Another One Read online

  Beth shrugs. “The thing some people don’t see, especially if they’re around people like Duncan and me, is that men like Christopher—and Trevor, I would presume—save their words for when it’s important, for when they’re with the person they truly want to have hear them.”

  Her observation returns my smile. I’d heard for over a year from Kimbra how quiet and shy Trevor was, but from our first meeting, my assessment was completely different. In Beth’s words, that makes me the one person for whom he’s saved his words.

  Beth smiles at Kimbra. “And then there’s Duncan, who does take more after me. Sometimes people like us don’t know when to be quiet. It could be said that we talk too much or are too demonstrative.”

  “I like demonstrative,” Kimbra says.

  “And, honey, we’re all glad you do.

  “I’d guess that you’re talking too much now.”

  We all turn as Trevor enters the kitchen. Putting his arm around me and pulling me to his side, he asks, “Has my mother scared you off yet?”

  I smile at Beth. “Actually, the opposite.”

  Before we know it, all three men are in the kitchen and everyone is carrying plates and platters to the dining room. The talking and laughing barely ceases, despite the fact that we’re all eating the delicious meal.

  It is as Trevor and I are leaving their penthouse that he gives me a kiss. “I’m sorry you had to put up with my family.”

  “I like your family.”

  He shrugs. “You know, after thirty-three years, they’re starting to grow on me too.”

  Shana

  Emerging from the subway tunnel near Rockefeller Center, I squint as the sunshine fills the street. As the crowd pushes forward, I’m like a salmon in a stream. Thankfully, we’re all swimming the same direction.

  Looking at my watch, I calculate that if I can walk the rest of the way at a swift pace, I’ll make it to the tenth floor of Saks with over three minutes to spare. Considering that Trevor and I woke later than planned, my decision to take the subway instead of aboveground transportation may have saved the day.

  When I went to Trevor’s apartment Friday night, I didn’t intend to stay until Monday morning, but plans change. That’s my new attitude.

  Adapt.

  After spending the afternoon with his family, I didn’t want to leave him and go back to my hotel alone. Continuing our no-plans weekend, we went back to his apartment, laid a blanket on the living room floor, picnicked with cheese and fruit, and continued our Netflix marathon with a few intermissions for exercise. Thank goodness we had the cheese and fruit for needed nourishment.

  Who knew watching television was so taxing?

  I giggle to myself as I make my way over to Fifth Avenue and up toward Fiftieth Street, trying not to think about how easy it would be to get used to spending my time away from work with Trevor or how nice it would be to go home to him each evening. Nevertheless, as the ideas creep into my thoughts, I find myself relishing them instead of dismissing them.

  Maybe it’s a new attitude for a new week. Kimbra is right. Numbers are what matter in sales and after all, that is the essence of what I do. I sell.

  “Good morning, Shana.”

  “Good morning.”

  I smile as I make my way back to the temporary office Stephen and I are using. As soon as I enter, Stephen’s expression takes away my newly obtained optimism. “What’s up?”

  “Check your email.”

  “That sounds ominous,” I say as I fling my purse into the bottom desk drawer, turn on my computer, and notice the steaming grande cup of cappuccino sitting in the middle of my desk. Prying the lid from the tall white cup, I say, “You’re the best.”

  “I am.”

  The screen before me comes to life, displaying too many unread emails. I guess that’s what happens when my phone is turned off. “Before I jump into whatever this is, how was your weekend with your parents?”

  His expression lightens. “It was fabulous. I got to see my sister’s kid. He’s this giant baby.”

  “Giant?”

  “Well, he’s something like months old. You know how parents never use years. I think I figured I’m now nearing my 361st month birthday.”

  I laugh, thinking how right he is. I have Facebook friends that post pictures of their children with little month signs on the baby’s tummy. For only a second, I imagine Stephen holding his sign. “So are you a giant baby?” Before he answers, I add, “And what do you want for your 361st month birthday?”

