Asking For a Friend (Boyfriend Material Book 1) Page 17

I send the text.

  My greatest liability is also my greatest asset, and I know how to play to my strengths.

  26

  Amy

  This isn’t quite like selling my brother on a slice of coconut cake. Nor is it the same as convincing my friends to take pole-dancing class, or like chatting up Dax Powers online.

  But all those moments have funneled into this one.

  In the conference room, I open the first slide in my presentation and begin outlining why I want Bailey & Brooks to publish a book I’ve made up, and I’m thoroughly in my element.

  “Sex and Other Shiny Objects will be the ultimate romantic comedy—a wink and a nod to the entire romance genre. I can see it on shelves with that sassy title and a fantastic illustrated cover. It’ll be the rom-com to top all rom-coms, the one bookstores go nuts for and can’t wait to put into readers’ hands. After all, who wouldn’t want to read a romantic romp where the heroine enlists her best guy friend to test-drive common sexual tropes from romance novels?”

  Tiffany chuckles.

  Raphael beams.

  And Rainey, the ice queen, cracks a grin.

  “Just think about it. Buttons. Do they really go flying across a room—ping, ping, ping—when the heroine rips off the hero’s white dress shirt? Or what about bathtub sex? How easy is it to get it on in the tub without, say, hurting your knees? Throwing out your back? Or getting soap in places you don’t want soap to go?” I say, lowering my voice and adding in a gasp.

  The VPs give a chorus of laughs.

  This sample pitch is on fire, I can feel it.

  I channel all the best parts of me as I walk them through what makes me this project’s ideal editor—my sense of humor, my penchant for wordplay—and how I can guide it onto shelves and into the proverbial front rows of online stores.

  At last I wrap up with “Sex and Other Shiny Objects will be the must-read rom-com of next year. After all, who doesn’t like sex and shiny objects?”

  Tiffany is the first to clap.

  She actually freaking claps.

  Rainey follows suit, and Raphael plays the caboose.

  “Well done. We’ll let you know shortly,” Rainey says.

  I leave, and I want to twirl down the hall at the head of a parade.

  But there’s another deal I need to close. I need to make it crystal clear to Linc that he’s not getting rid of me so easily.

  As I make my way to my office, I stop in at Lola’s and declare, “Nailed it.”

  “Of course you did, you badass woman.”

  “Cape power,” I say, still riding high from the meeting.

  “What’s cape power?”

  I’m about to explain when my phone pings with a text from Linc.

  My stomach cartwheels with worry. Is this when he tells me we’re on ice? With a trembling finger, I open it.

  And then my chest cartwheels with happiness. I bite my lip so my face doesn’t break from smiling.

  “I have to go,” I say, since it’s lunchtime and that’s the appointed hour for seeing my Clark Kent.

  I thrust my computer at Lola for safekeeping and hightail it out the door.

  I rush through reception, stab the elevator button, and shoot downstairs.

  The elevators are sluggish, so I have time to reply.

  Amy: Good. Because you’re not getting rid of me that easily.

  When I reach the ground floor, I’m dancing inside. I race across the lobby, push through the revolving door, and step into the sunshine of a New York day.

  I don’t have on shades, so I shield my eyes, quickly finding Linc where he leans ever so casually against the cool black marble of the building.

  He doesn’t notice me at first, and I steal a moment to revel in the view. I’ve admired the sight of him from the day I saw him in the hall.

  The afternoon I first set eyes on the man, my lust glands went into overdrive. But now? Lust and passion and respect and joy have hopped into the feelings blender and mixed themselves into a new and effervescent concoction.

  What I feel now when I gaze at that tall drink of a man is worlds better. It’s deeper, more potent, and so much more satisfying.

  I love that guy.

  So much that I wish there were a new word for it in the thesaurus.

  But as I look at him and smile happily, I realize I don’t need a new word.

  This feeling is worth a thousand of them.

  I walk to him.

