“I’m still suffering,” I said darkly. “It should be illegal for jackasses to be that gorgeous.”
* * *
That Thursday, the temp agency sent me back to John’s advertising agency.
I covertly texted Laurel from behind the receptionist’s desk on the fifteenth floor. She responded quickly: Drag him into the supply closet. Srslsy.
I sat staring at the message and considering it until the office phone rang and almost startled me out of my skin. Shoving my cell into a drawer, I plastered a smile on and answered. “Meckleson and Drivers.”
All day long, I imagined John pacing two floors above me, past the minions’ cubicles and into his office, or strolling over to the espresso machine for the fourth time. Every time the elevator dinged, I tensed, fingers freezing on the keyboard, nerves firing in rabbitlike anticipation.
What if Laurel was right? What if I should just indulge in a no-strings-attached fling? I could seriously use a good hook up.
Then again, I didn’t actually like John.
Finally, the clock hit five and I headed for the elevator, slinging on my coat and twisting up my flyaway strands into a contained updo. My shoulders finally relaxed as I crossed the lobby toward the rotating glass doors.
“Rachael!”
But of course.
I turned around, and there stood John. Tall and chiseled, his jacket flapping open behind him, he presented a picture of young success. Style over substance. I pasted on a smile. “John. Hi.”
He loped over and did a quick appraisal. “You look good.”
“Thanks.”
“You think about that drink?”
I gazed at him, the angel and demon back on my shoulders. Would it hurt? Just a drink. I didn’t need to sleep with him; we could just have a good old-fashioned make out session. I could stop thinking about that damn quarterback all the time.
But.
It had been a little shady how he hadn’t mentioned his girlfriend until she walked in on us. For God’s sake, I’d made him show me his blood work. Shouldn’t he have mentioned he’d had a steady sexual partner? If their relationship was so very open, shouldn’t it have come up?
I shook my head. “You have a girlfriend.”
He rolled his eyes, clearly frustrated. “I told you. We have an open relationship. Besides, she’s in Japan for the next two months doing research.”
I kneaded my lip with my teeth. John didn’t have a problem hooking up with me. Why did I? Maybe it was just residual resentment from discovering he didn’t want what I wanted. Was I actually one of those girls who couldn’t just have a good time? Sexually repressed. With issues.
“Come on,” John wheedled, taking a step closer. “We’ll go out this weekend. We can get dinner at Mariette’s—I know the owner. Or there’s this great wine and chocolate bar...”
I blinked, pulling my coat tighter. Mariette’s cost upward of two hundred dollars a meal, and the reservation list stretched for months. Why was it so attractive that John could get into places like that? That he came from old-New York money? It shouldn’t balance out a tedious, smarmy personality.
“Or,” John said, when I remained silent, “my family has season tickets to the Leopards’ games. We could go on Sunday.”
I stared at him, sick. The Leopards game? What was this, a conspiracy to insert sports in my life? I should call my father. “I don’t do sports.”
He laughed condescendingly and rolled his eyes. “Well, yeah. But they’re the Leopards.”
I don’t even do the Leopards. As one Leopard would most certainly ascertain.
“Look, John—” The mention of the Leopards had drained away any lust-fueled temptation, and now I fumbled for words. Luckily, deus ex telephone, my ringing cell saved me. I held it up. “I have to take this. See you.”
I pressed the cell to my ear, not
recognizing the number and not caring. “Hello?”