Mr. Wrong Read online

  “I’m sorry, honey.”

  “Never mind. I’m sick of thinking about it, and I’m sure you didn’t call to talk about me.”

  This time, she actually does laugh. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well, after you beat feet out of Dot’s like your ass was on fire, Mitch and I had a very pleasant breakfast.”

  “I fail to see how this is about me, but okay.”

  “I’m getting to that,” she says. “And over said breakfast, what do you suppose we talked about?”

  Well, that’s an easy one. “Probably Midnight Confessions.”

  “Okay, I’ll give you that. I did bring it up a few times. And he shot me down every time. The guy’s buttoned up like … something with buttons. I don’t know. A coat. Whatever.” She laughs again. “What we talked about, my dearest BFF, was you.”

  I marvel at—and then ruthlessly squash—the tiny thrill of excitement this brings. “About me?”

  “About you.”

  “What—” Where is this going? “What about me?”

  “Oh, you know. Had I known you long. Oh, how interesting that we grew up together. When did we move to the city. How long have you been broken up with Drew.” She pauses. “Are you currently single.”

  This is so unexpected that my mouth literally hangs open for a second. I’m quite sure I misheard her. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “He asked me if you were seeing anyone right now.”

  “Why on earth would he ask you that?”

  “He said he was normally the sort to ask directly, but you keep running off.”

  I do keep running off, that’s true. If he didn’t make me get all flustered like a teenage girl, maybe I wouldn’t have to.

  “I don’t know what to say,” I tell her.

  “I told him that yes, you were single, if that helps.”

  That most decidedly does not help. “Kari!”

  “Well, you are.”

  “Why would you do that?” I ask. “I thought you liked him.”

  “Well, I’d like him to give me some goddamn spoilers, but beyond that? Seriously, you can have him.”

  “You liked him first,” I say. “You take him.”

  “That ship has sailed, pal. We had our chance, and then you came over and ruined everything.”

  “Are you—”

  “If you actually ask me if I’m serious,” she says, “I’m going to come over there and slap your lips off your face. Of course I’m not serious. I gave him your number. I think you should go out with him.”

  “But I don’t want to go out with him.” Much.

  “Because…?”

  Lord have mercy. I would do just about anything to stop having this stupid circular conversation. “I told you. Not my type.”

  “And I told you, shut up with that. You and your issues.”

  “I just like a certain type of guy.”

  “You like Alan Rickman, for God’s sake.”

  “He was Colonel Brandon!”

  “Listen to me,” she says. “The guy is objectively hot. I mean, smoking hot. You had your eyes all full of Drew and whatsherface, so maybe you didn’t get a good look.”

  Oh, I got a plenty good look. And then another one yesterday morning. But I’m trying not to think about that. “I saw plenty. Kari—”

  “And,” she says, “I confess, it’s not entirely altruistic.”

  “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “I was just figuring, if you went out with him, maybe he would spill some interesting tidbits. About work.”

  There I go, hanging my jaw open again. “You want me to go out with some random guy so that you can get soap opera scoops?”

  “You don’t have to make it sound so awful. I’m sure you’ll like him. You might want to date him more, even.”

  “And pass on even more scoops?”

  Apparently she misses the sarcasm dripping from every word because she says, a little too eagerly, “Well, only if you wanted to.”

  “You’ve lost your mind,” I say. “If you want some kind of insider info, get it yourself.”

  “Oh, like I haven’t tried. He’s not spilling anything because he knows I watch the show—but you don’t. I bet he’d talk to you. You’re my in.”

  “I am not your in. I’m your best friend.” This is an enormous tactical error, and I know it as soon as the words leave my mouth.

  “Exactly,” she says. “You’re my best friend, and if you can’t ask your best friend for a favor, who can you ask?”

  “This is a pretty big favor, Kari.”

  “Oh, yeah, do your friend a favor and spend lots of time with a hot guy.” I can practically hear her rolling her eyes on the other end of the phone. “My heart just bleeds for you. So will you do it or not?”

  I sigh again. Kari’s done a lot for me since we were kids—lots of big stuff but lots of little stuff too, the stuff that really makes a friendship. And even though I’ve already established he’s not my type, he is kind of electrifying to be around.

  This is insane.

  “Okay, fine,” I say, and even as I say it I can’t believe the words are coming out of my mouth. “I’ll do it.”

  She squeals in glee. “Thank you, thank you! I will never be able to repay you for this.”

  “Settle down a minute,” I say. “I have some conditions.”

  “Anything.”

  “Okay, I’m only going out with him the one time, I swear. That’s going to have to be enough.”

  “Oh, that,” she says breezily. “I’m sure he’ll be so charming you’ll want to date him lots of times.”

  “I’m serious. And I’m not going to sneak around trying to trick him into spilling secrets. If he lets something slip, it’s all yours, but I’m not some kind of soap opera Mata Hari. And anyway, I wouldn’t even know what to ask.”