  “Nothing. I’m not a giant baby. I think it’s somewhere over 30 months when you cease to be a baby and become a kid.” He points at his chest. “I’ve moved into man status.”

  “Yes, I’m glad to hear that.”

  “It’s my nephew, Landon. He’s this little football player.” Stephen lowers his voice. “He’s only like ten or eleven months—not quite a year—and he has all these adorable wrinkles on his chubby arms and legs. His dad thinks he’s going to be an offensive lineman. But little Landon and I had a talk.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Yes, girl, we did. He wants to take after Uncle Stephen. He’s already interested in the arts. He kept pushing the button on this toy and playing the same song over and over. I see show choir in his future. Then of course, the costumes will instill a love for fashion. In fashion design he’s going to be king. We’ll start our own design company.”

  “Should I ask about your brother-in-law’s thoughts on this?”

  “He’ll get over the offensive line thing. Too many injuries. Fashion design is safer.”

  “How does your sister feel about the change of plans?”

  Stephen waves me off. “We didn’t include her in the conversation. What mothers don’t know won’t hurt them.”

  I smile, looking at my screen and seeing an email from Beth Willis, subject line: Best Cannoli. Yes, sometimes it might be better to keep mothers in the dark. I mean, I’m sure her recipe is good, but I personally believe I’ve found the best.

  It’s then I see the email from Neil Butler, our supervisor in London.

  My stomach twists as my cursor hovers over his name. “Is it the Neil email you’re talking about?”

  Stephen nods.

  “What does it say?”

  “Who am I? Your assistant?” he asks.

  “Well, technically, yes.”

  “The email is to both of us. He wants to have a conference call with us and HR in London tomorrow. He needs confirmation that we can both be on the call.”

  Instead of opening the email, I lean back in the chair. “Do you think this is good or bad?”

  “I guess it depends on your definition of those evaluations.”

  When Stephen turns his chair with his back to me, I remember the text I sent him. “Hey, you never returned my text message.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  I pull out my phone and see that the sound is still muted from Trevor’s and my no-plans weekend. Scrolling, I find Stephen’s response:

  * * *

  “MY MOM SAYS HI BACK. SHE SAID SHE MISSED SEEING YOU. WHAT SECRET?”

  * * *

  The time stamp is this morning.

  When I look up, he’s staring at me from the corner of his eye.

  “You finally replied...this morning?”

  “I’ve been a little busy. You just read it...this morning.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  He spins my direction with an exaggerated exhale. “A lot and it’s killing me. I’m sorry. But your plate is a little full, and I wanted you to concentrate on your weekend with Mr. Sexy, you know, when you aren’t thinking about here. You don’t need to think about me.”

  “Stephen, that’s not how friendship works. You know what’s happening with me.”

  His eyebrows dance. “Bunny-rabbit sex.” He sits taller. “How did he like the negligee? He didn’t think it was too forward, did he? Oh, do tell.”

  Warmth fills not only my cheeks but my body as I
recall Trevor’s private fashion show and what came after it. “He thought it was okay.”

  “No way. Okay was not that man’s assessment.”

  My grin grows larger. “He seemed to like it, a lot.”

  “And not too forward?”

  I shrug. “The negligee wasn’t. I might have been...that time.”

  He picks up a small tablet from the top of his desk and begins to fan himself. “Save the details for lunch. Give me something to look forward to.”

  “No details. Use your imagination.”

  “I’ll save that until lunch, too. Otherwise I won’t be able to concentrate.”

  I turn back to my computer screen. “Are you free tomorrow at nine? That’s a good time for both time zones.”

  After Stephen checks his schedule, we both agree on nine-thirty, and I reply to Mr. Butler.

  “Stephen,” Vicky says, leaning her head through the doorway. “We need you in conference room four.”

  “What’s happening in conference room four?” I ask after she’s gone.

