Bigger Rock Page 2

  “Have a good night,” he mutters, and scurries out.

  Charlotte tips her chin to me and gives an approving nod. “Look at you. Captain Fiancé coming to the rescue,” she says, running a hand along my arm and squeezing my bicep. “I didn’t even see him making the moves.”

  “That’s why you’ve got me. I have eyes everywhere,” I say as I lock the front door. The bar is empty now. It’s just us, like it’s been so many nights at closing time.

  “And usually those peepers are busy scanning for available women,” she says, shooting me an I know you so well stare.

  “What can I say? I like to give my eyes a good workout, too—just like the rest of me,” I say, patting my flat as a board belly.

  Then she yawns.

  “Get to bed,” I tell her.

  “You should, too. Oh, wait. You probably have a date.”

  She’s not far off. I usually do.

  Earlier this month, I met a total babe at the gym. She worked out hard, then worked out even harder with me when I bent her over the back of the couch in my apartment. She texted me the next day, telling me how her thighs were aching, and she’d loved it. She said if I ever made it to Los Angeles, would I please look her up, because she wanted to ride my ride again.

  Of course she did. Once you’ve had filet mignon, you don’t want to go back to hamburger helper.

  I saved her number. You never know, right? Nothing wrong with two adults enjoying the night and parting ways in the morning with a spring in the step courtesy of multiple Os bestowed.

  That’s how it should be. The first rule of dating is this—always please the woman first, then ideally a second time before you get yours in. The next two are equally simple—don’t get attached, and never, ever be a douche. I follow my own rules, and they have given me the good life. I’m twenty-eight, single, rich, hot, and a gentleman. Like it’s a surprise when I get laid.

  But tonight, my dick is off duty. Early bedtime.

  I shake my head in answer to Charlotte’s question as I resume cleaning the counters. “Nah, I have a seven-thirty breakfast tomorrow with my dad and some guy he’s trying to sell the store to. I need to be fresh and ready to impress.”

  She points to the door. “Go get your beauty sleep, Spencer. I’ll close up.”

  “I don’t think so. I came to fill in for Jenny. You go home. I’ll hail you a cab.”

  “You do know I’ve lived in New York for five years, right? I know how to hail a cab late at night.”

  “I am well aware of your independent ways. But I don’t care—I’m sending you home. Whatever you’re doing here, you can do at your apartment,” I tell her as I toss the washrag in the sink. “Wait. You’re not worried that Bradley Dipstick is going to be roaming around the lobby trying to give you flowers at this time of night?”

  “No. He usually plans his apology ambushes for the daylight hours. Yesterday, he sent me a three-foot-tall teddy bear holding a red satin heart that said, Please forgive me. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

  “Send it back to him. At his office. With red lipstick on the heart spelling out N.O.” Charlotte’s ex-boyfriend is a grade A, top-choice douchenozzle, and the bastard will never get her back. I hold up a hand. “Wait. Is there any chance this teddy bear has a middle finger on his paw?”

  She laughs. “Now that’s a good idea. I just wish the whole building didn’t know my business.”

  “I know. I wish you didn’t have to run into him ever again in the whole history of time.”

  I hail her a cab, give her a peck on the cheek, and send her home. After I close up, I head to my pad in the West Village—the sixth floor of a kickass brownstone with a terrace that has a view of all lower Manhattan. Perfect on a June night like this.

  I toss my keys on the entryway table as I scroll through my recent messages on my phone. I laugh when my sister Harper texts me a photo from a gossip mag, one from a few weeks ago, of me out with the hot woman from the gym. Turns out she’s a celebrity trainer from some reality TV show. And I’m the “noted New York City playboy”—same thing the magazine called me when I was seen with a hot new chef at a restaurant opening in Miami last month.

  Tonight, I’m a good boy though.

  I make no promises for tomorrow.

  2

  Button-down shirt. Tie. Charcoal-gray pants. Dark brown hair, green eyes, chiseled jaw.

  Yep, it’s all working.

  I fully approve of myself this Friday morning, and if I were a dude in a cheesy movie, I’d give myself two thumbs up.

