Joy Ride

“Pick me up at two.” She nibbles her lip, and adds, “And there’s something I wanted to—”

I’m ready to tell her I don’t need to pick her up tomorrow because she’s staying with me tonight, but her phone beeps.

“Crap,” she mutters, as she grabs it from her purse.

She points to it. “John.”

I wave, letting her know to take the call.

“Hey there!” Her voice is bright and cheery. “How’s everything going?”

She pauses, and I take a drink of my Scotch.

“Oh yeah? We can talk about all that. I’m totally up for it.”

Another pause, and I arch an eyebrow.

“Absolutely.” Then she laughs, and it’s the same damn way she laughed with me. The goblin rears its head again. Stupid jealousy tornadoes through me.

I try to tell myself the woman is allowed to laugh with her fucking boss.

Boss.

Boss.

Boss.

That word reverberates.

That’s what I was to her once upon a time.

“We can meet tonight. I’ll be there shortly.”

She hangs up, and my heart fucking falls out of my chest. It lands on the floor in a discarded, depressed heap. She grabs her mojito, takes a thirsty gulp, then gives me a guilty smile.

“I’m sorry. I can’t stay. I have to take care of this.”

“Sure,” I say, keeping my chin up. “It’s business. He’s your boss.”

She nods. “I’ve just got to finish—”

I wave a hand. “Go. Take care of it. I’ll pick you up at two.”

She stands up from the barstool. “Sorry.” Then she leans closer and dusts her lips to my cheek. “Thank you for dancing with me tonight.”

When she leaves, I’m the sucker alone at the bar, watching the most beautiful girl walk away.

In some other story, I’d chase her. But I already told her how I felt, and whatever she was about to tell me was cut off when John called.

That name echoes in my head. John Smith. The other night she said she didn’t get involved with anyone in the business except for one time.

I’ve tried hard to not get involved with anyone in the business. Ever. The only time . . .

I didn’t push her to find out who he was. But could it be him? The guy she’s rushing off to meet at nine p.m. after we practically promised on the dance floor to spend the night together? After I told her I’ve always been attracted to her?

I grip the glass tighter, and when I look down, my knuckles are nearly white.

I set the glass on the bar and leave.





35





Henley’s To-Do List



* * *



—Don’t bite nails.



* * *



—Stop stressing.



* * *



—Charge phone so you don’t miss a call.



* * *



—Remind self it will happen, it will happen, it will happen.



* * *



—Don’t check phone incessantly.



* * *



—Put deal out of mind and enjoy the day.



* * *



—Tell Max what you wanted to say last night.



* * *



—Shop with Olivia!



* * *



—Do bring a change of you-know-what on the road trip. Duh.



* * *



—Pat self on back for that awesome work this morning. Girl, you kick ass sometimes.



* * *



—Keep being awesome!



* * *



—Shave your legs. Just in case.



* * *



—Whatever you do, don’t ask him for advice. Even though you want to. Don’t. Do. It.



* * *



—He’d know what to do.





36





As I grab my phone to leave the next morning, someone knocks on my door.

I yank it open to find Patrick. He hands me the screwdriver that he borrowed last night. We shot a round of pool then after he returned from an outdoor adventure trip. As he valiantly worked his way around the table trying to best me, he regaled me with tales of ropes and hikes and trails and wild late-night antics. I mostly listened. It was better than stewing alone over Henley’s quick departure, though somehow Patrick pried a few minor details from me about my night. They were mainly along the lines of I told her I was attracted to her, she went to a late-night meeting with her boss. End of story.

He thanks me for the screwdriver, and I set it on the nearest shelf. I’ll put it away later when I return from Connecticut.

I leave and lock the door behind me. “Gotta keep the riffraff like you away from my pool table,” I say, a bottle of wine in hand for the host.

He claps me on my back. “Glad to see you’re not still in a funk.”

“I was not in a funk last night.”

“Right. Sure. Whatever you say.”

“I’m in a jolly mood,” I say, slapping on a counterfeit smile as I head down the hall and stab the elevator button. “I beat you both times.”

“Yeah. You’re radiating happiness.” Patrick pretends to waft the air toward him. “Mmmm. I can smell it coming off you in waves.”

“Scent of Charming and Joyful, right? I’m going to bottle it and make millions,” I say as the elevator arrives and we step inside.

Patrick wraps his hands around the brass bar and leans back against it, clucking his tongue. “You know, you could just tell her you’re into her.”

I snap my gaze at him. “What?”

“Oh sorry. Let me try that in simpler language. TELL HENLEY YOU DIG HER FOR MORE THAN SEX.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s not the issue.”

When the elevator reaches his floor and the doors open, he casts me a parting glance. “But what if it is? Sometimes a lady likes a man who’s direct and doesn’t play games.”

That’s insane. I have absolutely not played games with Henley. And I don’t know how she could think I just want her for sex. Hell, I was the only one who even breathed a word last night about feelings.

I shove his comments out of my mind as I head around the block to the parking garage where I keep my Triumph. This is the car I’d always wanted as a kid. It was the car I dreamed of. The one I longed for. There’s nothing I don’t love about this baby.

I haven’t taken her out in a few weeks, so I pause for a moment to pet the hood and ask her how she’s doing.

I cup my hand over my ear. “What’s that? You missed me? Aw. I missed you, too, Blue Betty,” I say as I run my fingers along the pristine windshield. I place the wine on the sliver of a backseat—it’s basically big enough for a small gift for your rich friend—then slide into the beige leather driver’s seat, lower the top, and back up. Nothing says a perfect fall day like a drive to Connecticut in your restored electric-blue roadster.

When I arrive at Henley’s block in her SoHo neighborhood, I scan for the nearby garage to park for a couple minutes. I could call her and have her come down, but even though this is Manhattan, a man should make an effort when he picks up a woman. Calling her is like honking a horn at a chick before a date.

Except this isn’t a date. It’s an I-don’t-know-what-the-fuck-it-is.