Famously Mine: A Contemporary Romance Box Set Page 43

  Wade jerks his eyes up to mine. “What are you doing here?”

  I smile, smug. “Well … I got the job.”

  “WHAT?! Congratulations!” He jumps up and gives me a big hug—exactly like I wanted—lifting me off the ground, and as my shoes go flying, I know I was right to come here. I didn’t think today could get any better, but Wade’s enthusiasm is the icing on the cake. He sets me down, then looks down and realizes I’m shoeless. “Whoops.”

  I laugh. “It’s fine. Just give me your hand so I can balance.” He offers his hand, and it’s strong and steady as I step back into my heels, feeling some Cinderella vibes. Except my magic isn’t going away at midnight. That job is mine, and I am going to rock the shit out of it.

  “Tell me all about it,” Wade demands, and I grin.

  “I will, I will. But first, please tell me why you were yelling at your computer screen. Did someone fuck with your coding again?”

  “That’s not how that … I mean, yep, that’s definitely what it was. So, let’s grab something to eat, celebrate!” He tries to usher me to the door, but I duck under his arm and rush over to get a look at his computer screen.

  It’s a movie, paused. On the screen, a woman in bad 90s clothes looks longingly at a man storming toward the camera. The man is so baby-faced, it takes me a while to recognize Joshua King, movie star extraordinaire. I thought I’d seen all his movies, but somehow I missed this one.

  They’re both drenched in improbably heavy rain, but I’ll give the moviemakers a pass because the way Joshua King’s shirt is plastered to his chest is truly a service to humanity.

  I mean, he’s no Wade St. George with his sleeves rolled up, but who is?

  I turn back to Wade, and raise an eyebrow. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

  “It’s from the list!” He defends himself. “The Home Sweet Home list you gave me to watch before the meeting. I figured I might as well start with the Joshua King one.”

  I glance back at the screen. “Huh. I thought he didn’t do romcoms.”

  “I think this movie is why.”

  I wag my finger at Wade. “Ah ah ah. I heard you. You were yelling at the screen. You’re hooked.”

  “I am not!”

  “So you won’t care if I skip to the end, just to see how it ends?”

  Wade crosses his arms across his broad chest, doing a very good impression of a man who doesn’t care about romantic comedies. “Why would I care?” he scoffs.

  “Ok then.” I reach down to skip ahead.

  “Don’t you dare,” Wade says, and I throw my head back and laugh.

  “Oh my God. Wade St. George. They got to you. You care about a Home Sweet Home movie.”

  “It would get to you too! Karen’s just so … ARGH.” He balls his hands into fists. “And Steve’s thing with the pickles, I mean come on man, get over it.”

  “Uh, no,” I say. “This movie would not get to me.”

  Wade jabs a finger at me. “You’re watching this Monday. And then you will eat your words.”

  I back away from his desk, my hands raised in surrender. “I give in. It’s good. It’s Oscar-worthy. Just don’t make me watch it.”

  “Too late, Harrington. Your fate is sealed.”

  I laugh, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at me that makes me suddenly very aware that we’re alone in the office at night.

  It’s probably just the suit and the lipstick. It’s throwing him for a loop. It’s throwing me for a loop. By Monday he’ll remember I’m Duke’s bratty sister, and I’ll remember that he’s an immorally rich genius who isn’t interested in broke debutante rejects.

  I should make my exit, before hormones and bad romantic comedies make one of us say something we’ll regret.

  I know I should.

  Instead I say, “Did you really want to grab dinner? Or were you just saying that to keep me from looking at your computer screen?”

  “No! No, I’d love to take you to dinner. Let’s celebrate, right?”

  He grabs his stuff and closes down his computer, like taking me to dinner is the most normal thing in the world, while I stand motionless.

  There’s a world of difference between let’s grab something to eat and I’d love to take you to dinner. And I don’t know which one he really meant.

  I don’t know which one I want him to have meant.

  I should tell Wade no. Make up some urgent thing I forgot I had to do tonight. But he’s whistling cheerfully, and I’m in the mood to celebrate.