  But honestly, I’m not that kind of guy. I mean, who does that?

  Instead, I turn to my cat, Fido, and ask him what he thinks. His response is simple—he struts off in the other direction, his tail high in the air.

  Fido and I have an understanding: I feed him, and he doesn’t cock-block me. He’d appeared on my balcony a year ago, meowing at the sliding glass door, wearing a tag that said “Princess Poppy.” I checked his collar, and found he belonged to this sweet little old lady in the building who’d just moved on to the Great Beyond. That sweet little old lady had, evidently, confused him for a girl. She’d left no relatives, nor any forwarding instructions for the cat. I took him in, ditched his pink sparkly collar, and gave him a name befitting his manhood.

  It’s a win-win relationship.

  Like tomorrow night. Fido won’t bitch and moan when I come home late. Because I fully expect to be stumbling through the door in the wee hours. I’m working tonight, but Jenny’s back on shift tomorrow, and I need to take my man Nick out to celebrate. His hit TV show was just re-upped for another season on Comedy Nation, and we plan to toast many times over at a watering hole in Gramercy Park. Besides, there’s a hot bartender there I’ve talked to a few times. Her name is Lena, and she makes a mean Harvey Wallbanger, so she put her name in my contacts as the drink itself. Well, part of the drink. Bang Her.

  Sounds promising enough, and by promising I mean, a sure thing.

  I take off and make my way uptown on the subway to the Upper East Side, my parents’ stomping ground. Yeah, they’re well off, but they’re also—shocker—not assholes. That’s right. This isn’t the story of a guy with a rich, shithead dad and a cold, bitchy mom. This is the tale of a guy who likes his parents and whose parents like him. Guess what else? My parents like each other, too.

  How do I know this?

  Because I’m not fucking deaf. No, I didn’t hear that when I was a kid. Instead, I heard my mom whistling a happy tune every morning when she woke up. I learned some good lessons from them. Happy wife = happy life, and one way to make a woman happy is in the bedroom.

  Today though, my job is to make Dad happy, and Dad wants his offspring with him at this breakfast meeting, including my little sister, Harper. She walks toward me on Eighty-Second Street, her red hair like a sheet of flame. When she reaches me, she pretends she’s about to take a quarter from behind my ear.

  “Look what I found. Wait. What’s that here?” She waves her hand behind my other ear and produces a tampon.

  Her mouth falls into a shocked O. “Spencer Holiday. You’re carrying tampons now? When did you start getting your period?”

  I crack up.

  She reaches behind my other ear, and brandishes a small pill. “Oh look, here’s some Advil for when you get cramps.”

  “Good one.” I smile. “Do you perform that one at all the children’s parties?”

  “No.” Harper winks. “But it’s tricks like that that keep the moms booking me six months out.”

  She joins me as we walk toward the restaurant on Third Avenue, wandering along one of those perfect New York blocks—the kind with wide stoops, and red brick brownstones, and trees with lush branches every ten feet. It looks like the set of a rom-com.

  “How’s the city’s noted playboy? I heard Cassidy Winters said you were the best time she’s had in ages.”

  I furrow my brow. “Who’s that?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Th
e hot trainer you were in the papers with. I sent you the picture last night. Didn’t you read the caption?”

  I shake my head. “Nah. Besides, she was ages ago.” That’s what a few weeks feels like in the dating world.

  “Guess she’s still singing your praises.”

  “Looks like I’ll be erasing her number.” Flapping your gums will get you blackballed.

  “Well, you better watch it with Mr. Offerman. Dad’s buyer,” she says, as a blue-haired lady walking a Pomeranian heads in our direction.

  “You mean I shouldn’t hit on him?” I ask, deadpan. I stop in the middle of the block. Gyrate my hips. Give my best stripper stare. “Do a little dance.” I smack my own ass. “Back it up.”

  Harper’s face goes beet red. She shifts her eyes in the direction of the lady. “Oh my god. Stop it.”

  “So, don’t do my usual Chippendales’ routine, then?”

