I smiled. Oh man, this was going to be a good one. “Hi, Lucinda. How are you today?”
Lola shook her head and held up both hands. I smiled even deeper and waved her off.
“Well, I was doing fine, Mike. Reception said you’re supposed to start work today but can’t make it?”
“That’s right,” I confirmed.
“May I ask what’s come up?”
“Well, I got tickets to a concert, and I really can’t miss it. It’s my favorite musician. I’ve been waiting my entire life to see him.”
Lola held her head in distress, clearly confused beyond the point of comfort.
“Mike.”
“Yes, Lucinda?” I asked sweetly, innocently—dumbly.
“That is an absolutely terrible excuse. Think about the impression you’re going to be leaving on the company. It reeks of immaturity, and you’re leaving a lot of people in a bind. And I’m afraid if you don’t show up for your first day, I won’t be able to have confidence in your attendance from here out.”
“Geez. That doesn’t sound good, Luce.”
“That’s because it isn’t, Mike. It isn’t.” Lucinda sounded like she heard too much of this shit. She needed to clean up her employee roster if that was the case.
“Well…”
“Mike, I’m going to have to let you go if you don’t show up today. I can’t make it any clearer than that, and I hope you understand and do the responsible thing.”
“I don’t know…” I pretended to hem.
“Listen, Mike. I’m a busy person, and this is a busy business. Let’s just decide to part ways now and save both of us some time.”
“If that’s what you really think is best…”
“I do.”
“All right, Lucinda. I hope you have a good—”
The line went dead before I even finished my sentence.
“What the hell was that?” Lola yelled immediately, practically shaking the walls of the apartment and doing a little jump and a twist. I laughed.
“Just a little thing I like to do.”
“You just got Mike fired!” she accused, shoving me in the shoulder—pretty hard for someone her size too.
I laughed again. “There is no Mike.”
She stopped mid-rally. “What?”
“I made him up,” I explained, laying her phone down on the kitchen island and giving it a spin. “Dialed a random number. Lucinda never even checked her personnel file to see if there was a Mike scheduled to start today. Hell, it’s Sunday. She’s probably watching her kids systematically tear apart her house piece by piece, subconsciously knowing that it’s not likely someone is supposed to start on a Sunday of all days, but I talked and she listened as though I spoke the truth. That’s not my fault. I was just having a little fun. And no harm to the company since there never was supposed to be anyone starting.”
“Oh, my God. You’re such a troublemaker.”
I shrugged.
Her teeth carved at her bottom lip ruthlessly as she wrung her hands, and then finally, released the words clawing to get out of her throat. “I don’t really understand it, but I kind of want to be one too.”
Both ends up my lips curled up, and I picked up the phone and held it out. I’d never realized how much of a lonely man’s game this had been before.
But the feeling Lola’s enjoyment gave me—ten times as strong as what I got on my own—sure as hell woke me up.
“Show me how it’s done, Lo. Show me how it’s done.”
With one final swerve and beep of the horn, the cab came to a stop outside of Marlowe’s, and I internally cursed when my eyes met the glow of 8:02 p.m. on the dashboard.
Shit. Without any excuses of last-minute work meetings or family emergencies in my arsenal, I was officially real fucking late for dinner with Abby and Jen.
“That’ll be $20.15,” the cabbie said as he slid the shifter into Park.
“What?” I questioned with squinty eyes and an opened mouth. “That cab ride was over twenty dollars? This restaurant is, like, four blocks away from my apartment.”
He shrugged. “Sorry, sweetheart, but cab fares have gone up since Uber took over.”
“Jesus,” I muttered and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and three singles. “Uh…thanks, I guess.” I tossed the money into the front seat and hopped out of the cab in a hurry.
Our dinner reservation was for 7:30 p.m., and it was a staggering thirty-two—now thirty-three—minutes after that. Well past the time frame that would be considered excusable to Abby and Jen. They were both punctual to the point of anal retentive and expected everyone within their atmosphere to be the same—especially Abby. If her date wasn’t five minutes early, he might as well just start the night with, “Hey, sorry I’m late. Obviously, I’m an asshole.” Over twenty minutes late? He might as well just not show up.