  “If I’m lucky, it’ll be an announcement that Saks is expanding into men’s lingerie.” When he stands, he goes on, “You know...Speedo-esque, G-strings, and thongs for men.”

  “Those are on the market.”

  His grin grows as he grabs his tablet to leave. “Preaching to the choir.”

  Once he’s gone, I sit back and spend the next three hours replying to emails and fighting fires across the Atlantic. While Stephen and I have been in New York, our positions have remained vacated in London. It isn’t like the junior department ceased to exist simply because we were on another continent.

  Some of the emails deserved one response while others create a complicated string with attachments and multiple copies.

  As the last fire begins to sputter out, I lean back and sigh. It’s a strange sensation, or should I say a recently unfamiliar one. It feels good to make decisions and be in charge. I didn’t realize how much I missed what we’d accomplished in juniors. In the two years we’ve been in our positions, Stephen and I have made a name for ourselves. For a few hours on Monday morning, I was reminded of what that was like.

  I look up toward the door as Stephen returns with Vicky by his side. “Shana, don’t forget,” she says, “meeting at one-thirty with purchasing.”

  I click on the folder on my desktop to retrieve the data I’ve prepared. “I’m ready. See you then,” I say, trying my most un-bitchy voice.

  “I won’t be there. I’m sure you can handle it.”

  And with that, she’s gone.

  “That woman hates me.”

  “I think she’s scared of you,” Stephen offers.

  “What was your meeting about?”

  “Well, it wasn’t about branching into men’s sexy attire.” When I don’t respond, he continues. “It was about the sales website. They want to spice up the way customers can see the products online.”

  “You know, we don’t have to be a team. You have so much to offer beyond me.”

  “Are you trying to get rid of me, just as we’re about to go to lunch and discuss our crazy-sexed weekends?”

  “I’d never want to get rid of...” I process his words. “Wait. What did you just say? You had a crazy sexed-up weekend at your parents’ house?”

  He tilts his head toward the door. “Come on. I’m starving.”

  The clock on my computer says I have an hour and fifteen minutes until my meeting. “I need to be back a little after one.”

  Stephen nods.

  “If we don’t have time for all your details, this conversation is extending to after work.”

  “Sorry, boss lady, you only get me during working hours. Tonight, I have a date.”

  Trevor

  Shana stares at me pointedly as we sit across the table from one another at a quaint little pub near my apartment. Truth be told, I’ve exhausted my repertoire of cooking skills and people can only eat so much pizza. Thankfully, we had Kimbra’s cooking yesterday, and Shana has offered more than once to cook, but my cupboards are bare. And I’d rather spend time with Shana doing things other than shopping for groceries.

  “He said you knew. Why didn’t you say anything?” she asks.

  “Why didn’t I say anything?”

  Shana’s lips come together as her eyes widen.

  “You’re asking me why I didn’t say anything to you about Max still being in town.”

  “Yes, Trevor, that’s exactly what I’m asking. Now that we have that cleared up, could we move on to your answer?”

  I grin as I take a small drink of my beer. It’s a local craft with a dark color and a surprisingly non-hoppy taste. After I swallow, I look again at the feisty lady staring me down. If I thought she was really upset, I wouldn’t take this so lightly. The way she started the conversation with Oh my God, wait until I tell you what’s happening with Stephen... is what has given me this pass. “You know you’re cute when you try to be snippy?”

  “I’m not trying to being snippy. One of my best friends had a relationship crisis—”

  “Which—may I interject—was never explained to me. All I knew was that the two of you ran out of the bar after you got more than snippy with Max.”

  Shana takes another bite of her French fries before answering. “It wasn’t up to me to tell. I couldn’t betray his trust. After all, you were a friend of the enemy.”

  “Max and I are still friends,” I say.

  “The difference is that apparently now he’s no longer the enemy.”

  I think about how Max hasn’t called me today, how I’m waiting to hear from his investors and his firm about McCobb’s proposal. Maybe now he is my enemy? I need to give that some more thought. “Okay, can you tell me now?”

