her any happier. And I had to call Claire, too, speaking of unhappy women. But I needed more information before I did that.
“Eat fast. And bring me my ascension-to-the-throne question, too,” she demanded, hanging up so forcefully that I thought the reverb might shatter my phone. I slammed my handset down, too, knowing she wouldn’t hear it but needing to respond in kind.
As I searched for an outfit in the piles Cassady had left scattered around my room the night before, I reviewed events. Did I have anything I needed to apologize for? Or had I, in pursuit of a thorough background for my article, simply been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time? I preferred the latter, but Eileen seemed to be rooting for the former. One more chance to see me fail.
I’d almost coaxed myself into the comfort of my Banana Republic pinstripe shirtdress when the doorman rang. Danny, the regular doorman, was on vacation, and I couldn’t wait for him to come back because Todd, the substitute, took forever to make his point and I really didn’t have the patience for it this morning.
“Good morning, Ms. Forrester,” Todd began. “How are you this morning?”
“Fine, Todd, how are you?” I asked, hoping he wasn’t looking at the Post.
“I’m quite well, thank you. There’s a gentleman down here who says I don’t know him because you stopped dating him, but it’s quite important that he see you—”
Even more excruciating. Todd didn’t have the paper, but Kyle did. “Thank you, Todd, send him up.”
I hung up, shot a brush through my hair, and slapped on my mascara first; if he knocked before I could put on all my makeup, at least my eyelashes wouldn’t be invisible, which makes me look as though I’m eight years old and I’ve been crying.
He knocked just as I was debating eye shadow colors. I wondered what our beauty editor, Marlie, would suggest in a situation like this: keep him waiting or finish painting? I split the difference, pausing long enough to swipe a taupe stripe across both eyelids, then hurrying to the door.
Fortunately, I didn’t fling myself out the door and into his arms, but I was considering it, and that must have been evident by my expression.
“It’s okay, you can be happy to see me,” he said with a grin.
“Hello, Peter,” I said with no grin at all.
“You look disappointed. Were you expecting someone else?” His grin broadened. “I told the doorman I was an ex. I won’t insinuate that it’s a long list, but I can’t be the only one on it.”
True, Peter Mulcahey was an ex. Specifically, the man I stopped dating when I started dating Kyle. Because we were both journalists, we continued to run into each other, which he enjoyed far more than I did. Tricia believed he went out of his way to seek me out, which was a credible theory, though I did my best to dissuade him. I’d really thought I might’ve seen the last of him, since the last time we’d crossed paths, he’d gotten shot. Not by me. Not that the thought hadn’t occurred to me.
Peter looked good, but he always looked good in that golden glow sort of way, with his bright blond hair and lapis eyes and crooked smile. He came off like Prince Charming, but in my experience thus far, he was more of a chocolate Santa: all shiny and sweet on the outside, hollow on the inside.
“The doorman said you were someone I’d ‘stopped dating,’” I said. Perhaps Peter didn’t appreciate the sharp distinction between “man I dumped” and “man I stopped dating” that I was making in my head, and given that I still had occasional guilt pangs about not breaking things off with more finesse, that was probably a good thing in the long run. And I really couldn’t see him admitting to anyone that he’d ever been dumped. But it was still annoying that it was his misapprehension of his status in my life that had led us to this awkward moment.
“It’s the truth.” His cool eyes narrowed. “And yet, I surprised you. That
“Eat fast. And bring me my ascension-to-the-throne question, too,” she demanded, hanging up so forcefully that I thought the reverb might shatter my phone. I slammed my handset down, too, knowing she wouldn’t hear it but needing to respond in kind.
As I searched for an outfit in the piles Cassady had left scattered around my room the night before, I reviewed events. Did I have anything I needed to apologize for? Or had I, in pursuit of a thorough background for my article, simply been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time? I preferred the latter, but Eileen seemed to be rooting for the former. One more chance to see me fail.
I’d almost coaxed myself into the comfort of my Banana Republic pinstripe shirtdress when the doorman rang. Danny, the regular doorman, was on vacation, and I couldn’t wait for him to come back because Todd, the substitute, took forever to make his point and I really didn’t have the patience for it this morning.
“Good morning, Ms. Forrester,” Todd began. “How are you this morning?”
“Fine, Todd, how are you?” I asked, hoping he wasn’t looking at the Post.
“I’m quite well, thank you. There’s a gentleman down here who says I don’t know him because you stopped dating him, but it’s quite important that he see you—”
Even more excruciating. Todd didn’t have the paper, but Kyle did. “Thank you, Todd, send him up.”
I hung up, shot a brush through my hair, and slapped on my mascara first; if he knocked before I could put on all my makeup, at least my eyelashes wouldn’t be invisible, which makes me look as though I’m eight years old and I’ve been crying.
He knocked just as I was debating eye shadow colors. I wondered what our beauty editor, Marlie, would suggest in a situation like this: keep him waiting or finish painting? I split the difference, pausing long enough to swipe a taupe stripe across both eyelids, then hurrying to the door.
Fortunately, I didn’t fling myself out the door and into his arms, but I was considering it, and that must have been evident by my expression.
“It’s okay, you can be happy to see me,” he said with a grin.
“Hello, Peter,” I said with no grin at all.
“You look disappointed. Were you expecting someone else?” His grin broadened. “I told the doorman I was an ex. I won’t insinuate that it’s a long list, but I can’t be the only one on it.”
True, Peter Mulcahey was an ex. Specifically, the man I stopped dating when I started dating Kyle. Because we were both journalists, we continued to run into each other, which he enjoyed far more than I did. Tricia believed he went out of his way to seek me out, which was a credible theory, though I did my best to dissuade him. I’d really thought I might’ve seen the last of him, since the last time we’d crossed paths, he’d gotten shot. Not by me. Not that the thought hadn’t occurred to me.
Peter looked good, but he always looked good in that golden glow sort of way, with his bright blond hair and lapis eyes and crooked smile. He came off like Prince Charming, but in my experience thus far, he was more of a chocolate Santa: all shiny and sweet on the outside, hollow on the inside.
“The doorman said you were someone I’d ‘stopped dating,’” I said. Perhaps Peter didn’t appreciate the sharp distinction between “man I dumped” and “man I stopped dating” that I was making in my head, and given that I still had occasional guilt pangs about not breaking things off with more finesse, that was probably a good thing in the long run. And I really couldn’t see him admitting to anyone that he’d ever been dumped. But it was still annoying that it was his misapprehension of his status in my life that had led us to this awkward moment.
“It’s the truth.” His cool eyes narrowed. “And yet, I surprised you. That
Similar Books
