Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend (The Guys Who Got Away Book 1) Read online

  But at the moment, I need to save face. I march to the nearby bench and grab one of the pieces of white cardboard they call gym towels here. Returning, I hand it to Oliver, raising my chin. “There. Now no one can admire the goods, such as they are.”

  With an I’m about to give it right back to you chuckle, he takes the towel and pointedly refrains from wrapping it around his waist.

  The cheeky fucker.

  He drapes it over his shoulders then saunters to the side of the pool and leans against the wall, beckoning me. I follow, of course, because I need something from him.

  Desperately.

  “Tell me exactly what it is you need me to do this time,” he says. “Escort you to the wedding of a jackass you once dated? Train with you for a 10K to benefit Alzheimer’s? Or just look absolutely fantastic when I get out of the water?”

  I huff. How can he be so endearing and such an ass at the same time? “Do you practice that, Oliver?”

  He arches a brow. “You mean being the knight in shining armor? Or the way I always manage to get your goat?”

  “Both,” I say with a laugh.

  He scratches his jaw. “It’s a unique talent, I suppose. Being devilishly charming at all hours, no matter the circumstances.” Then he tugs me in close, roping an arm around me. A very wet arm, soaking my work shirt. “You know I’m just teasing you. You are literally the most delightful person to tease because I never know what you’ll do. Either you look like you want to clobber me, or you laugh and go along with it. Keeps me on my toes.”

  I wriggle away from him, eyeing the wet splotches on my blouse. “Devil is indeed the appropriate word.”

  “And you’re such an angel?” His green eyes flash me a pointed look.

  “You know I’m not.” I shift gears and gesture toward the women’s locker room. “But I need to get to work. I have to complete some of the final paperwork for the new fitness center, and I’m hoping I might be able to borrow your brain tonight. Pretty please?”

  He rolls with the topic change. That’s the thing about Oliver and me—we’ve worn so many hats with each other that we exchange them with ease. “My brain is always available for the borrowing. See you after work. Can we go to the Melt My Heart place?” He puts his palms together in a plea, adopting a doe-eyed look that makes me laugh.

  “Since when do you like specialty shop franchises you’d normally mock?”

  He affects a serious expression. “I’m considering it for my last-meal list.”

  “You’re back to that?”

  “I was off it for a while, but it amuses me, so I’ve returned to it. Don’t you have things you do that amuse you?”

  I tap his nose. “Yes. Talking to you. See you later.”

  As I head to the women’s locker room, he says my name. “Summer?”

  I turn around.

  He raises an arm, leans to the side, and stretches, his muscles glistening as he moves, his abs looking lickable, his torso gleaming, toned and smooth. “Let me know when you find that missing bracelet. I’m sure Mrs. Wilson is terribly worked up over it.”

  I rein in a revealing smirk, holding tight to my lie. “Of course.”

  He heads to the men’s locker room, and I do not stare at his butt until he leaves my line of sight.

  I do not stare at his butt.

  I do not . . . oh hell, the man just has a great ass.

  Like, Louvre quality.

  It’s only exceeded by his commitment to besting me, since he calls out, “Oh, hello there, Mrs. Wilson. Can I help you find your bracelet? What’s that? You left it in my locker? You naughty bird, you.”

  2

  Summer

  I’m about to leave work that evening when I hear the click of a pair of Mary Janes on the hardwood floors.

  The clearing of the most aggrieved throat comes next.

  Then the voice, brimming with consternation at all that she finds wrong in the world—in a nutshell, everything. Literally, everything.

  Look, it’s not like I disagree. The planet has a lot of knocks against it these days. But, glass half full—a lot is right in the world too.

  “Excuse me, Miss Life Enrichment Director.” Roxanne says my title precisely the way such a title should be said—dripping with mockery.

  Because seriously?

  Couldn’t I simply be the Activities Director? Or, if we need to be cutesy, perhaps Lifestyle Leader?

  Nope.

