Audrey nodded. “I definitely remember bacon being well represented on the menu.”
Farrah wrinkled her nose. “Gross,” she said.
Coop looked down at her in surprise. “You don’t like bacon?”
“I’m a vegetarian,” Farrah said.
“I guess I’ll just have to eat extra meat for you,” Coop teased.
Audrey expected Farrah to get huffy. She was the sort of vegetarian who made pointed comments about “food with faces” while eating with non-vegetarians. When Audrey took her staff out for a holiday lunch the previous December, Farrah made gagging sounds when Lisa ordered a cheeseburger, and a fight nearly broke out at the table. But, apparently, it was a different story when the gentle teasing came from an attractive man, for Farrah just giggled and began rubbing Coop’s foot with a pumice stone.
“Do mafia guys get pedicures, too?” Audrey asked.
“Somehow I doubt it. It’s not very manly, is it?” Coop said. He shot Audrey a sideways grin. “But something tells me that you knew that when you suggested this.”
“I just thought you’d enjoy it.”
“I am enjoying it,” Coop said. He wiggled his toes. “And, after all, what man doesn’t want to have pretty feet? All of the guys at the editing studio will be so jealous.”
Audrey couldn’t help laughing. Coop was being a good sport, she’d have to give him that.
“Tell me more about the movie you’re working on,” she said, kicking off her heels, and tucking one foot underneath her leg. “You said it was about the effect of tidal waters on migrating sea animals, right?”