  He smiles, those dimples and that sexy grin melting me.

  Closing the distance, he cups my cheek and says, “I have two words for you.”

  “I bet neither is sugar or butter.”

  “Nope.”

  I wiggle my brows. “I have more than two words, so you go first.”

  His thumb strokes my jawline, and right now I don’t care about the promotion. All I care about is this man. He’s the chance I don’t want to lose. There will be other jobs and other promotions.

  There won’t be another Linc Silvers from Pine Crest View. This guy is the real deal, and I want to keep him.

  He whispers the two sexiest words ever: “Grandfather clause.”

  And I squeal my solution. “Let’s switch direct reports!”

  We both laugh, and then he runs his thumb over my top lip. “Of course you were thinking along the same lines. Because you’re brilliant.”

  “We’re brilliant.”

  He brushes his lips against mine, and it’s a sugar-sweet kiss with a cherry on top. It’s soft and gentle, and it makes me feel like I belong to him.

  He breaks the kiss. “Raphael mentioned switching direct reports too. I just talked to him a little while ago. Don’t worry—I didn’t tell him we are involved. Not without talking to you first. But I did ask hypothetically. Because I wanted to find a way for us.”

  And I fall a little further, a lot harder. “That’s actually crazy sexy hot.”

  “Why, thank you. And it turns out there are lots of options. Options I didn’t realize at first because I was shocked and I panicked. Because I felt tricked by Antonia and by my own ridiculous feelings for you.”

  “I don’t think they’re so ridiculous,” I say playfully, tap-dancing my fingers down his shirt.

  “They’re not ridiculous, and that’s why I’m glad we have alternatives like switching or disclosing or grandfather clause–invoking or whatever we need to do.” He slides his fingers down my arm, his deep blue eyes full of intent. “But even if those options didn’t exist, I’d still find a way to be with you, Amy Summers. Do you know why?”

  “Why?” I ask, sparklers lit brightly inside me.

  His lips curve into a grin. “Because I have five little words for you.”

  I float higher. “Do tell.”

  “I’m in love with you,” he says, eclipsing my five previous favorite words.

  I stand on tiptoes and hold his face. “Six words. I’m in love with you too.”

  We kiss on the Manhattan street, lunchtime crowds streaming by. Somewhere I make a mental note that the heroine in Sex and Other Shiny Objects doesn’t need to test this trope.

  Because I know it’s true. I know it works. I feel it in my heart and in the marrow of my bones.

  I feel it everywhere.

  When we separate, I nod to the building. “But we should probably go grandfather ourselves into that clause.”

  He takes my hand. “Do you know that is the sexiest use of ‘grandfather’ as a verb ever?”

  “I do know that. It absolutely is.”

  A few minutes later, we head into the HR director’s office and tell her we’ve been together for the last week and ask if she’d be willing to switch our direct reports.

  She makes a note in a file, thanks us for our frankness, and then calls in Raphael and Rainey, since they oversee the two of us.

  “I’m good with this, and we’ll work out an appropriate solution,” Raphael says. “And I appreciate you disclosing it properly.”

  Rainey doesn’t crack a
grin. Instead, she says, “I’m glad to learn in this forum, rather than in front of others.” She looks at both of us. “This was handled well, and we’ll finalize a new direct report structure.”

  The only thing that could make my day better is getting the promotion.

  But when I return to my office, Lola is waiting for me with a vanilla latte and a frown.

  “The editor job went to Madison.”

  27

  Amy

  This might be a good time to adopt some new mantras.

  Like I’m not upset.

  Or I’m good with this.

  Possibly everything is fine.

  Except I’m immensely sad.

  That’s the truth. No mantras can mitigate it.

  I sink into my chair.

  Correction: I slump.

  Or really, it’s more like a plummet with a follow-up face-plant on my desk. “Seriously?” I moan.

  Lola nods and pats my hand. “Sorry, sweetie. I just heard.”

