Asking For a Friend Read online

  “I don’t say it to anyone else. Soap-opera honor code.”

  She rewards me with another pretty smile, then leaves, while I contemplate banging my head against the wall.

  I wish she wasn’t totally endearing.

  Completely entertaining.

  And incredibly kissable.

  I return to my office, telling myself I’m not crossing lines by chatting with her. A simple flirtation is fine. As long as I make sure it doesn’t go any further.

  When Baldwin raps on my door at the end of the day, he tells me there’s a going-away party that weekend for Mike Beanman before the editor leaves for London.

  “Want to go?”

  I say yes faster than a cheetah.

  Networking—that’s the name of the game. I can chat up colleagues at the party and make sure I’m 100 percent oriented to the lay of the land here in New York.

  The business terrain, not the landscape of eligible women.

  Even though I admit that there’s the start of a story in my office banter with Amy.

  That’s the trouble.

  Talking to Amy has that easy feel of the last romantic comedy I acquired, and That’s What She Said was a huge hit.

  But it also brought a ton of trouble to my life.

  Trouble that’s behind me now, and needs to stay in the rearview mirror.

  The next night, I drop by Tristan’s, a wine and tapas bar near my pad, and order a pre-party bite to eat. Going to a work party on an empty stomach only leads to embarrassment from a growling belly or accidental intoxication. Plus, stuffing your face is never a good look when you’re trying to impress your new colleagues.

  Tonight I place an order of chicken kebabs and an iced tea with the owner.

  “One order of kebabs coming right up. And how’s your first week in New York treating you?” Tristan asks. He’s a cool dude. We chatted when I was here the other night, clicking instantly.

  “Let’s see. I was nearly hit by a cab, a rollerblader, and a cyclist. Also, I didn’t know anyone still rollerbladed.”

  He pours some iced tea, nodding sagely. “Only people who are trying to murder newcomers to New York. Like Peter the Silver Blader.”

  I crack up. “He must be notorious in these parts. A woman at the office mentioned his villainous intent.”

  “We don’t always tell the new guys about him. It’s a good sign that your coworkers like you enough to give you the heads-up.”

  “Thanks. Glad I passed the beware of murderers test.”

  He slides me the beverage, then scrubs a hand across his beard. “If you’re going to pass a test, is there any better one?”

  I gaze at the ceiling. “Nope.” I take a drink. “Any other words of wisdom?”

  “Never get involved with a chick at the office. Words to live by. But you know that already,” he says, then heads down to wait on a new customer.

  I do know that. So does Tristan, since I shared the SparkNotes version of my number one romantic rule when I was here the other night.

  The longer version?

  1. Avoid women in the same business. You’d have to be more daring than a stunt double to dally with anyone—from a boss to a coworker to someone in another department—who could affect a paycheck, even indirectly.

  1a. That includes women who aren’t in the business but say they are. Because lies can bite you in the ass.

  1b. And on the subject of untruths, give a wide berth to colleagues who are secretly married but claim to be single, and definitely don’t be stupid enough to believe them just because you’re seduced by a potent combination of charm and sass. Trust your instincts, because no one wants to learn they unwittingly screwed a married woman.

  So, yeah, it’s a good thing I moved three thousand miles away from the scene of that crime.

  After I finish my kebabs, I make my way to the party, armor on, ready to resist the woman who’s borderline irresistible already.

  7

  Amy

  I get the call from Peyton when I’m forty minutes pre-party Saturday night. The party where I’m going to sell myself like a teen selling magazine subscriptions.

  Wait. No. No one wants that.

  I’m going to hustle like I’m hawking tickets to the return of Lin-Manuel Miranda in Hamilton.

  As Inspector Poirot shamelessly rolls onto his back, wiggling his little legs in the air, I slide my thumb across the phone screen. “Talk to me. I saw your text. I refuse to believe it was as bad as you said.”

  Peyton’s last text message read: I AM NOT ALLOWED TO SPEAK TO CUTE MEN EVER. MAJOR BLUNDER IN YOGA CLASS.