  Hell. Maybe this is something the new, suit-wearing me does: Let men take me to dinner like it’s nothing at all, because it is nothing at all, just a civilized act between civilized friends.

  “Where should we go?” I ask, hoping he won’t say a bar because I’ve had enough of those to last a lifetime, but willing to tough it out if he does.

  “How about Annabeth’s?” He suggests, casually naming the fanciest restaurant in town, and my eyes bug out a little.

  “I know it’s a little … you know,” he continues, “But it’s a special night.”

  “A special night?” I ask, wary. First I’d love to take you to dinner, then a special night.

  Oh God. This is a date after all.

  Wade suddenly realizes how that sounded. “Because you got the job. That you wanted. No other reason. Although that’s reason enough. The job. That you just got.”

  He’s backpedaling so fast it would do a number on my ego if it weren’t so funny.

  “Right! The job,” I say, putting him out of his misery.

  “Yes! The job,” Wade nods, and I nod, and we both nod at each other like a couple of bobble heads ignoring the elephant in the room of why else two young people would ever go to the fanciest restaurant in town.

  But hey, it’s not a bar.

  “See you at Annabeth’s?” I ask.

  “Annabeth’s it is.”

  As I walk out of the office, followed by Wade, I’m grinning again. Only this time for an entirely different reason.

  Annabeth’s is lit with a warm golden glow. I hesitate on the steps outside. Inside, it’s filled with finely dressed people laughing and talking.

  I’m pretty sure I beat Wade here. I should go in, ask for a table.

  But I can’t make myself go in. Whenever my family went to places like this as a kid, I inevitably got in trouble, no matter what age I was. There’s a reason a career centered in dive bars seemed like a step up for me.

  And I’m suddenly worried. What if this whole turning-over-a-new-leaf thing is just going back into my parent’s world? What if it’s just exchanging one set of ill-fitting shoes for another?

  I turn back to the street, not sure if I’m looking for Wade or for a reason to leave.

  And that’s when I see him. He’s parked a few cars down, just close enough that I can see him start to get out of the car, duck back in, fix his hair in the rearview mirror, then get out of the car and shake his shoulders out. He reminds me of a football player stepping out onto the field.

  Something about it tugs at my heartstrings. Maybe I’m not the only one who feels nervous, out of place.

  But just like that athlete he reminded me of, once Wade’s on the field (or in this case, the sidewalk), he moves with a single minded determination, and as he comes up the steps to me, the red vested valet standing a few feet away from me lets out an appreciative whistle.

  “I’d park his car,” she says under her breath, and I crack up laughing.

  Wade greets me with an easy grin. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing,” I say, because the valet is already blushing and I’m not evil. “Shall we go in?”

  “Ladies first,” he says, and with Wade at my back, I forget to be nervous as I step into Annabeth’s draped and gilded elegance.

  The maître d’ starts to tell us there will be a bit of a wait, until their coworker recognizes Wade, and we’re whisked to a cozy booth in the back corner overlooking the whole restaurant.<
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  “I suppose you do have your uses,” I drawl, and Wade kicks me under the table as our waiter frowns in confusion.

  “What’s your wine menu look like tonight?” Wade asks. “We’re celebrating.”

  The waiter immediately perks up. “Oh, well in that case you simply must have the 2005—”

  “I won’t be having anything,” I interrupt before he can launch into the spiel.

  “You sure? My treat,” Wade says, and I inwardly wince.

  Shoot. Now he thinks I’m cheap.

  Which, I am, at the moment. But that’s not why I’m saying no.

  “I’m sure,” I say flashing my biggest smile. “I just meant, don’t worry about sharing, so get whatever you want.”

  Wade looks at me like he can tell something’s up, and for a second I’m worried he’s going to press it. But he just orders one glass of whiskey, neat, and the waiter beats a hasty retreat.

  “Is there something you want to tell me?” Wade asks, and I feel myself bristling.

