Читать книгу Her Leading Man - Maggie Dallen - Страница 6

Caitlyn tried to focus on mopping the floor of the theater’s lobby, but yet again her traitorous brain was replaying the date from hell. It had been nearly a week. She should be over it already. But every time the memory came up, she thought of new, cutting remarks she should have said. Comebacks that were so witty and scathing he would have walked away in tears.

But no. Instead, she’d run away like a coward. God, sometimes she was so tired of being passive.

“Whoa, watch it there.” Marc laughed as her mop nearly tripped him. A tall and lanky ballroom dancer, Marc deftly dodged her mop with a little dance step.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. Marc was Tamara’s roommate and an official member of the crew. It was just sheer luck that Tamara had found herself a nice gay roommate who also happened to adore old movies. Why couldn’t she be so lucky with her subletters? She had yet to really click with one of the many renters who’d temporarily shared her apartment after her ex moved out.

“How is it that our resident morning person is the grumpiest of us all?” Tamara asked. The petite blonde gave her a teasing nudge as she passed and swatted Marc’s hands away when he attempted to pull her into a dance when a new song came on the radio.

“Sorry,” Caitlyn said again.

“Tell me you’re not still moping over one bad date,” Alice said. Even at seven-thirty on a Saturday morning and with a dirty rag in her hand, Meg’s younger sister looked like a supermodel. Her long auburn hair pulled into a messy bun, her face was clean-scrubbed, but she was still gorgeous. Add the fact that she had a super successful career as a PR specialist and a slew of men at her beck and call, and Alice was a walking reminder that life was incredibly unfair.

Pushing a stray lock out of her face, Alice turned to her. “I know you’re new to dating so trust me when I say that good dates are the exception to the rule. You’d better get used to the lousy ones.”

Alice’s lips turned up in a small smile as she added, “Although a night that ends with insults and a lap full of beer is pretty bad as far as bad dates go.”

Caitlyn turned to Meg, who was sitting in the corner flipping through the chore list for the day—the only task her big belly would allow. “You told her?”

Meg shrugged. “She’s my sister.”

Caitlyn rolled her eyes as the others laughed. Clearly her bad date had been the source of everyone’s amusement this week. She bit back a weary sigh. Wonderful.

Tamara passed her again, lugging a full trash bag, her face screwed up in a sympathetic pout. “I’m sorry you had such a terrible experience. That is exactly why I don’t date.”

“You don’t date because you’re too shy to speak to the opposite sex,” Marc called out. Marc had taken it upon himself to break Tamara out of her shell but hadn’t had much success. They’d been roommates and friends for more than three years, and so far his “interventions,” as he called them, had yet to pay off. Tamara was pretty in a fragile, ballerina type way, but she hid her looks behind her long blond hair, which tended to act as a veil she could duck behind, and baggy clothes that did nothing for her figure. Marc still had his work cut out for him.

Tamara kept wiping down the refreshment stand, unfazed by her roommate’s comment. Caitlyn supposed Tamara heard remarks like that night and day since she lived with her biggest cheerleader.

“I’m too busy to date. This theater doesn’t run itself, you know,” Tamara said with a toss of her hair. It sounded like something she said more out of habit than anything else. Marc gave a snort of disbelief but let it drop.

“How’s the mission going?” Caitlyn asked.

“The mission” was Tamara’s ongoing quest to get the old theater on the list of N.Y.C. landmarks. The current owner was not exactly aware that Tamara was pursuing landmark status from the Landmark Commission—and if he knew, he most likely wouldn’t be pleased. It was a not so-secret-secret that the barely-there owner was hoping to sell, and it was clear he didn’t care what the new owners did to the place. He hardly took an interest in the Ellen Theater now, and he was the sole proprietor. Tamara, the woman who actually ran the place, was determined to keep the integrity, not only of the architecture but also of its original purpose.

“It’s not,” Tamara said. “I filed all the paperwork, but I’m still playing the waiting game.”

“Do you think the owner found out and is using his connections to stall?” The owner wasn’t exactly a real estate mogul, but he owned enough properties to have connections where it counted.

Tamara sighed. “I honestly don’t know if he’s intervening or if the red tape is just so thick that this wait time is normal.”

Meg chimed in from her seat in the corner. “While you’re waiting, you could be dating.”

Tamara and Caitlyn shared a grin. They were both on the hot seat these days. Marc and Alice were persistent, but as fellow single people they weren’t nearly as bad as Meg and Jake, who thought everyone should be as happy and content as they were.

They’d met first semester freshman year of college at a dorm mixer and had been together since. Meg and Caitlyn had been roommates at NYU so she’d been witness to the whole disgustingly perfect romance from the very beginning. Sometimes Caitlyn was convinced the two lovebirds had no idea just how lucky they were to find one another at such a young age.

“You heard Alice,” Caitlyn said. “There are no good men left.”

Alice’s red head popped up from behind the concession stand. “I did not say that! I just said that good dates were hard to find.”