  “It’s not like you fell out of a downward-facing dog and landed on his penis, right?” I ask, obliging my favorite little man, scratching his belly as he lolls on my bed, aka his bed.

  “No, but close.”

  “His butt? Or was there another kind of butt mishap? Because . . . my condolences.”

  “No! It was more like a mouth mishap.”

  “Got it. Your mouth fell on his penis,” I say as I swivel away from the attention hound, yanking open drawers and hunting for my cute little typewriter dress with the illustrations of raised keys on it.

  “No, Amy. I didn’t know what to say to him. We’d finished with the Savasana and were putting away our mats, and I tried to say, Hi, my name is Peyton.”

  “That’s an excellent start,” I say, pep-talking her.

  “Except I croaked instead. Like a frog. It came out like ribbit mmffffpppp.”

  I laugh as I locate the dress in, of all places, the freaking closet where it belongs. “I doubt you said ‘ribbit mmffffpppp.’ Maybe just ‘ribbit’?”

  “Oh, I said both. And it wasn’t pretty. He stared at me and asked if I was on Molly. Molly! As if I’d take Molly.”

  I wince on her behalf. “Ouch. Okay, so it didn’t go as planned, but you tried. There’s that.”

  “There’s nothing,” she says, sounding utterly down and out. “I flopped. Horribly. I’m not ready to even talk to men, let alone attempt dating.” She’s not even whining. She’s legit sad.

  “Peyton, you’re going to do fine. It takes time and trial and error, but you’re fabulous and funny and you’ll get there.”

  “Ribbit,” she says, and I laugh as I shimmy out of my exercise pants. I conquered the StairMaster in my apartment for twenty minutes earlier, freeing myself up for cake and alcohol consumption later.

  “See? Ribbit isn’t a terrible starting point. After all, you have to kiss a lot of frogs,” I say, hitting the punch line. “Bada bing.”

  “Yes, but I don’t even think I’m going to reach the frog-kissing stage. How the hell is a newbie like me supposed to manage the dating scene? There is so much ugh out there. And I don’t even mean looks. I’m not searching for Scott Eastwood or Tom Ellis. I want a sweet, funny, smart, decent guy I can talk to. Someone who’s not obsessed with sports and Wall Street. Do those men even exist? And would a guy like that even want me?”

  “Yes! Of course he would want you. You have so much to offer. You like badminton; you run a lingerie shop. You’re funny and smart, and you rescue injured birds and take them in cabs to Wild Care, and I don’t mean high-heel-ankle-spraining birds. But real birds. Maybe next time you meet someone in yoga, say, ‘Want to rescue injured birds with me?’” I suggest, as I cradle the phone while tugging on the dress.

  “Nope. I’m sticking to badminton and yoga. And I’ll get any V-time I need with my BOB.”

  That doesn’t sit well with me. “Listen, we are going to triage this. We’re going to fix it. Lola and I will confab tonight at our work party. I’ll devise a plan. You know how I love plans.”

  “Speaking of plans, how is the promotion plan going?”

  I smile, picturing the job description posted earlier in the week. As I told Linc, I’ll need to prepare a sample pitch, and I’ll also need to develop an editorial plan for a manuscript the VPs assign to me during the process. “I’m working on how to sell myself better. To pitc
h myself to my colleagues and bosses. Josh says that’s the key, and he knows his stuff better than anyone.”

  “If I can help, you know I will.”

  “I know.”

  “I mean it,” she says emphatically. “You’re my person, and I adore you. If I can do anything at all to help you, I will. You’ve always helped me.”

  My heart glows a little bit, like E.T.’s, I imagine. “I am one of the luckiest gals in all of Manhattan to have a friend like you. I love you bunches.”

  “Love you more.”

  I say goodbye, kiss Inspector Poirot on the cheek, slide on some shoes, then dart out of my building, texting my sister Quinn as I go.

  * * *

  Amy: Need ice cream? Pickles? A tent to wear? A personal pedicurist? A foot rub?

  * * *

  Amy: Wait. If it’s the last one, ask Vaughn. He’ll do anything for you right now!