  Why do people always need a reason why you’re not drinking? Why can’t they ever just make it easy?

  I take a deep breath. It’s not Wade’s fault I’ve answered some version of this question a million times before. And it’s not his fault that answering it never gets any easier.

  “It’s perfectly normal to not feel like drinking,” I say.

  “That’s not what I’m talking about. You gave me your toothpaste smile.”

  “What?” I ask.

  Wade mimes a super wide grin. “You do it when you don’t want someone to figure out what you’re really thinking.”

  “I do not!”

  Wade raises his eyebrows, and I flash him my pageant smile to shut him up, before I realize what I’m doing.

  Damn him, he’s right. No one else has ever noticed I do that before. Not my friends. Not my boyfriends. Not even my family.

  The waiter returns with Wade’s whiskey, and he takes a sip. “I’m not saying you have to tell me what you’re thinking. It’s fine if you don’t want to. I was just asking if you wanted to talk about it.”

  And the thing is, I can tell he means it. Every line of his body is relaxed. He really doesn’t care.

  Oh, what the hell. I’d have to tell him at some point anyway. Frankly, I’m surprised Duke hasn’t told him.

  It’s because Duke’s ashamed of you, an old, bitter voice says inside of me, but I ignore it.

  No, I correct the voice. It’s because Duke respects my privacy.

  I take a deep breath, and Wade waits expectantly.

  “I’m an alcoholic. It’s been three years since I had a drink. I could probably have one glass of wine without a relapse. Wine was never my problem. But it would be really stressful. The possibility of a relapse, even a remote one …” I shake my head. “It’s just not how I celebrate anymore.”

  “Christ,” Wade says.

  I wait for the disgust to roll in, or the pity, or the judgement, or the intrusive questions.

  Instead he just says. “Wow. Three years. Good for you. I always knew you were strong.”

  He lifts his whiskey in a toast, then realizes what he’s doing.

  “Jesus. I’m sorry. Do you need me to get rid of this?” He’s already craning his neck for a waiter to pass his drink off to, when I stop him.

  “It’s fine. I can be around alcohol. I was a professional musician playing bars for those three years. I just can’t drink myself. And being around drunk people is …”

  “Not fun,” he guesses.

  “Cognitively dissonant. Being sober around drunk people, more nights than not, for three years is …” I scrunch my nose and wiggle my fingers, trying to figure out how to express it. “It’s like trying to have a church service in a strip club. It’s doable. Some people might even thrive on that kind of challenge. But I just found it sad. And exhausting.”

  He takes my hand and squeezes. “Thanks for telling me. And let me know if you ever need anything. We don’t have alcohol at work, except for the Christmas party—” he cuts himself off. “Well. I guess that doesn’t matter. You’ll be long gone by then. Still, let me know if you need anything.”

  “I will,” I say, even though I absolutely won’t.

  He half smiles, like he knows what I’m thinking.

  But he doesn’t call me on my bullshit. Instead, he releases my hand and passes me a menu. “Ok, Ms. Drum Teacher. Pick your celebratory food. I’m thinking crab cakes to start, but I’m open to suggestions.”

  “How do you feel about bacon?” I ask.

  “Yes and always,” Wade answers with so much zeal, I laugh.

  And just like that, it’s easy again. Wade makes everything easy. We place our order (enough food for three people) and move seamlessly into a conversation about our favorite places we’ve traveled.

  I used to think that kind of easiness was just how some people were, but now that I’m looking for it, I notice the way he watches my reactions, steers the conversation to other waters when I seem uncomfortable, subtly nudges his whiskey farther out of my direct line of sight, and doesn’t take another sip until our food arrives, and my treat’s here too.

  He doesn’t need to do any of that, of course. I’m strong. And if another man did that, I’d probably get annoyed, accuse him of thinking I’m fragile, breakable, in need of protection.

  But his first words were wow, I always knew you were strong. When I blindsided him with my jagged, ugly scar, that was his first reaction.