Jake cut in. “Alice has a point, Cait. Most men aren’t worthy of your time.”

Caitlyn rolled her eyes, but his sweet words made her heart ache. Caitlyn caught Meg’s eye and struggled not to laugh as her friend made a face. Jake was a few years older than the rest of them and had a tendency to act like a big brother to all of Meg’s friends. Although, she and Meg joked that at times—like this one—Jake had a tendency to sound like a dad. Which, Caitlyn liked to point out, was just another sign that he was going to make an excellent father. He had lots of practice.

Ignoring their giggles, Jake added, “You know what they say—you’ve got to kiss a lot of frogs…”

“But she didn’t even get a kiss out of this one,” Alice chimed in. “And what Caitie needs isn’t a kiss. She needs to get laid.”

Caitlyn’s cheeks burned. Her friend was teasing, of course, but the words scraped her nerves more than she cared to admit.

“Here, here,” Marc said.

“Amen to that,” Jake called out.

Caitlyn stopped her lame attempts to mop and stared at them, not sure if she should laugh or chastise her friends. She was so not the type to sleep around and they all knew it. They’d been mocking her for years for being the prude of the group. It wasn’t like she was opposed to sex or anything. She just didn’t see it as a high priority. Romance, love, partnership—that was what she needed.

Which was probably why her ex thought she was boring. He’d always teased her about being an old lady, with her knitting and her homebound ways. But over the last year or so his teasing had grown more caustic, and he’d made more than one pointed comment about her lack of enthusiasm in the bedroom.

Her friends didn’t know about that, of course. The fact that her ex thought she was frigid was too embarrassing and private to share. But for Alice and the others to think that she would throw herself into the arms of some stranger was ludicrous. Laughable. Yet somehow all she could do was gape at them, speechless.

Alice caught her open-mouthed stare. “What? Even a serial monogamist is allowed a fling or two between healthy, long-term commitments.” Alice feigned an exaggerated yawn as she trailed off, making Caitlyn laugh along with the others.

“Not all of us are looking for casual sex,” she reminded her friend.

Alice sighed melodramatically, but she was smiling when she said, “Suit yourself.”

The fact that Alice had echoed the exact words from her date was not lost on Caitlyn. You need to get laid. While Alice was clearly teasing, that jerk had been serious. More than that, he’d all but offered to be her lover. As if she would ever stoop that low.

Her traitorous brain flashed on the ruggedly handsome face, with his sharp features and the scruffy beginnings of a beard. And then there were those sexy dark eyes and that cocky smile. Too bad he had to be such a jackass. She shook her head to come back to sanity. She pulled her phone from her back pocket to check the time and moved to put away her cleaning supplies. “Much as I’d love to hear all of your thoughts on my love life—or lack thereof—I’ve got to head out of here a little early. My new subletter is showing up this afternoon and I’ve got to get the place ready.”

Meg’s head snapped up. “A new one?”

Anxiety laced her friend’s voice and Caitlyn held back a sigh. If Jake was the self-appointed dad of the group, Meg had definitely adopted the role of their mom.

“Are you sure it’s safe to have a stranger in your apartment?”

“For the hundredth time, yes.” Caitlyn gathered up her oversized purse. “The site I use verifies the candidates and does background checks. It’s totally safe.”

She glanced over to see Meg gnawing on her lip and looking pleadingly at her husband, silently begging him to appeal to Caitlyn’s good senses. Caitlyn interrupted the silent exchange with a laugh. “Meg, aren’t you the one who’s constantly telling me to do online dating? Those men aren’t verified, you know. You’re being a hypocrite.”

“Am not.” Meg crossed her arms over her big belly, her mouth pulled down in a stubborn scowl. “That’s totally different. You’re meeting those men for one evening. In public. It’s not the same thing at all.”

Exhaustion swept over Caitlyn, even though her day had just begun. They’d been over this time and again since the breakup nearly a year ago. “What do you want me to do? I can’t afford that place on my own.”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Caitlyn wished she could call them back. She knew the answer all of her friends were itching to give. She’d heard it more times than she could count.

They’d tell her it was time to look for a new place. Give up her home. Start fresh in a place with no memories, no ghosts of boyfriends past. As if it was that easy to let go of everything comfortable and safe. This apartment was the first true home she’d had since her parents died. The dorms didn’t count and neither did her first apartment straight out of college—a one-bedroom dump out in Queens that she’d shared with three other girls. The apartment she’d found with her ex—the ground floor apartment of a townhouse-style apartment building in a nice, quiet neighborhood—that was a true home. She’d dumped all of her money into furniture and decorations. She finally had a space of her own that was exactly the way she liked it. Losing her boyfriend was hard enough, thank you very much. She wasn’t about to let go of her home too. Her apartment was the only stable thing she had left…other than her friends and her job at the store. Not to mention—did they have any idea how hard it was to find a decent apartment in her price range?