  * * *

  Amy: Actually, he better do anything for you forever and ever and always.

  * * *

  Amy: He’d probably polish your toes too, so we can nix the pedicurist. But LMK if I can bring you pickles. Just walked past a new, trendy pickle shop. It’s running a special for preggers women. If you show a picture of your pregnant sister unable to touch her toes, you get free pickles! Can you say ‘deal’?

  * * *

  Amy: Hello! I know you’re there! I see the three dots. Are you taking the picture for me? You’re so sweet!

  * * *

  Quinn: No, I’m contemplating ways to torture you. Maybe I’ll break into your apartment to steal your Scrabble, dictionaries, and thesauruses, then string them up and take pics to send with the ransom note.

  * * *

  Amy: It’s a good thing no one ever said you were the nice sister!

  * * *

  Quinn: Especially not me. Also, yes to the pickles, please. Be here tomorrow by three or else fear for your dictionary’s life.

  * * *

  Amy: Yes, captain.

  * * *

  I put my phone away as I reach the subway entrance, then dart below ground, catching a train to Gramercy Park. Along the way, I click on my e-reader app, diving back into the tale of a woman who loses her bucket list only to discover a man has taken it on for her. I nearly miss my stop, it’s that good.

  But I’m not a New Yorker for nothing. I have subway antennae and they twitch in alert right before the train is about to pull away from Twenty-Third Street.

  I leap off the car in the nick of time, then adjust my Betty Boop necklace. On second thought, the necklace doesn’t quite match my dress, so I unhook it and tuck it in my purse as I scurry up the steps.

  A few minutes later, I arrive at the rooftop bar in Gramercy Park, where I make a beeline for Tiffany Chilton.

  You can do it. You can vanilla latte the fuck out of yourself.

  With my mantra on repeat, I head for the bigwig at the bar. I’m diving into the deep end. Watch me go. “Hi, Tiffany. Do you want a vanilla latte?”

  And I cringe.

  Seriously? Did that just come out of my mouth?

  Her right eyebrow rises in question. “They have vanilla lattes here?”

  Mayday! I need to do everything in my power to right this ship.

  Confidence. I’ve got this.

  I lift my chin, owning it. “I mean, right? They should. Is there anything better than a vanilla latte?”

  She smiles like I’ve just said something clever. “Not a damn thing.”

  I seize the opportunity. “Why don’t we have a coffee table book by that name?”

  She beams, with a picture this sweep of her hands. “Better Than a Vanilla Latte. I can see it now. It’ll have foam art on the cover.”

  We might be playing around, but this is my chance, so I keep taking it. “And on the inside, we’ll have gorgeous photography of all the things that are awesome in life. Like Cinnamon Life cereal and afternoon naps and binge-watching Sex Education on Netflix.”

  “And shoes. Finding an amazing discount on shoes is definitely as good as a vanilla latte.”

  “And we’ll pitch it as the ultimate gift guide for girlfriends,” I say, since I would absolutely get that book for Lola and Peyton for Christmas.

  “Yes! It’s the perfect giftbook.”

  Holy smokes. I’m doing this. We riff a little longer about our vanilla latte title, and I can’t wait to tell Josh I turned a faux pas into a total win.

  Especially when Tiffany smiles and says, “I hear you are applying for the promotion. Let me know if I can give you any pointers as you prepare for the pitches.”

  I fly to the moon. “Thank you. I’d be so grateful,” I manage to say without squeeing all over her. Even though I want to jump up and down.

  Another editor corrals Tiffany, and I say goodbye, feeling like confident Jo in Little Women. I’ll ride this wave. Strike while the iron is hot. Spotting Rainey holding a glass of champagne, an elbow resting elegantly on a high table, I take a deep breath. I gird myself, swallowing my nerves and chewing on steel for a snack as I make my way over. Smart small talk. That’s what I need to reel in one more VP.

  She loves Broadway, so I lead off with a simple question. “Have you seen anything good lately on the Great White Way?”

  “No,” she says in that cool-as-marble voice. “But I did go to the Rangers last night. And the new forward lit the lamp.”