  He’s not making things easy because he thinks I need easy. He’s doing it because sometimes, easy just feels good. So I let myself sink into the sensation. Of good food, of being taken care of, of flickering candlelight, and a kind, genius, handsome man who wants to take care of my happiness for a night.

  It’s a novel sensation. Like sinking into a hot bath, if hot baths could give you butterflies and make you very aware of your hips and your breasts and the fact that those places haven’t been touched in a very long time.

  In fact, it feels so good, I’m a little wary.

  I know how easy it is to lean too hard and fast on something that makes you feel good.

  “So why did you move St. George Enterprises to North Carolina?” I ask, trying to get us back to normal work topics.

  “I mean, there was the Home Sweet Home connection, obviously,” Wade says, sawing another piece off his steak. “And I wanted to be closer to my mom.”

  “You could have moved her out to California,” I say.

  Wade laughs. “Have you met my mom? No. She fought for her patch of the world, tooth and nail, and she will not be giving it up for anything. Certainly not because her son happened to pick a career in tech.”

  I grin. “Fair.” I take another bite of my mushroom stuffed ravioli in herbed brown butter sauce, and give a little moan. After a month of hot dogs, cereal, and peanut butter and jelly, this food is like dying and going to heaven.

  When I open my eyes, Wade’s watching my face, his eyes dark, and my stomach tightens. Not a date, I remind myself. Not a date, not a date, not a date.

  “But if you miss her, you could just fly out when you felt like it. That’s what billionaires do, right?” I ask, trying to get the conversation back on track.

  I’m not sure why I’m pushing this particular track, except that I want to know if Wade’s here for real, or if he’ll be off chasing the next business opportunity that presents itself. I’ve had ten years of transitory friendships, intense and wonderful in the way of strangers thrown together who find they can talk until dawn, and I wouldn’t give up any of them—well, maybe one or two—but it gets lonely after a while.

  And the more we talk, the more I think Wade and I could be friends. Real friends. Especially once I’m no longer working for him. But I don’t want to get my hopes up if he’s just leaving again. For friendship or … anything else.

  Wade tilts his head, like he’s trying to figure me out. “No one else has asked me that.”

  That sh
ouldn’t give me a thrill, but it does. The idea of being the only one who knows this one thing about Wade St. George. I take a sip of my water, hoping he’ll continue.

  And he does.

  “I guess it’s easier to talk about business and my mom than it is to say I didn’t really like California. It was exhilarating for a while, and some of my best friends are people I met there. But it never felt like home. Maybe because I already had one.” Wade rolls his eyes. “Is that lame?”

  No. It’s wonderful. But instead I say, “Actually, I met a lot of people on tour who felt the same way. There’s something about home, once you find it.”

  “What about you?” he asks. “Do you think you’ll stay here, if you like the new job?”

  It might be my imagination, but it feels like he goes very still waiting for my answer.

  “I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. “I definitely want somewhere like here. Laid back. Good food. Room to breathe. I want to put down roots. But I don’t want to spend my whole life feeling like I stick out like a sore thumb.”

  He nods seriously, like this is helpful information. “And what would it take to make you feel like you fit in?”

  Someone to come home to. Someone to laugh with when my hair scandalizes a coworker, or a parent pulls a kid from my class because I’m too opinionated. The answer pops into my head so quickly and so fully formed, I’m caught off guard.

  I thought I was happy on my own. Starting over is hard enough. Adding dating into the mix …

  But if dating was anything like this? If there was someone out there who made me feel as good as Wade does?

  Wade’s staring at me, waiting for my answer. But I can’t just say a boyfriend.

  How pathetically unoriginal.

  “I guess having a few close friends I could lean on, chill with, celebrate with. That kind of thing.”

  His smile is crooked, knowing, and I realize I’ve just described what he and I are.

  Wade lifts his water glass. “To good friends you can celebrate with.”

  We clink water glasses, and as I look in his dark brown eyes, I feel warm all over. Like maybe I’m starting over in more ways than one.

  When I lower my glass, Wade’s grinning.