  I pout. “Ugh. I’m glad you hear everything, but just . . . ugh. I tried so hard.”

  “You did. And I bet you were amazing.”

  Amazing.

  There’s a word that gets tossed around a lot.

  You look amazing.

  Lunch was amazing.

  This weather was amazing.

  It loses its punch. Its oomph.

  But when Lola says “amazing,” it feels like the dictionary definition. I did feel amazing in there. I marched into the conference room in black stilettos and a cape, and I delivered a pitch for the ages.

  So, I lift my face, meet my friend’s gaze, and erase the glum in my voice, speaking from my vulnerable heart. “I’m disappointed, but I’m not going to stop going after what I want. If the only thing to come of this is that I’ve become better at selling myself, then it was worth it.”

  Her smile is magnetic. “It was worth it. Now take your medicine, and we will go out tonight and develop a new plan. That also means don’t be ditching me for a boy.”

  “I’m all yours tonight, you cocksucker.”

  She points at me. “You’re the cocksucker these days.”

  “And I love it.”

  I take a sip of my vanilla latte and lean back in my chair, wishing things were different. But I’m also happy that some things are exactly as they were when I woke up this morning.

  Wait. Make that better.

  Because being in love trumps everything else.

  Lola leaves, and I return to my workload, powering through manuscripts as I’ve always done, taking notes, looking for the next big thing.

  Until my phone rings.

  It’s Tiffany Chilton asking if I can come to her office.

  This day, I swear.

  28

  Amy

  Here I go again.

  Another chair. Another impromptu meeting. Another boss type.

  But this boss type is my favorite, I’ve learned in the last week. She’s warm and supportive and sharp.

  Tiffany ushers me into her office, telling me to sit, sit, sit.

  The woman looks like she’s about to burst.

  I do as she instructs, parking my butt in the chair where she points.

  She sits next to me, takes a deep breath, and blurts out, “I’m so excited for this.” She flaps her hands in front of her face. “I had to go work out at lunch to burn off my nerves, but I’m so flipping excited.”

  Color me flummoxed. “About hiring Madison? She’s great. I’d be excited too. She’s a true talent.” And I mean it completely.

  Tiffany grins knowingly. “She is, and we’re thrilled to bring her on board. But I would never call you to my office to gloat about someone else.”

  “Then what am I here for?” I ask carefully.

  “Because I’m going to gloat about you.”

  “You are?” I ask, still unsure where this is going.

  Her delight stitches her smile. “Amy, do you remember when we talked last week?”

  “Of course.” How could I forget? It was only a few days ago.

  “And at the party too? Where you joked about your book ideas?”

  “Sure.”

  “But they aren’t jokes,” she says, dead serious. “They’re brilliant.”

  The hair on my arms stands on end. “They are?”

  “Your ideas are fantastic. Cats Who Think They’re Dogs, Better Than a Vanilla Latte, and, of course, Sex and Other Shiny Objects.”

  “You like them?” This is quite a fork in the road.

  “I love them,” she clarifies. “I don’t know if the finished books will be like your pitches exactly, because books tend to take on lives of their own as authors craft them. But we want to start pursuing those ideas, and we’d like you to oversee them as an editor.”

  Is the sky raining gold coins?

  Is this office made of rainbows?

  Because holy dreams-I-didn’t-even-admit-I-had coming true. “You do?”

  “Yes. I know that’s a lot to take on and you’ve been a junior editor, but we believe in your talent, and we’d like to move you into a newly created position as editor-at-large. You’ll still work on your existing projects, but you’ll also work closely with me on this line of books, finding authors for them, editing them, helping to develop the ideas. There will be a raise of course. Together, we’d shepherd them into the marketplace. That’s why I’m so excited. I’d love to work directly with you.”

  “I’d love to work with you too, Tiffany,” I say, bursting with excitement. “You’re fantastic. A true cape-power woman.”

  “I don’t know what that is, but it sounds like a compliment.”

  “One of the highest order.”