  Sunshine Living has gone over-the-top twenty-first-century workplace in dubbing me Life Enrichment Director. The title is almost as mockable as my friend Bethany’s—she’s the Chief Flavor Officer for a small-batch ice cream shop in the Village. I’m as ripe for ribbing as the guy in my building who is a Sales Ninja at an electronics store.

  I turn around in the hallway of the assisted living home, flashing Roxanne an I’m ready to listen smile.

  I swear the woman gets better with age. Every day she looks more glamorous. Her hair isn’t gray. It’s platinum.

  Her face isn’t wrinkled. It’s wise.

  And I swear her spine is straighter than her gold-tipped cane with the puma head top.

  She stabs her cane against the floor, banging it petulantly. “Summer, I’m bored. Simply, utterly bored.”

  I gesture to the activity room fifty feet away, pasting on my cheeriest grin. “Bingo!” I declare, like I’m announcing a room full of puppies to cuddle. “It starts in ten minutes. It’s going to be a rollicking good time,” I say, even as I wish I could strangle the game of bingo.

  Bingo is an affront to the very idea of fun and games. I wish I could make a bonfire of every bingo card in existence as an atonement for ever offering it as a pastime.

  But bingo is what the boss wants in the Sunshine Living facilities throughout the tristate region, including here on the Upper West Side. “Everyone loves bingo, and no one gets hurt doing it, Summer. Get it going around the clock. Safety first!” he barked when he hired me a year ago.

  It’s hard to enrich the lifestyles of residents when you work for the Stickler in Chief, who refuses to implement anything close to fun. Not since a septuagenarian suffered a Siamese-inflicted injury during a field trip to a local cat shelter. In the cat’s defense, everyone knows petting cats is just asking for a scratch.

  Roxanne fires laser beams from her eyes. “Let me ask you a question, Summer. Are you trying to kill me? No, I’m serious. Do you actually want me to die today? Because bingo is murder.”

  I laugh. “No. Of course not.” Then I glance around, and once I’m certain Travis is nowhere around, I step closer, dropping my voice to a whisper. “But you should know death by bingo sets in after twenty-four hours, so it’s good to avoid it.”

  She chuckles the slightest bit, the sort of inviting laugh that says we’re on the same page. Sort of. “My point exactly. Who in their right mind actually likes bingo? Nobody here wants to play bingo. We only do it because we’re bored. In fact, I’ve already lined up cohorts to protest the never-ending bingo offerings in this place.”

  “The bingo revolt is upon us?”

  She narrows her eyes. “Consider yourself warned.”

  I nod solemnly, then speak from the heart. “Roxanne, I’m trying. I swear, I’m trying.” I don’t add that there’s so much red tape at Sunshine Living that I need a machete to cut my way through the overgrown jungle of bureaucracy here. You don’t go around dumping your work woes on your customers. So I put on my best Happiness Hero hat, and say, “I submitted a number of proposals for new activities. I have some great ideas I want to implement, like Zumba classes, macaron tasting, and Riverside Park walks. I’ve put them in front of the board, and I’m really hoping they approve my plans.”

  My plans rock. They are compelling and well-written, and they spell out all the bennies. Only a total fun-slayer like Travis would shoot them down. But I’m hopeful that the other board members put more stock in common sense and, oh, say, data and research.

  A sliver of a smile seems to tug at
Roxanne’s lips. “Zumba, you say?”

  I execute a few zippy Zumba steps. I think my body must be programmed for motion, the way joy whips through me as I demonstrate. “Yes. Have you ever tried it? It’s great for mental and physical health. I outlined some of the key health benefits for the over-fifty set in my proposal. There are so many studies about how good it is for your core.”

  One perfectly groomed silver eyebrow lifts, and mischief flares in Roxanne’s eyes. “And for the libido, I hear.”

  I tuck a strand of blonde hair behind my ear, pausing to consider whether I’d be breaking the rules if I discussed libidos with the residents. Since I don’t know the answer, I respond in an offhand way. “That’s possible too.”

  She raises a make-a-point finger. “Along those lines, you might consider a game of Would You Rather for the residents. Or a Would You Rather bar hop. This hood has some very hip drinking establishments, as you may know.”