  She grabs my arm, and pulls me along as we pass the dog owner. The woman waggles her eyebrows at me, and mouths, “Nice moves.”

  See? Chicks dig me.

  “Anyway, what I mean is, he’s very conservative. Family values and all. Which is why we’re here.”

  “Of course. Act as if we’re a happy family and like each other. Right? Is that what I should do?” I say and give her a huge noogie. Because she deserves it.

  “Ouch. Don’t mess up my hair.”

  “Fine, fine. I get it. You want me to pretend I’m a choirboy and you’re an angel.”

  She places her palms together in prayer. “I am an angel.”

  We enter the restaurant, and my dad greets us in the lobby. Harper excuses herself for the ladies’ room, and my dad claps me on the back. “Thank you for joining me. You got the memo, right?”

  “Of course. Don’t I look the part of the successful, blue-blooded son?” I slide my hand along my tie, courtesy of Barneys, thank you very much.

  He gives me a mock punch on the jaw. “You always do.” Then he drapes an arm over my shoulders. “Ah, I’m so glad you’re here. And listen,” he says, lowering his voice, “you know I don’t care what you do after hours. But Mr. Offerman has four daughters, ages seventeen down to eleven. So he prefers a bit more of a—”

  “Goody Two-shoes image?” I say, flashing my best good-boy grin.

  My dad snaps his fingers and nods.

  “Are they here at breakfast? His daughters?”

  He shakes his head. “Just you and your sister, him and me. He wanted to meet the two of you. And all I mean is the less your status as the ‘noted New York City playboy’ comes up, the happier he will be, and the happier he is, the happier I am. Can you do that?”

  I heave a sigh and widen my eyes. “I don’t know, Dad. That, like, seriously limits my conversational abilities. Since I usually only talk about women and sex. Fuck,” I say in a frustrated tone. I pretend to prop myself up, counting off on my fingers. “Okay, politics, religion, gun control. That’s what I’ll focus on, ’kay?”

  “Don’t make me get my muzzle,” he jokes.

  “Dad, I got this. I will not derail your dream. I promise you that. For the next hour, I am the dutiful son and rising New York businessman. I won’t say a word about women, or the Boyfriend Material app,” I tell him, because I’m a chameleon. I can play party boy or serious businessman. I can play Yale graduate or trash talker. Today, I’ll be calling on my Ivy League self, not the dude who created and sold one of the hottest dating apps.

  “Thank you for keeping low-key about that side of things. I’ve been searching for years for the right buyer, and I think we’ve finally found one. If all goes well on the last few details, we should be signing the papers the end of next week.”

  My dad is a rock star in the jewelry business. Hardly anyone knows his name, but pretty much everyone knows his store. He started Katharine’s on Fifth Avenue thirty years ago, and it is the definition of class in the jewelry business. The sky blue boxes the store uses have become nothing short of iconic—a sign that a gorgeous gift is on its way. Pearls, diamonds, rubies, silver, gold—you name it. Named for my mom, Katharine’s is a palace of sophistication, and my dad has turned the Fifth Avenue store into the flagship of a chain with locations in twelve cities around the globe. Katharine’s put my sister and me through private school, then college, and has generally made our lives all-around awesome.

  Dad wants to retire and sail around the world with my mom. It’s been his dream, and he finally found the right buyer, someone who gets the refined elegance he’s built, and has the financial profile for the kind of transaction he requires.

  Leaving the business to Harper or me was never in the cards. I have zero interest in running an international jewelry chain, and my sister doesn’t either. I’m already doing what I love—running the three Lucky Spot bars in Manhattan with Charlotte. Besides, I made my own mint when I launched Boyfriend Material straight out of college.

  The whole premise was simple, but genius.

  No dick pics allowed.

  Because – wait for it – women don’t like dick pics. At the early stage of dating, there’s basically nothing more aggressive and off-putting than sending a lady you’re interested in a shot of your junk. Doesn’t matter if you’re hung like a horse—that shot will make her cringe. My app offered a haven for women, a promise that they wouldn’t be photographically assaulted by unwelcome cock shots.