  “First, tell me why you didn’t tell me he was still in town?”

  “Shana, when did we discuss Max and Stephen before tonight? I asked what happened the night we met at that bar. You mentioned pond scum, and then said you couldn’t talk about it. Yes, I met with Max last Friday, but how was I to know that you didn’t know he was here? He and I talked mostly about business. And, if I need to be perfectly blunt, from the moment you arrived to my apartment last Friday night until you rushed out this morning, talking about business or Max or even Stephen wasn’t high on my agenda.”

  Her cheeks rise as she leans forward.

  I do my best to keep my eyes on hers. After all, they’re bright and blue and beautiful. It’s just that if I move my gaze slightly down, her blouse has a great neckline that gives me a hint of her perky breasts below. When our eyes meet again, she shakes her head at me.

  “What?” I ask innocently.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think your agenda hasn’t changed.”

  “I confess, Shana Price, I’m crazy about you, and if we follow my agenda, after we finish this meal, we’ll go back to my place and continue not talking about anyone else. I’m okay with not talking at all. Personally, I like those noises you make when you’re too consumed to talk.”

  With each word I say, pink fills her cheeks until they’re both as red and rosy as my grandmother’s—who used to wear way too much rouge. It’s not that I’m an expert on makeup, but I remember the term rouge because my mom always thought it was funny.

  “Trevor, I can’t stay at your place tonight. All my work clothes are at the hotel.” She looks down. “As it is, I wore the same outfit I wore to Kimbra’s to work today.”

  “Would it be too forward to offer to pack my own bag and accompany you to your hotel suite?”

  “I guess I do owe you one night for the night in Indianapolis.”

  “Best night of my life,” I say.

  “Really? We didn’t do anything.”

  I reach for her hand and lift it until her knuckles reach my lips. “Yes, we did, my lady. We met.”

  She lets out a long breath. “Of course, you can stay. I need to gather all my things in your apartment anyway. I’m afraid some of my clothes may have gone MIA
.”

  “The case of the missing panties,” I say with a scoff.

  “If you’re thinking of writing romance, I suggest another title.”

  “That was a mystery. Speaking of mysteries, will you tell me what’s happening or happened with Max and Stephen?”

  Shana sits back, her expression a multitude of emotions as she explains how Max and Stephen met nearly a year ago in London. It was through a mutual friend. That friend was Max’s assistant. The assistant and Stephen were friends since college. The assistant—his name is Charles—moved to London a few years before Stephen and Shana.

  “Wait, Charles Mills?” I ask.

  “Yes. How do you know that?”

  “I met Max through my work. His investment company has financed projects I’ve been directly involved with for McCobb Engineering. I’ve spoken to Charles before when I’ve called Max.”

  “At work?”

  “Yes,” I answer suspiciously. “I have Max’s cell phone number but not a number for his flat.”

  Shana leans across the table. “You’re a smart man. Do you see where this is going?”

  “Charles set Stephen and Max up. They hit it off. Charles wasn’t happy?”

  Shana shrugs. “When the incident happened, I didn’t think to question. I mean, if you were to walk into my apartment and my assistant was in my shower, would you stick around to ask him why or his intentions?”

  “Intentions,” I say, remembering that Max had used the same word when we’d spoken. “What were his intentions?”

  “Whose? Max or Charles?”

  I savor the question, enjoying the puzzle Shana’s created. “Let me guess,” I say. “From Max’s point of view, he had honorable intentions for having Charles at his flat. But...Stephen didn’t take the time to find out.”

  “So it now seems,” Shana confirms. “I don’t know Charles’s intentions. All I know is that Max fired him. There’s no sexual harassment suit pending, so that in itself speaks for Max’s intentions. Charles told him a sob story about a broken pipe at his place. He then purposely set up a message that appeared to come from Max to Stephen.”