Shouting out her good-byes, she practically ran out of the theater to avoid hearing the lecture. Besides, she had an apartment to clean.

Unfortunately being alone did little to help with her brain’s frustrating tendency to relive that night. She worked herself into a tizzy as she did laundry just thinking about the comments her date had made. Then she worked herself into a royal rage at the fact that she was still thinking about that man in the first place.

By the time she had moved on to cleaning the bathroom, she was in the midst of a sick cycle of anger. And all thanks to him. She found herself giving a silent lecture to the toilet as she scrubbed it clean. Who did he think he was? The man was a complete stranger who knew nothing about her. Cynical, rude, and crass. He was an affront to British men everywhere—particularly Cary Grant, may he rest in peace.

A jerk with a drinking problem, that’s what he was. He was in no position to pass judgment on her life or her job. The jackass wouldn’t know about artistic integrity if it smacked him upside the head. She scrubbed the toilet even harder. He was exactly the type of Manhattan, alpha-male, misogynistic a-hole she went out of her way to avoid.

He’d actually asked her what kind of car she drove within the first two minutes of meeting. She lived in Manhattan, why would she have a car? Or a driver’s license, for that matter. Of course he’d followed that up with a bragging session about his sports car—as if she’d be impressed. So you’re destroying the environment with your emissions so you can feel better about the size of your penis? Good for you. Dammit, why hadn’t she said that?

She fell back on her heels, her hand aching from the intensive scrub job. But the car comment and the derogatory remarks about her career—that wasn’t even the worst of it. She could practically hear his irritatingly sexy British accent in her head. Are you trying to come across as frigid and matronly? Because if so, you’ve succeeded.

Who the hell did he think he was? Who even said that?

The toilet did not have an answer.

She was losing it. Let it go already. But she couldn’t. And it didn’t take a genius to figure out why his words were still ringing in her ears after so many days. He’d hit the nail on the head. She was boring. Why else had her ex walked away? He’d all but said those same words. Oh sure, he’d phrased it in nicer, more flowery language, but the message had been the same.

She wasn’t exciting enough. Their life together was too comfortable, he wasn’t being challenged, blah, blah, blah. At least the asshole hadn’t beaten around the bush.

Moving on to the rest of the apartment, she made a concerted effort to stop thinking. Swiping the last of her yarn stash into an oversized bag at the end of the couch, she vowed that she would not think about the jerkface and his rude comments anymore. She had work to do. Ben, the guy who was subletting her extra bedroom for the next month, was due at any moment and she wanted to make her cluttered two-bedroom apartment at least somewhat presentable.

Her buzzer squawked like a dying pigeon and reminded her that she really should have the super take a look at that. She plastered a pleasant smile on her face and threw open the door. The air rushed out of her lungs in a whoosh and blood drained from her head, leaving her dizzy.

“You,” she sputtered to the man who was grinning at her on her doorstep.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the darning spinster from the other night,” he said in that same sexy British accent she’d been hearing in her head all week. He gestured toward her living room. “Aren’t you going to let me in?”

“What are you doing here?” Her mind was spinning with possibilities. How had he found her address? Wasn’t that information supposed to be private? Had she even given the dating Web site her home address? No, definitely not. Which meant…what? This guy was a stalker?

She took a wary step back so she could shut the door, but her date from hell was blocking the door’s path with a giant duffel bag. She blinked at it for a moment, and the reality of the situation set in with a dawning sense of horror.

“Oh no,” she whispered.

“Which way to my bed, roomie?”

The bottom of her stomach gave way as a rising tide of nausea swept over her. “But you’re not—my new roommate’s name is Ben, not Matthew.”

He looked at her like she was insane. “My real name’s Ben.”

“But your profile said Matthew,” she argued.

He gave a small shrug. “Everyone lies in online dating.”

“I didn’t.”

His eyes widened. “Seriously? Caitlyn’s your real name?” And then, as if it bore repeating, “You actually used your real name?”

Why did he make it sound like she was the crazy one? Surely she wasn’t the only honest person to ever create an online profile.

She shook her head. That was not the issue here. What mattered was the jerk who’d been haunting her thoughts for the past week was standing on her doorstep, waiting to move into her apartment. This could not be happening. Her mind was struggling to keep up with this turn of events. Why hadn’t she requested a picture? She’d checked references, and they’d exchanged some e-mails….

“How did you not recognize my name?” she asked.

He outright laughed at that. “My assistant set this up. Besides, I figured Caitlyn was a made up name for you anyway.”

“It wasn’t.” She would have thought they’d covered that already, but it was all she could think to say as her brain struggled to make sense of this scenario.

She had to be the unluckiest woman on the face of the planet. Either that or she’d been a horrible person in her past life and karma was out for revenge. Those were the only explanations she could think of. Because, really—what were the odds that in a city of eight million, her date from hell and her new subletter were the same man?

And what were the odds that man was a bastard?