So, unless I had actually managed to set my hair on fire while blow-drying, there weren’t many excuses that would win me a warm greeting tonight.
I could say that writing had made me lose track of time, but that particular apology had bags under its eyes it was so tired. Plus, it was a lie.
Rather, I’d spent my day people watching with Reed at Golden Gate Park, making it a game to provide the inner monologue of each passerby. I almost hated that he had such a knack for fictional narration.
When a thirty-something guy—decked out in a neon yellow tracksuit—had run by us while shouting into his Bluetooth, Reed had narrated, “Listen, Mary, I told you I can only wear Lycra and spandex from now on… No… I can’t wear skinny jeans anymore… Goddammit, Mary! I told you I’m a neo-hipster now! … No, it’s not the same fucking thing! It’s different… Well, basically it’s where you’re a hipster, but since hipsterism has gone so mainstream, you dress and act like a regular person.”
And when a middle-aged woman in yoga pants had strolled past our bench with a white fluffy dog wearing a sweater knitted from hemp, Reed had brilliantly fictionalized, “It’s been a really rough week. Fido is only seven days into the vegan challenge, and he’s having a hard time with it… Oh, God, no, I’m not too fussy with his new diet. He can still eat anything that’s gluten-free, sugar-free, dairy-free, unprocessed, fair-trade, and organic.”
I hadn’t been able to keep a straight face through the entire game. By the time he’d started monologue-ing Fido’s thoughts on his new diet, I’d laughed loud enough to gain the attention of everyone in our vicinity, including the pigeons.
It’d been over a week since we did the horizontal tango, and I’d yet to grow tired of Reed Luca and his games—and he had a lot of them. Lying to each and every acquaintance and getting them to play along, in an attempt to look like they weren’t completely in the dark. Calling random places pretending to be employed or previously employed and disgruntled. Shopping for combinations of items that often lacked explanation and acting as though it was completely normal—even asking for pigeon milk and farm-raised sugar when we’d stopped for coffee on the way over there.
I almost liked his games as much as I liked him.
And I liked him.
Somewhere along the way, hate had morphed into dislike and then reincarnated itself into lust, and then, like had blossomed. I liked Reed. Probably too much. But I couldn’t help it. That intriguing bastard was too much fun. Infuriating bullshit columns aside, I couldn’t not like him.
You don’t just like him, my mind whispered, but I refused to take a long enough pause to understand what the hell that meant. Maybe it was avoidance. Maybe it was denial. Maybe I was just compartmentalizing. But no matter the reason, I knew I wanted more of Reed—more time, more words, more touches, more kisses, more, more, more.
I had no idea what we were or where we were headed, but it didn’t matter.
I’d never been the type of girl who needed labels. I preferred to live in the moment and let things evolve naturally. I didn’t want a man who was loyal to me out of misplaced obligation. And I definitely didn’t want the pretenses and the insecurities that so often came with those misplaced obligations. I wanted a partner who freely, willingly, and openly chose me, and I didn’t need, or necessarily want, promises or labels or marriage to achieve that.
Was Reed Luca my version of a perfect partner?
I didn’t have a fucking clue. But, like I said before, I refused to take a long enough pause to understand it all. I just wanted to let it all fall into place organically, without wasting time questioning every little thing.
The instant I stepped through the sleek glass doors of Marlowe’s, I spotted the girls and headed for their table. This was a popular restaurant in San Francisco that made you feel like you had been submerged in hipster the instant you stepped through the doors. Between the laid-back ambiance and the homemade French fries doused in horseradish aioli, I was a big, big fan.
“Sorry I’m late, guys,” I said and sat down in the chair across from Abby and Jen.
“No big deal.” Jen shrugged. “We’ve just been enjoying some cocktails while we were waiting.”
My eyes narrowed. Something was up.