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Now brace yourself, because scenario four is the most heinous of them all: You’re awake at five A.M. because you’re an uptight prick whose schedule is even more rigid than your posture, and your life is an endless string of working out, the corner office, repeat. You’re also likely the type of person who subsists on protein shakes and kale smoothies, and you have been known to utter the phrase the body is a temple, thus solidifying what we already knew about you. You have no friends. But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself.
“Oh my gosh, I have the perfect baby gift,” I say, nibbling at a piece of my donut. “I saw this adorable Burberry onesie in Bergdorf’s the other day, with this precious little red bow—” “Yes, because that’s what every infant needs,” a low voice interrupts. “A four-hundred-dollar piece of fabric that needs to be dry-cleaned. Don’t be ridiculous, Georgiana.”
I let my gaze drift over Andrew, even though his appearance rarely holds any surprises. The man’s a lesson in sameness, like some sort of anal-retentive version of Groundhog Day. There’s always the black mug with some healthy gunk inside held in his right hand, Tom Ford briefcase and Armani garment bag in his left, containing what I know to be a perfectly tailored three-piece suit. Andrew’s coppery hair is perfectly styled, although I’d swear that there’s some natural curl in there threatening to disrupt his perfect order. I imagine that annoys him, so it therefore makes me happy.
My hair, though? Well, I fake that a little bit too with the highlights, but mostly it’s all me. It’s long and thick and shiny, and Page Six actually deemed my distinct “cinnamon-sugar waves” as the hairstyle to watch last year. Based on that write-up, Stefan got a handful of new clients demanding “the Georgie.” You’re probably rolling your eyes right now, but come on. At least admit it’s a little cool to have a hairstyle named after you. I mean, it did wonders for Jennifer Aniston, right?
Shes so cute, love her
Instead, the fact that I’m getting the inside track on breaking-news gossip (I have a firm policy against spreading gossip, but it doesn’t mean I don’t like hearing it) barely registers.
I slow down just the slightest bit as I pass Andrew, giving him the opportunity to throw down a gauntlet under his breath. A see you tomorrow, or perhaps a you’re ridiculous. That’s one of his favorites. He says nothing, already sitting back down, attention fixed on Liv Dotson as though I literally don’t exist. Whatever.
ugh poor girl
“How’d you guys meet?” “Move-in day,” I say, setting the plate aside and grabbing my water bottle. “The building double-booked the loading dock, and neither of us handled it particularly well.” “Aha! So the attraction was instant,” she says, snapping her fingers. “What part of what I just said translated to attraction?”
Perfectly ridiculous. There’s just those two words. No name, but then, I don’t need one. The ridiculous is a calling card of sorts. Although it’s not the ridiculous that has me smiling a little bit. It’s the perfectly. Perfectly ridiculous.
As far as apologies go… Well, is it one? There’s no sorry. There’s certainly not nearly enough groveling, considering he callously insulted my intellect. And yet this gesture feels sort of perfectly…us.
“You’re ridiculous.” But I’m pretty sure I hear a smile in his voice when he says it.
If you’re wondering what Andrew Mulroney looks like while he’s in workout mode, picture this: Thor and Captain America somehow defeat biology and have a love child together. And call him Andrew. You’re welcome for the visual.
If he thinks sitting behind a desk and talking legalese is hard, he’s never been down Fifth Avenue in December. I make a mental note to force him to do that with me in a few weeks.
“See you in an hour!” I chirp, spinning on my heel to retrieve my bag and get pretty for the day. “An hour?” he calls after me. “What can possibly take you an hour?” Oh, Andy. How adorable.
“Yes.” “Yes what?” I whisper. He glances down at me, his expression unreadable. “Yes, perfectly ridiculous.” I can’t help the smile.
“You thought I wouldn’t last a day in your world. I’d say I’m flourishing.” He leans forward as well. “In case you haven’t noticed, we quit being in my world the second you got me to leave the office for lunch and gave my assistant the rest of the day off.” I smile. “Like I said. My victory.”
I’ll be right back. You need anything else besides pills and that godawful neon-blue liquid you stocked my fridge with?” “Be grateful. Was trying to take care of you,” I mumble. “And now it’s my turn to take care of you,” he says, standing. “You don’t have to.” It comes out like Yu doh haf to. I feel a brush of warm fingertips against my temple, the touch all too fleeting. “I know.”
It’s been a long time since someone’s been in this bed beside me, and I immediately roll toward him, curling into him for warmth. I feel his chest extend under my cheek as he sighs. Then, very slowly, his arms go around me, pulling me close, and I realize that somehow, even sick as I am, this is the happiest I’ve felt in a long, long time.
I know. You’re frustrated with me right now. I’m frustrated with me too, because I’m usually honest to a fault, and here I am not telling this guy that I…like him. Really like him. I’ve never had a problem telling a guy how I felt. But I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way before. Ever.
Esquire’s not an adjective.” “Sure it is,” I say, trailing my lips over his jawline, since it’s all I can reach. “Synonym: stodgy. Definition: prone to overthinking.”
His eyes narrow, his breathing harsh and uneven as he flicks a finger over the pink bow at the top of my black lace panties, his gaze dropping to follow the back-and-forth motion of his finger. “A bow,” he whispers. “How perfectly ridiculous.” Then his fingers are slipping beneath the elastic, pulling my underwear to the side as he bends down, lowering his head and tasting me.
I start to move to the right, thinking he means for us to go to the bedroom, but his fingers close around my wrist, lifting my hand to his face. The kiss on my palm is gentle, but the way he spins me around, pressing my belly against the kitchen counter, is anything but.
“Have I mentioned I’m a fan of red?” I can’t respond. Not when his finger’s slipping under the lace and finding me hot and wet for him. Not when he pulls the lace aside and, without warning or preamble, presses his tongue to my clit. I clutch his shoulders as he eats me, his tongue and fingers moving in slow, sensuous movements, utterly confident in his knowledge of my body. He has two fingers inside me, his mouth moving hungrily, and I’m too turned on to be embarrassed by my lightning-fast orgasm. His other hand holds me steady as I come undone around him, against him.
It’s then that I break. All my fear of the future, all the pain for my little family splintering apart, comes out as one keening sob. He makes a choked sound, and without a word draws me to him, one arm wrapped protectively around my back, his other hand cupping my head, hugging me to his chest. “I’m here,” he whispers.
