Читать книгу Mr Right There All Along - Jackie Braun - Страница 7

High School History 101

WHEN SHE SPIED the invitation amid the pile of bills and junk mail, Chloe McDaniels’s lips pulled back in a sneer. She’d been expecting it, but that didn’t make her reaction any less visceral.

Tillman High School’s Class of 2001 was set to celebrate its ten-year reunion.

Chloe did not have fond memories of her New Jersey high school. In fact, she’d spent her four years at Tillman ducking into bathroom stalls and janitors’ broom closets to avoid the unholy trinity of Natasha Bradford, Faith Ellerman and Tamara Kingsley.

She’d known the girls since grade school. They’d never been friends, but neither had they been enemies … until the start of their freshman year when, for reasons that had never been terribly clear to Chloe, she’d become their favorite target.

Literally.

Somehow on that first, already awkward day of high school, they managed to attach a “Kick Me” sign to the back of her shirt just before the start of first period. It was the last time Chloe ever accepted a friendly back slap without taking a gander over her shoulder afterward. As cruel pranks went, it wasn’t terribly original, but it was effective. She’d taken enough sneakers to the seat of her favorite jeans to feel like a soccer ball.

Then, between third period and lunch, Simon Ford had happened along.

“You might not want to wear this,” he’d said simply, removing the sign and handing it to Chloe. That was his way. Understated.

Good old Simon. He always had her back. Or backside, as the case had been. They’d been friends since his family had moved into her family’s apartment building at the start of third grade and their friendship continued to this day. Thinking of him now, Chloe picked up the phone before realizing the time. It was well after five on a Friday. He was probably out with his girlfriend.

Chloe realized she was sneering again. Well, it couldn’t be helped. She didn’t like Sara. The long-limbed and lithe blonde was too … too … perfect.

She glanced down at the invitation. Perfect Sara would never find herself in this position. Perfect Sara would have been the homecoming queen and the prom queen and the every other kind of queen at her high school. Unlike Chloe, whose only class recognition had come in the form of “curliest hair” and “most freckles.”

Yeah, that was what a girl wanted to be remembered for, all right.

Her gut told her to ball up the invitation in a wad, spit on it and, with expletives she knew in four languages, send it whizzing into the trash can. Her heart was a different matter. It was telling her to reach for a spoon and the pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream in her freezer.

Diet in mind, she went with her gut.

Sort of.

She lavished the invitation with every foreign epithet she could think of before heaving it in the trash. But, while she bypassed the ice cream, she booted up her computer and downloaded a recipe from her favorite cable cooking show, Susie Kay’s Comfort Foods. If it was all but guaranteed to clog the arteries and contribute to heart disease, Susie Kay made it.

Tonight’s dinner selection was a case in point. Macaroni and cheese with not one, but four kinds of cheese and enough butter and calories that Chloe swore her clothes fit tighter just reading the ingredients. Not good considering she was already wearing her fat pants.

Actually, the pants were elastic-waist exercise gear that she didn’t exercise in but instead reserved for days when she felt particularly bloated. Today was just such a day. Strap a few cables to her and she would be right at home gliding down Sixth Avenue like one of those huge helium balloons in the annual Thanksgiving Day parade. Even so, that didn’t keep her from making the mac and cheese and eating half of the six servings.

The wine she poured for herself was an afterthought. She’d been saving the pricey bottle of cabernet sauvignon for a special occasion. This definitely was not it, but three glasses later, she didn’t care.

Chloe set the wine aside and went to her stereo. Music. That’s what she needed now. Something with a wicked beat and a lot of bass. Something she could dance to with reckless abandon and maybe work off a few extra calories in the process. She chose. Céline Dion.

As one weepy ballad after another filled Chloe’s Lower East Side studio apartment, her willpower wilted like the water-deprived basil plant on her kitchen window-sill. Again muttering foreign curses, this time aimed at herself, she fished the crumpled invitation out of the trash. When the telephone rang, she was still sitting on the kitchen floor smoothing out the wrinkles.

It was Simon.

“Hey, Chloe. What are you doing?”

Anyone else—her older and über-chic sister, Frannie, for instance—and Chloe would have felt compelled to come up with some elaborate reason why she could be found home alone on the official start of the weekend.

Since it was Simon, she confessed, “Drinking wine, wearing Lycra and listening to the soundtrack from Titanic.”

“No ice cream?”

How well he knew her. Despite her best intentions, the mint chocolate chip was next on her list. “Not yet.”

“Want some company?” he asked.

