Move the Stars (Something in the Way 3)

I glanced at my watch. I needed to leave soon for another sales meeting or I’d be late. I’d been in New York less than twenty-four hours, and I was ready to blow off everything to spend more time with Lake.

“You here for work?” Corbin asked, noticing I’d checked the time. “Man, my dad would’ve loved for me to go into pharma. So much money there, but then again, Wall Street’s got me doing all right.”

“Sure,” I said, chewing.

“You knew he worked with your dad?” Lake asked Corbin. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You’re always saying you don’t want to know anything about home.” He sipped his coffee and shrugged at me. “Where’d they put you up?”

“The W. In Union Square.” I washed down my food with some coffee. “I think it’s new.”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve seen it. Your schedule must be packed. I doubt you came all this way without lots to do.”

I ripped off part of a bacon strip with my teeth, looking between them. Corbin was right, but I was finding it hard to care about work. I couldn’t say that in front of him, though. “I’ve got a busy schedule,” I agreed, chewing. It’d been the only way I could prove to Charles I needed to be in New York. “I wanted to make sure I checked in on things, though. For Cathy.”

“For Cathy.” Corbin nodded, then glanced at Lake and laughed. “Lake, babe,” he said, “you already got ketchup on yourself.”

Lake pulled her sweater taut to see the stain. “Damn it.”

“At least you have time to go home and change before work . . . unlike the Upper East Side mixer incident.”

She rolled her eyes as she patted her top. “Only me.”

“I took her to a party hosted by my firm,” he said to me. “First time I introduced her to my colleagues, and she spilled champagne all down the front of her Versace dress. The one I’d just spent hundreds of dollars on.”

My patience was growing thin. I’d had enough of Corbin’s peacocking, his inside jokes and expensive taste, and his fucking hands all over her.

Like old times, Lake seemed to pick up on my irritation. She put down the napkin. “I have to get home and shower if I’m going to get to work on time.”

“I’ll walk you,” I said.

“Where’s your next meeting?” she asked.

“Not around here,” I said. “It’s in Manhasset.”

Corbin’s eyebrows rose. “That’s a drive.”

“Yeah, it’s not technically a sales call. I’m playing golf with a client of mine from Orange County, because he’s going to introduce me to . . .”

Lake looked at me as if she didn’t know me. I didn’t blame her. I’d had things to take care of the past few years, like a wife and a mortgage, and if golf was the answer to getting more clients, I had to play the game. I’d once told Tiffany I’d never become her dad, but the commission structure Charles had put in place for me made it impossible not to want more and more. Truth be told, I’d never dreamed of living the life I was now—owning my home, having a pool, surprising Tiffany with expensive gifts that she bragged about to her friends. This doctor I was meeting today could set me up with another three or four sales appointments while I was in town, and if I wasn’t letting Lake go again, that meant I had a divorce in my future, and knowing Tiff, that would get fucking pricey. “It could be pretty lucrative for me to hit a tiny ball around for a few hours,” I explained.

“Oh.” Lake frowned. “Well, if it’s lucrative.”

“Hope you’ve got a change of clothes,” Corbin said.

“I’ll pick something up at the club.”

Lake and I held each other’s gaze as Corbin signaled for the waitress. “Are you coming over tonight?” he asked Lake.

“I won’t be done at work until late.”

“What about after?”

She finally turned to him, her head tilted. “It’ll be close to midnight.”

“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess.”

I removed my wallet, but Corbin waved me off. “I’ve got this,” he said, taking the bill up to the cashier.

I didn’t need to make a show of paying for the meal. If Corbin wanted to give me time alone with Lake, I wouldn’t argue. “The show’s at seven tonight,” I said to her.

“I already told you I have to work at the diner.”

“Then quit.” I hoped she’d say yes, but she didn’t seem as outraged about her graveyard shift as I was. “Or fake a stomachache. I thought you loved Broadway.”

“I do, but . . . I don’t see the point of spending time together when it’s only going to . . .” She swallowed down her words. She’d done that a few times already in the apartment, and all I could do was stand there and watch. It took every ounce of self-restraint not to take her in my arms and promise her the world just to ease the sadness in her eyes.