The F-Word

“Cereal?”

“Yes,” she says, not just coolly, but defiantly. “I’m sure that isn’t your idea of—”

“Cap’n Crunch? Or Frosted Flakes?”

I can feel her staring at me. I look at her and shrug. “We all have our secrets, Bailey. Midnight raids on bowls of crispy stuff smothered in milk happen to be one of mine.”

She smiles, but it doesn’t last. By the time we pull off at our exit, she’s back to shaking her head.

“Thank you for trying, sir, but it wouldn’t work.”

I turn onto the long driveway that leads to the O’Malley offices and pull up before the front door.

“Even if I wanted to accept your generous offer—”

“It’s not generous. It’s just one friend helping another.”

“We really aren’t friends, sir. And that’s the point. There’s just too much to learn about each other and not enough time to do it. But I thank you for—”

“White tea. Loose, not bags. Tolstoy. Jones Beach. Grown men beating each other up. Which is not what football is, by the way, but you’re entitled to your own opinion.”

“That’s very good, Mr. O’Malley, but—”

“I’m a quick study.”

“Perhaps.” Her hand is on the door handle. “But my mother is sharp. She’d see through our routine in an instant.”

“She will, if you keep calling me Mr. O'Malley.”

“Really, Mister…” She stops. Takes a breath. “Look, it’s not that I don’t appreciate your offer, but—”

“Although, who knows, if anybody hears you addressing me so formally—sir, Mister— they’ll figure maybe we have an interesting thing going in the bedroom.”

Dumb thing to say, but if I’m going to think of Bailey as, ah, as my woman, I have to start talking to her as if we spend our time having fun together instead of working our asses off.

I can see the color rushing into her face.

Jesus, her hair really is a mess.

I reach

out and run my fingers through it. Just to smooth it out. No other reason. Nothing to do with the softness of it, or the way those little curls wind around my fingers.

“But just to be clear, whatever happens in the bedroom would be strictly your choice.”

“Nothing will happen in the bedroom,” she says, shoving my hand away.

“No. Yes. It was a joke.”

“The whole idea is a joke. I am not going to do this ridiculous thing.”

I shrug. I sit back and put my hands on the steering wheel.

“Have it your way,” I say. “Don’t go to the wedding. Let your cousin Violet win. Or go to the wedding and let her win anyway. Because whether you’re a no-show or you turn up alone, the game will go to her.”

I hate myself as soon as the words are out of my mouth. And I don’t really mean them. Why would a bright woman like my PA give a crap what her scuzzy-sounding cousin thinks? So why did I say something like that? It couldn’t be because I want her to agree to what admittedly is a crazy scheme…

“You’re right.”