  Rainey likes sports? She likes hockey? Freaking hockey? Why didn’t I know this? Why can’t my brother be here? He knows literally everything about every sport played on the planet, and whatever lamps they light.

  Also, where the hell are these lamps on a hockey field?

  I mean, rink.

  They play hockey in rinks. Obviously. Everyone knows that.

  But I remember my mantra: confidence.

  And I decide I can fake my way through this lamp-lighting conversation.

  Think fast.

  What do I know about hockey?

  They use sticks and skates, and they have those ultimate plays, right? Or are they called something else? Whopper plays?

  No, that’s not it.

  It’s on the tip of my tongue, so I go for broke.

  “Yes. Wasn’t that an amazing power play last night?”

  Wait.

  Who the hell stole the words right out of my mouth? Because I didn’t say that.

  I turn around to see blonde. Everywhere blonde, plus some pink lip gloss and a smile that could grace the fanciest dentist office.

  It’s Antonia, and she’s like a sports commentator, animated and passionate as she leaps into the conversational fray like a leopard. “Fitzgerald killed it. I swear, he came out of nowhere and then ate up the puck.” She lifts an imaginary stick and slashes it.

  “He attacked with such ferocity,” Rainey says, passion in her voice, fire in her eyes.

  I believe I’ve just learned how to thaw her. Hockey melts her inner penguin.

  Trouble is, she’s now locked in a deep discussion about the nuances of the sport with the editor everyone loves.

  Kill. Me. Now.

  As they go on and on, I catch a faint hint of cedar.

  “Power play, blah, blah, blah,” someone whispers near my ear, setting my skin to sizzle.

  Clark Kent is standing so close to me. Closer than he should be allowed.

  Except he should absolutely be allowed in my space. He should be permitted to lick the shell of my ear, brush his lips over my neck, and kiss the breath out of me.

  Because this tingling sensation spreading over my shoulders, across my chest? I like it. I like it a lot more than I should.

  I turn to him. Hotness overload. Those eyes. My God, his blue eyes ought to be illegal. Anyone with eyes that mesmerizing is dangerous.

  To my self-control.

  Because the way I feel around this man is waging a war with my work plans.

  I try to stay rooted in the conversation. “Blah, blah, blah and yada, yada, yada is precisely how I feel about hocke
y. And baseball. And football. And whatever that other sport is that everyone talks about.”

  “Shopping-cart races?” he asks playfully.

  I snap my fingers. “Yes, that’s the one I keep forgetting.”

  “You should try joining a shopping-cart-racing league. You’ll never forget the sport then.”

  I tap my chin quizzically. “You know, I bet there is a shopping-cart-racing league somewhere in this city.”

  “I bet you’re right. As for Rainey, she’s obsessed with hockey, which you probably gleaned,” he whispers. “I found that out earlier today, so I chatted with her about the game a little while ago.”

  “Impressive, your prep skills. Now, did you chat about the trick play? Or power hat? Or whatever they call it,” I ask, still miffed that I lost my shot to chat up Rainey in a social setting.

  “Actually, it’s called a hat rack,” he says. “C’mon, get it right.”

  I laugh. “Talking about hat racks sounds like more fun than hat tricks.”

  “I suspect sometimes it is, which is why I looked up what went down in the game before I arrived. So I’d be armed and ready.”

  A waiter circles by, offering tuna tartare on fancy chips. Linc takes one then gestures to the plate, asking with his eyes if I want an appetizer. When in Rome . . . I take it and pop it in my mouth. He eats his too. When I finish, I ask, “You don’t like sports?”

  He shushes me. “I know enough to finesse my way through a conversation about any of the four big ones, plus shopping-cart racing, of course. But I don’t watch, attend, or give a flying hootenanny about being the twelfth man, or whatever the saying is.”

  God, could he be any more delectable?

  I’m tempted to spend the night snagging appetizers off silver plates and eating tuna tartare as we chat. And then I’d say, Hey, want to get out of here and shop for fancy potato chips at Whole Foods, then conduct a taste test of the most absurd flavors, like red pepper poppyseed or salt and cumin?