Did she ever. She and Simon always had a good time together, whether it involved going out or just hanging out. Still, his question surprised her. Wasn’t he supposed to be with his girlfriend tonight? She liked thinking he’d throw over Perfect Sara to be with Comfortable Chloe. Liked it so much that she immediately felt guilty. She was a terrible friend. To make up for it, she would share her ice cream and what was left of the wine.

“When can I expect you?”

“Right now. I’m standing on the other side of your apartment door.”

If he were a boyfriend—not that Chloe had had one of those in several months—this news would have sent her into a panic. Her apartment was a mess. For that matter, so was she. Her red hair was a riot of curls thanks to the day’s high humidity. And what little makeup she’d applied that morning was long gone. But this was Simon. Simon, she reminded herself, after a glance down at her unflattering attire had her wanting to flee to her bedroom and change.

It was sad to admit, but he’d seen her looking worse. Much worse. Such as when she came down with the chicken pox in the sixth grade or the time in high school when she’d succumbed to salmonella after her cousin Ellen’s bridal shower. Aunt Myrtle made the chicken salad, which was why, henceforth, the woman was only allowed to bring paper products or plastic cutlery to family gatherings. The coup de grâce, of course, was last December. Three days shy of Christmas, the guy Chloe had been dating for the previous six months dumped her.

Via text message.

And she’d already bought him a gift, a Rolex watch, which she couldn’t return since the street vendor who’d sold her the incredibly authentic-looking knockoff had moved to a new location.

So, now, she flung open the door, feeling only mildly embarrassed by what her hair was doing, by the mac-and-cheese stains on her shirt or the fact that her lips had probably turned a slightly clownish shade of purple from the wine she’d enjoyed.

“Hey, Simon.”

As usual, his smile made her feel as if seeing her was the highlight of his day.

“Hey, gorgeous.” He kissed her cheek as he always did before waving a slim, square box beneath her nose. “I’ve got pizza. Thin crust with extra cheese from that new Italian place just shy of Fourteenth.”

Any other time, the aroma of pepperoni and melted mozzarella would have had her salivating. Right now, it reminded her of how full she felt. “Thanks, but I just finishing eating.”

His gaze took in the stained shirt. The sides of his mouth lifted. “So I see. What was on today’s menu and why?”

Yes, he knew her way too well.

“Mac and cheese.”

“Ah.” He nodded sagely. “Comfort food.”

She touched an index finger to the tip of her nose. “You got it in one.”

He smiled in return. Simon had a great smile. She’d always thought so. With perfectly proportioned lips in a face that wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous but handsome and pleasingly male. Over the years, his cheeks had gotten leaner and more sculpted-looking, but his ready smile kept him from ever looking hard.

“How much did you eat?” he asked.

“Too much.”

“Save me any?” He glanced in the direction of the stove.

“Enough.” She tapped the box he held. “What about your pizza?”

He shrugged. “You know pizza. It’s even better cold.” Then, with the pad of his thumb, he pressed down on her lower lip. She ignored the sensation his touch sent coursing up her spine. “And what about the wine? Did you save me any of that?”

Chloe laughed. How did other women manage to drink a few glasses of cab and not wind up with stained lips? For that matter, how did other women manage to eat a meal’s worth of carbs and not have to do deep knee bends so they could breathe in their jeans?

“There’s almost half a bottle,” she told him.

“Pour me a glass and tell me about your day.”

He set the pizza box on the kitchen counter and shrugged out of his trench coat. He was wearing his usual business attire—crisp white shirt and tailored suit with a perfectly folded handkerchief peeking from its breast pocket. The matching silk tie, however, was pulled askew. It struck Chloe then. “Did you just come from work?”

It was nearly eight o’clock.

“The merger with that other software company I mentioned is eating up a lot of my spare time.” He dropped heavily into one of the kitchen chairs.

How had she missed how tired he looked? She wanted to go to him, wrap him in her arms. Friends hugged. But she held back. More and more lately, she found herself doing that. She blamed Perfect Sara and the bevy of beauties that had come before her.

“Sorry to hear that.” She switched on the stove to reheat the mac and cheese, and poured him a glass of wine. After handing it to him, she stood behind his chair and began kneading the knotted muscles in his neck and shoulders.

His moan of pleasure nearly made her stop. Instead, she kept at it and asked, “So, how does Sara feel about the long hours you’re keeping?”

“Not happy,” he admitted. His tone was rueful when he said, “We were supposed to go to a Broadway show tonight.”