  A cough bursts from my chest, and I gesture for her to lower the volume, whispering, “I would be fired if I organized a bar hop.”

  “Please, darling. I’ve been old enough to drink longer than you’ve been alive. Maybe double.”

  She’s probably not wrong. But still. I’m not a drink alchemist or an alcohol tour guide for senior citizens, especially since Travis’s response to a bar hop suggestion would be But we don’t know about any contraindications of the prescription meds our residents are on; ergo, there is no room on the schedule.

  “Would You Rather isn’t a bad idea for a game night in though,” I say diplomatically, doing my best to maintain the requisite chipper attitude.

  I do have a chipper attitude.

  Well, most of the time. When I can actually make a difference—the very thing I wanted to do in the first place when I took this job. My cover letter was bursting with enthusiasm and plans. Travis even said he’d never seen a job candidate with so many creative ideas.

  And yet, here I am. Wizard of Bingo Scheduling.

  Roxanne lifts her cane, curling her fingers around the puma head. “Or how about something more practical for an activity? I have a fabulous idea.”

  I hold my hands out wide, letting her know I’m all ears. “I love suggestions. What do you have in mind?”

  Her cool eyes glint. “A session on how to make a great dating profile. An Ins and Outs of Tinder class.”

  Hmm. A class on Tinder isn’t a discussion on libidos, so I can entertain this topic. “Go on,” I say.

  “Like, for instance, how do I know if I’m being hatfished?”

  I smile helpfully. “You mean catfished?”

  She shakes her head, her silver mane swishing. “No, hatfished. It’s quite common with my generation. That’s when a man wears hats all the time to hide his lack of hair.”

  I stifle a laugh. “Oh, well. Dating truly is full of hazards.”

  “Exactly. And don’t even get me started on the submarining. I refuse to be a victim of that foul trend.”

  I pump a fist in solidarity. “The last guy I went out with did that to me—ghosted me then reappeared out of nowhere without so much as an explanation.”

  “I hope you torpedoed him,” she says, and we’re sisters-in-arms suddenly.

  “Of course.” I take a beat, studying the savvy woman in front of me. “Seems you already know the ins and outs of online dating, Roxanne.”

  She shrugs coyly. “Fine, maybe I do. I have profiles on Tinder, Bumble, and POF. But there is always something to learn. Like, if I swipe right on the gentleman down the hall, is he going to expect me to have a conversation here first? Because sometimes I want conversation, and sometimes I simply have no patience for small talk. But how do I set expectations on the latter occasions, when I primarily want to get to the good stuff?” Her expression is dead serious. “These are important topics for the modern woman.”

  “And they are things I have wondered myself,” I admit with a sigh.

  “See? We should work together to spruce up the social life here.” She hooks her elbow through mine, coconspirators. “Dating, dancing, wine tasting, how-tos. Make that happen, Summer. I want a full life.”

  Since my shift is over and I have an hour before I meet up with Oliver, I gesture toward the front door. Knowing Roxanne loves to stay active, I say, “Want to go for a walk and you can tell me what you want most?”

  As we amble around the block, she rattles off her dream activities, from cheese tasting, to bar hops, to tips on how to make the most of a hookup. “But the ones I want most after the dating classes?” She leans in close to whisper, “Kickboxing and spin classes.”

  “You do?” I can barely contain my rush of excitement at this unexpected and unwitting validation of a business idea I’ve been saving toward since I was twenty-two.

  Over the last nine years, I’ve squirreled away nearly enough money to open a specialty gym that caters to the over-fifty-five crowd. Just a little more capital so I can pay instructors for the classes I want to offer, and I can do it. Top-notch classes are vital for the success of a gym, and hearing Roxanne’s enthusiasm—and for just the sort of classes I want to offer—is a big dose of encouragement.

  “Absolutely. How else would I stay in shape for Tinder?”

  And we’re back where we started. But hey, in my book, exercise is good, no matter the reason. “If it keeps the heart rate up . . .”

  As we near the entrance to Sunshine Living, she says, “The best thing about being my age is I don’t have to worry about getting knocked up.” She eyes me up and down. “You, on the other hand . . .”