  “And you’d work with me, not Linc. There won’t be a need for a senior editor on this line, since it’s so new. But I think Madison would be a great person when we need an additional point of view.”

  “Madison is fantastic,” I say.

  “Perfect. Then we’ll start developing the concepts on later this week. Assuming you accept?”

  She’s nervous.

  And I realize something even more wonderful—I’m not the only one who believes in me.

  This woman I admire does too, and has for some time. Knowing that is indeed amazing.

  “I’d love to.”

  That night, I go out with my friends, and we celebrate at Gin Joint. We toast to work and dreams and love and friendship.

  As she knocks back a Hush Money cocktail, Peyton laughs, then she gasps with excitement. “I just remembered. I have to tell you this crazy story. I stopped at Tristan’s before I came here, and he told me about this couple who had been in, and they spent the entire meal at the bar working on their list of kinky things they want to try in the bedroom.” She flicks some strands of red hair then absently shakes her mane the slightest bit.

  I shoot Lola a knowing look.

  She nods equally knowingly back at me.

  “What? What was that look for?” Peyton asks, narrowing her eyes.

  Lola and I smile, then I say, “Shampoo commercial.”

  “What does that mean?” Peyton asks.

  “Look at yourself. You’re back in shampoo-commercial mode.” I gesture to her getup: short skirt, fabulous Ferragamos, long dangling earrings. “The heels, the lush hair, the mascara. I bet you’re wearing La Perla too.”

  She tsks. “I always wear La Perla.”

  “But you don’t always wear heels. You don’t always have that just-stepped-out-of-a-salon hair. So, is something going on with Tristan?” Lola inquires, never one to beat around the bush.

  Peyton gives us a look. The look that says we’re crazy. “Guys. C’mon. He’s just a good friend.”

  Lola draws a circle with her finger in Peyton’s direction. “Is he the reason you’re starting to look like your stylish and sassy self again?”

  She crosses her arms, daring us to throw down. “What are you trying to say?”

  Lola looks to me, and I shrug mischiev
ously, then say, “I think what we’re saying is you’re ready.” I take a beat. “Are you ready?”

  Peyton takes a deep breath then nods. “I think I am ready to get back out there. And yes, fine, maybe I have put back on my ‘I’m ready’ uniform of heels and long hair. But, for the record, nothing is going on with Tristan whatsoever. He’s only a friend.”

  “And he’s a good guy,” I add. “I’m glad you have a good guy friend.”

  “I kind of missed being able to talk to him like this when I was with Gage. I mean, don’t get me wrong—I wasn’t longing for him while I was with someone else, and I’m definitely not longing for him now. But I do love the freedom to chat with him whenever I want. It’s been . . .” She looks away as if searching for the right way to phrase it. “Enjoyable.”

  “Enjoyable—sounds like someone is hedging her bets,” Lola teases.

  Peyton rolls her eyes and smacks Lola’s knee. “If you would just let me finish the story about the restaurant. So the couple at the bar had their whole list of kinky things they wanted to try: blindfolding, handcuffing, candle wax dripping, flogging. They wrote it all down as they were waiting for their food. Marked the ones they liked, crossed off the ones they didn’t. And in the end, they picked a safe word too. They picked it when Tristan was flipping a burger. Guess what the safe word was?”

  “Burger?” I ask, hoping that’s not anyone’s safe word.

  Peyton smiles like she’s holding back, then bursts out with “Spatula!”

  We all crack up. “Spatula is the worst safe word ever,” I say. “But have you considered that maybe the guy was going to spank the gal with a spatula?”

  “Ouch!” Lola says, wincing.

  “Is that from experience?”

  “Girl, spatulas hurt, and I don’t mean hurt so good.”

  Peyton clinks glasses with Lola, then me. “Let’s drink to spatulas used for burgers and not for safe words or spanking.”

  “Amen,” I say.

  We drink, and Peyton sighs happily. “I feel so much better than I did the last time we were here.”