“You stood her up?” That wasn’t like him. Simon was the kindest, most considerate man Chloe knew. even if he had really lousy taste in women.

“Ouch!”

Apparently, she’d massaged a little too vigorously.

“Sorry.”

“Actually, when I called to tell her I was running late and we’d have to skip dinner beforehand, she told me to go. Never mind.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. The relationship wasn’t heading anywhere anyway.”

Jubilation.

Before Chloe could help it, the feeling bubbled up inside her with all of the effervescence of champagne. Maybe this day didn’t totally stink after all.

However, because she knew a friend wasn’t supposed to feel happy upon hearing such news, she kept her expression sympathetic when she slid into the chair opposite his.

“Ooh. Dumped. Sorry.”

“It was mutual,” he muttered, reaching for his wine. “Sara just said it first.”

“Okaaaay.”

“My heart’s not broken, Chloe. Hell, it’s not even dented or mildly scratched.” He sipped his wine and sighed heavily before squinting at her. “That’s not right, is it? I should feel … a little sad, shouldn’t I?”

“You don’t?”

Jubilation made another appearance, but she carefully tucked it behind a bland expression.

“Not one bit.” He studied his wine a moment before his gaze lifted to hers. “I guess we weren’t suited.”

No kidding. It had taken him nearly a year to figure that out? Chloe had concluded as much within mere minutes of meeting Sara for the first time.

“But that’s neither here nor there,” Simon was saying. He rallied with a smile. “We were going to talk about your day.”

Her day. Ick!

Chloe rose and went to the stove to plate his dinner. She opened the fridge and got out a sprig of fresh parsley to add to the mac and cheese before bringing it to the table. Simon’s eyebrows rose.

“Appearances are everything,” she said, setting the plate before him with a flourish.

He picked up his fork and pointed the tines in her direction. “That’s exactly your problem, Chloe.”

It was an old observation. Under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t have bothered her. Tonight, however, she snapped in exasperation, “Do you want to analyze me or do you want me to tell you about my day?”

“Actually, I want you to tell me about that.” Again, he used the tines of his fork to point, this time toward the class reunion invitation that, somewhere between belting out “My Heart Will Go On” and hearing about Simon’s newly single status, Chloe had forgotten all about.

She shrugged, striving for nonchalance. “It seems our ten-year reunion is right around the corner.”

“I know. My invitation arrived in the mail last week.”

“Last week? Are you kidding? We live in the same city, practically in the same zip code. I bet the unholy trio had something to do with that,” she alleged.

So much for nonchalance.

“Chloe, really. It’s been ten years.” Simon said it in that patient way of his that usually served to talk her down from whatever ledge she was on.

Not on this day. Nope. She was poised to jump, ushered to the edge of reason by the wine and some very unhappy memories.

“Seems like yesterday to me,” she muttered.

Damn the cabernet for her loose lips. Even so, she reached for her glass now and took a liberal sip while she waited for Simon’s well-reasoned rebuttal.

It didn’t come.

“So, are you going?” he asked.

“Am I going?” she repeated incredulously. She returned her wineglass to the table with a smart click. “You’re kidding, right?” The question was rhetorical and they both knew it, so she plowed ahead. “You couldn’t pay me enough to make so much as a token appearance at that thing. I’d rather give up ice cream for … for … forever than to step foot in the …” She craned her neck to read the invitation. The outrage whooshed out of her and she snorted. “The Tillman High gymnasium? Gee, that’s classy. They couldn’t spring for a banquet hall or something?”

“I don’t know. I rather like the idea of seeing the old school again, even if I never spent much time in the gym.”

Simon laughed then. He’d been a geek, not a jock. Chess club, computer club, debate team—those sorts of interests had been his thing. And Chloe’s, too. His geek status had never bothered him as much as hers had bothered her.

Her gaze narrowed. “Wait a minute. Do you mean you’re going to the reunion?”

Simon regarded her over his wineglass. Actually, he hadn’t planned to attend until just that moment. Chloe needed to go. He’d never met anyone so haunted by high school. The invitation’s crumpled appearance was a testament to that, as was her mac-and-cheese binge and wine indulgence.

She’d grown into a lovely, bright, funny and creative young woman. But then, he’d always found her lovely and funny, bright and creative. She, however, still entertained a ridiculously warped view of herself. It was time she exorcised her demons. To do that, she had to face the past. But he couldn’t, wouldn’t, send her into the lion’s den alone.

“Sure. Why wouldn’t I?” he asked.

“Did we or did we not attend the same high school?” Purple-hued lips turned down in a frown. He had to be crazy, but he still found those lips incredibly sexy.

