Page 24 of A Certain Appeal
“It’s only one song, and I can’t bail on Darlene,” he says, referring to the revue’s producer, a fellow burlesquer. “It’s her debut with this show. And, Ben?”
“Yeah?”
“You made me, promises, promises,” he croons. My shoulders drop. “You promised you’d talk to Andrea, miss. I’m holding you to it. Ciao!”
He hangs up before I can get out a proper complaint.
“Brat.” I tug down the headset so it rests around my neck. I was hoping he hadn’t hung on to that.
I don’t know why I’m so apprehensive. IknowI’m good. And I believe in my ideas. Plus... hell, I am paying for those student loans; might as well apply the interior design degree to something. And what’s the worst Andrea could do? I ask to show her what I have and she says no? Or she checks them out and doesn’t like them?
Or what if she looks at them anddoeswant to use them? A thrill skitters between my shoulder blades at the thought. I push it away and pull a blank shot. But as the espresso machine hisses and steams, the possibility pops up again: a fresh start in design.
“Ah, Liz!” says Toby from behind me.
I raise the tiny espresso cup in my hand, my back still toward him. “Single or double?”
“I might have gotten coffee out.” His voice is heavy with playful chagrin.
I wheel around, prepared to scold him for cheating on his Italian trophy wife, but he’s not alone. A good-looking, sandy-haired guy stands beside him, assessing me with a mild smile.
I focus on Toby, stepping up the sass for his associate’s benefit. “Ignorance is no excuse for outsourcing.” The smile on his companion spreads. It’s a good smile.
Toby laughs. “I’m sorry. Wickham here might be in need of a second round?”
Another grin from this Wickham fellow. “If it isn’t any trouble.”
“Not at all.”
“Toby! You have a minute?” one of the interns calls from the hall.
“Sorry, I’ll be back. Liz, thank you...” Toby directs Wickham my way, then darts out.
Wickham shrugs. As he approaches, I perform a quick scan like I might to a guest at Meryton. Gray chinos, cuffs just grazing his ankles;nice loafers; and an oxford with an oversized gingham print, sleeves rolled up in a way I’ve only seen in the window of the J.Crew Men’s Shop. He has one more button undone than would be natural, a pair of aviators dangling from the neckline. The overall effect is a little try-hard, but his inviting expression is making up for it.
He arches a brow. “Liz, I presume?”
I nod. “Apparently, you’re Wickham. And a bad influence?”
“George Wickham, at your service.” He holds a hand to his chest. “And the coffee was one hundred percent me. I took the red-eye in from LAX.”
“Another Californian,” I muse. “What’s going on out there? You’re the third Golden State guy I’ve encountered recently.”
“Hm.” He bends to rest an elbow on the counter, propping his chin on his knuckles. “Should I be worried about the other two?”
I laugh at the blatant flirtation. “Confident. But no. One is currently seeing my roommate and”—I tip my head, considering—“jury’s still out on the other one. By all means, bring your A-game.”
He grins, straightening to extend his hand for a shake. “Liz, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Will you be in town long?”
“A few weeks, but hopefully longer. I have a deal in the works,” he explains. “I grew up on the Upper West and went to NYU, then headed to the left coast. But I miss New York. There’s nowhere else like it.”
I smile in agreement, then place a hand on the coffee grinder. “Single ordoppio?”
“I’m guessing that second option is double, and yes to that, please.”
“Doppioit is.” I measure out the grounds, using the scale Toby purchased for the precise eighteen grams. “So, will you be at this weekend’s party?”