  I hold up a stop-sign palm. If she only knew how dating and I have fared. “I’m not involved with anyone. Or dating, even.”

  Her sharp gaze says she doesn’t believe me for a second. “Are you sure you don’t have a date tonight? You look different. You’re wearing black. You never wear black. And a little more mascara. Do you have a swipe-right lined up?”

  I laugh, shaking my head. Dating is the opposite of what I do with Oliver. “Nope. I’m just meeting a friend after work.”

  Skeptically, she regards my skinny jeans, my black boots, and my sweater that . . . Fine, this one is my favorite, and since my blue shirt was unwearable, I had to go home and change after that troublemaker put his arms around me.

  “I don’t buy that he’s just a friend,” Roxanne says.

  I picture Oliver’s square jaw. His flop of hair. His daring grin. The way he drives me absolutely crazy.

  With complete honesty, I answer, “I’ve known him since I was wearing braces. Since I was all elbows and knees, and understanding boys was like learning how to survive on Mars.”

  “And now you’re all legs and sass and energy,” she says in a flirty tone.

  I shake my head, adamant. “And he’s always dating someone else. Besides, he’s helping me with the paperwork I need for my new venture.”

  Her face says she still doubts me. “Is he a dragon?”

  That’s a dating term I haven’t heard. “Does that mean he has bad breath?”

  She shimmies her hips. “It means he brings the fire in the bedroom.”

  A blush creeps across my cheeks and my skin heats as the briefest image of what Oliver might be like in the bedroom flashes before my eyes.

  But I give her the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. “I will never know, because he’s just a friend. And he’s my brother’s best friend at that. Ergo, nothing will happen.”

  For so many reasons.

  “If you say so . . .” Roxanne lets those words trail off into the evening as I say goodbye, heading across town to meet the off-limits dragon.

  3

  Oliver

  My job boils down to three things: Reassuring. Fighting. Finagling.

  I happen to be tops at all three.

  Perhaps that sounds cocky.

  But as my cousin Jason says, “You can’t be cocky if what you say is true.”

  Fine, fine. There are about a million flaws in his logic,
as I point out every time, but it’s become our joke.

  Today, I’m completely confident as I reassure my newest client. “I’ve got this, Geneva. I’m going to take care of you. This is going to be the partnership you’ve always wanted.”

  Seated across from me in my Park Avenue office thirty floors up, the nervous client breathes an audible sigh of relief. “Thank you so much,” she says, her shoulders relaxing. “I had a feeling you would be the right one to call on this deal. And I’m not just saying that because we’re from the same side of the street.”

  “Can’t beat Crystal Palace, even the dodgy end,” I say. I grew up in that London neighborhood, where I lived until I was thirteen, and my new client comes from there too.

  I tap the top paper in the stack on my desk—a term sheet I’m working on for her. Her ad agency is partnering up with a smaller one for a number of media clients, and my firm is handling the legal issues of the new pairing. Untangling prior contracts, I’ve found a few particularly thorny ones with unfortunate terms. Her last attorney was a selfish prick, adding in layers of unnecessary loopholes that likely just padded his billables. He was also her ex. More proof that exes are douches. “We’ll get this all sorted out,” I tell her, keeping my opinion of her ex to myself.

  “Thank you, Oliver.” She smooths a hand over her tight black bun. “It’s been a terrible year, and I want something to go well. I had a very public split recently.” She waves a hand to dismiss her words. “But you don’t need to hear about that.”

  “I’m sorry you’ve had a rough go of it,” I say lightly. I did hear of her divorce. Or rather, my Aunt Jane did, and she told me before the appointment. Since I hired her a few months ago, Jane’s job has been not only to staff the reception desk and manage the office, but also to stay abreast of every iota of gossip.

  “It’s better now. Or it will be soon,” Geneva says, stiff-upper-lipping it.

  “It will be,” I reassure her. I don’t know all of her situation, but I do hope it improves.

  “And on that cheery note, I’d better be off,” she says.