And that was his problem. And the reason why women like Sara never lasted for very long. They simply couldn’t measure up to Chloe.

“Those days are over,” he told her, taking her hand in one of his. “Those girls have nothing on you, Chloe. They never did.”

“They made my life hell!”

“They were cruel,” he agreed in a tone more moderated than hers. “But they can’t make your life hell now, unless you let them. Go back, face them and show them how far you’ve come since high school. You’ve got a lot to be proud of.”

“Yeah, right.” She pulled her hand free. “I’m twenty-eight years old, single, working part-time and living with an antisocial cat.”

Simon waved hand. “All cats are antisocial. I told you to get a dog if you wanted companionship from a pet.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Must you lecture me now?”

“It seems so.” He waited a beat before asking, “Are we going together? Or are you bringing a date?”

“A date.” She frowned, apparently realizing what she’d said. Her hands fell to her sides. “How do you do that?”

“What?”

“Talk me into doing something that I absolutely don’t want to do?”

“Years of practice,” he replied.

“Okay. Since you think I need to do this, I will.”

“Thanks.”

“But only because I know you’ll hold it over my head forever if I don’t.” She ended on a long-suffering sigh.

They both knew it was a cover and that she was grateful for the push.

“You’ll thank me someday,” he said.

“Or I’ll blame you indefinitely for the years of therapy to follow.”

“I’ll take my chances.” He shrugged and started in again on the mac and cheese. It was good, nearly as mouthwatering as Chloe’s pout.

She was quiet while he finished off the last of the pasta, which was never a good sign. It meant she was thinking. More accurately, it meant she was plotting.

Sure enough, just as he blotted his mouth with a napkin, she said, “You don’t mind if I go with someone else, do you? We can still sit together.” Her expression brightened. “You can bring someone, too. We can double-date. That will be fun.”

Simon ignored the twinge in his chest. He always felt it when Chloe talked about other men. In fact, one of the things Sara had flung in his face that evening during their breakup was what she termed his “unhealthy attachment to that woman.”

Sara wasn’t the first girlfriend to mention it. Nor, he suspected, would she be the last. He was attached to Chloe. How could he not be? They’d been close friends since before puberty and had seen one another through the good, the bad and the ugly of adolescence. They’d also been there for one another through high school and college and, now, the better part of their twenties. She was the only constant in his life.

“Well?” Chloe was frowning, and obviously waiting for his reply.

“Why would I mind?” Even to his ears, the words came out sounding hollow and defensive. He cleared his throat and shifted the conversation in a new direction. “I didn’t know you were seeing someone.”

“I’m not. But I plan to come up with the best-looking, most successful guy I can find, even if I have to pay him to attend with me.”

Oh, yeah. Those wheels had been turning, all right.

“Chloe, really—”

She cut him off. “Yes, really. I want Natasha, Faith and Tamara to take one look at the hunk I’m with and drool an Olympic-size swimming pool.”

“That’ll show ‘em,” he drawled.

She nodded, oblivious to his sarcasm.

“Where do you plan to meet this Adonis?” God, please, tell him that she wasn’t going to say the internet. He’d talked her out of cyberspace dating twice already.

Her smile was overly bright despite the fact that her teeth were tinted the same shade of purple as her lips. He knew he was in trouble even before she said, “I remember seeing a really attractive guy at your office the last time I stopped in to see you. Trevor something. I think you mentioned that he was a lawyer helping you with some of the details on your merger.”

Uh-uh. No way was Simon going to set her up with Trevor, or, as the ladies at his company had dubbed him, “Mr. Hottie.” He would be only too glad to have the merger behind him so he could cut the guy loose. Productivity among the women at Ford Technology Solutions came to a standstill whenever Trevor was around.

“No.”

“Please.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “Pretty please?”

Her smile, purple-tinted or not, was nearly Simon’s undoing. God knew, as it was, he would do anything short of murder for the woman, and even that was negotiable. But, he managed to remain firm. “I’m sorry, Chloe, but no.”

“All right.” She nodded. “I understand. I mean, it’s not as if I’ve ever done you a huge favor or anything.”

It was all he could do to suppress a groan, because the list was long and, no doubt, Chloe planned to launch into it at any moment. Simon sighed and capitulated with the grace of a man being pushed to his death.

“Fine. All right.”

“Thank you!”

“I make no promises.”

“I know. I don’t expect promises.”

Which was exactly why Simon, to his everlasting regret, meant it when he said, “I’ll see what I can do.”