  The app took off, my investors made major bank, and I cleaned up like the lucky bastard I am.

  But for the next hour, while talking to Mr. Offerman, I’m simply a guy who works in the food and beverage business. Game on.

  3

  Dad escorts Harper and me to a big round table, covered in a crisp white tablecloth, in the back of the restaurant.

  “Mr. Offerman, I’m delighted to introduce you to my children. This is my daughter Harper, and my son Spencer.”

  With dark eyes and jet-black hair, Mr. Offerman is tall and imposing. He’s built like a tree trunk, and he stands ramrod straight. I bet he was military. He has the air of a general.

  “Pleasure to meet the two of you,” he says in a deep baritone. Yup, this man gives orders.

  We exchange pleasantries and settle in at the table. Once we order, he narrows in on Harper.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you. How fantastic that you’re a magician…” As he pumps her with questions, it hits me—Harper’s profession is perfect for his “family-friendly” image. She works kids’ parties, and he’s eating that up. She shows him some of her tricks. She makes his fork disappear, then his napkin, then his water glass.

  “Wonderful. I bet it simply mesmerizes all the children. My girls would love that.”

  Dude, you have teenagers. I highly doubt they’re keen on sleight of hand.

  “I’ll be happy to show them,” Harper says, bestowing her shining smile on Mr. Offerman, winning him over.

  “Wonderful. I’d love to set up a dinner for tomorrow night for all of us. With my wife and daughters.”

  “I’d love to be there,” Harper says.

  He fixes his gaze on me. “And how is Boyfriend Material going?”

  Ah, there it is. Clearly he’s done his research. “I hear from the company that bought it that it’s going well. But I’m not involved anymore,” I say, deflecting the question.

  “It’s quite a hit, from what I read about it. You seem to know what women want.”

  I gulp and hazard a glance at my dad. He has on his plastic smile. He doesn’t want Mr. Offerman going down this road. “All I know, sir, is that you need to treat a woman well, and when the time is right to get down on one knee, you should go for more than one carat from Katharine’s.” I give myself props for the jewelry joke.

  He smiles and nods, then clears his throat. “I also have a reporter from Metropolis Life and Times magazine that’s following the sale of the jewelry franchise. Bit of a business feature—bit of a lifestyle piece, too. I hope it’s not too much to ask, but I’d love if we can all agree to focus on the
stores over the next few weeks during the transition. Not on matchmaking apps or related matters that the press seems to love. Like dating exploits.” He stops to spread his napkin across his lap. “Do you know what I mean?”

  We all know what you mean, man.

  My father weighs in. “I couldn’t agree more. There’s no need for the article to be about anything else but jewelry.”

  “Good.” Mr. Offerman returns his focus to me, and the inquisition isn’t over. “Your new business is going well?”

  “The food and beverage industry is a fantastic one to be in. Charlotte and I started The Lucky Spot three years ago, and it’s going great. Fun place, great reviews, customers are happy.”

  He peppers me with more questions about the bar, and I can tell it’s all part of his need to vet me in person. To see if my new business seems as “sleazy” as he thinks my last one was. But I can handle men like him. I didn’t start my own company because I was easily intimidated. I started it because I was fucking fearless, and I read the market, just like I can read him. I know how to give him what he wants, and I do so with each answer because giving him what he wants is good for my dad.

  “What do you enjoy most about it?”

  “Working with Charlotte is great,” I say, because how can I go wrong with that answer? “We were pretty much meant to do this together. We see eye to eye on everything.”

  A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “That’s fantastic. How long have you—” His question is cut off when the waiter brings our plates, but I’ve got the gist of it. How long have we been friends…

  “Since college,” I answer.

  “Wonderful,” he says, as the waiter sets down his eggs benedict. “I hope you can join us tomorrow night for the dinner party, then.”

  Oh, so I’ve passed his test. Yay me.

  “I’d be thrilled,” I say.

  There goes celebrating with Nick. But he’ll understand. I sneak a glance at my dad, who’s looking pleased that this breakfast is going well so far.

  Mr. Offerman picks up his fork. “And perhaps you could bring your girlfriend.”