  “I’ll tell you what to ask.”

  “No, you’re not listening. I’m not kidding. I’ll pass along anything he happens to mention, but that’s it.”

  “My pals are gonna die.”

  Thinking about her online soap friends raises another question for me. “Is this going to get him in trouble? I don’t want anyone in trouble.”

  “Oh, goodness no,” she says. “Leaks are all over the place, and any info you get is pretty much something that a lot of people know—all the actors plus the crew plus the soap magazines. And we’ll be careful.”

  “You didn’t know he was going to be working at Midnight Confessions, remember?”

  “Yeah, every once in a while they really lock something down. That was top-secret stuff. I think they honestly didn’t want anyone to know until he showed up one day.” She laughs. “Of course, everyone knows now. The message boards are freaking out.”

  “So he must be a pretty big deal then?”

  “Seriously, Jenna—getting him is a huge deal for MC. His DN character was supposed to be a bad guy for a six-week arc, and he turned it into eighteen months of some of the best work I’ve seen in daytime. He is just phenomenal.”

  Lord, she’s going to start waxing eloquent. He’s a soap actor, for crying out loud. I head her off at the pass. “So you already gave him my number?”

  “Yeah, just your work number though. I knew you’d have my back. You’re such a good friend.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  “Don’t mention it,” she says. “Let me know when he calls.” Then—of course—she hangs up without saying goodbye.

  Chapter Five

  Late Tuesday morning finds me on the phone again with Aiyana. This time I’ve got an email from the copywriters—there are three of them but I tend to think of them as one amorphous mass of brains, and they seem to see themselves the same way, frankly—saying that there’s not enough room on the inside flap of the dummy brochure to allow them to list out the five things I targeted as our main selling points.

  We’re already behind on this, thanks to me losing the first brochure, but they pulled some pretty impressive copy out of their asses, on a tight turn-around time. I’m not sending it back to them for more revisions.

  “There’s plenty of room for five lines,” Aiyana says. “I don’t see what the problem is.”

  “The problem is that five items doesn’t necessarily translate to five lines. You know that.”

  She doesn’t answer right away, because of course she knows that. “Can’t they, I don’t know, condense it a little?”

  “It’s marketing copy for a financial product. It’s already so condensed I’m thinking about slapping a Campbell’s soup label on it.” I sigh. “Which, come to think of it, that would probably be a more effective approach than the one we’ve got right now.”

  “Redesigning is going to put me way behind, Jenna.” Unspoken is the fact that she was already behind, because of me.

  “You and me both, but if the selling points aren’t on the brochure then what the hell is the brochure for?”

  I understand that she’s not being obstinate on purpose, that she has deadlines to meet just like I do. But if there isn’t enough space then there isn’t enough space. That’s not going to change no matter how much she and I click our heels together and wish it would.

  “Hang on a sec, Jenna, let me check something.” She puts me on hold. Great.

  Ryan comes in with a message slip. Unless a message is important or personal, he generally gives me all my messages in a batch two or three times a day, so I put my hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. “I’m on hold. What’s up?”

  “Some guy called, said it was personal.” He gestures with the slip of paper. “Mitch.”

  Oh, Lord. I feel myself go pale. I didn’t think he’d call so soon.

  “Mitch who?” I ask, as though I know a hundred Mitches, a legion of them, and can’t begin to imagine which of them has graced me with a phone call.

  Ryan shrugs. “I don’t know. He didn’t seem to think he needed to leave a last name. You want the number?” He holds out the message slip.

  “No!” I say without thinking.

  Ryan stares at me. He’s too polite to say anything, but I can read him like a book. He thinks I’ve lost it.

  He may be right.

  “I mean, not right now—” I begin, but then Aiyana comes back on the line. I hold up a finger and turn my back on Ryan so I won’t have to decide what to do about the piece of paper with Mitch’s number on it. “What did you find out?”

  “What if we swapped the colors?” she asks.

  “I don’t know.” I close my eyes and try to picture it in my head. It might work. Or it might look like complete crap. I sigh. “Why don’t you try it, just for the hell of it, and we’ll see how it looks. I don’t have any better ideas.”

  We both make polite goodbyes and hang up. She’s probably totally pissed at me. Just what I need: her mad at me for bossing her around. I’m technically her superior, but I’m not the sort of person that goes around lording it over people.

  Ryan must have taken the message slip with him, because it’s not on my desk. I buzz him.

  “Yeah?” he says.

  I gnaw at my lip for a second. Why can’t things be easy?

  “Jenna?” Ryan has to think I’m losing my mind. Most people are happy to receive phone calls. Especially personal phone calls, at work. Especially from men—well, if they’re women. Or gay, I suppose. And I would think especially from men who sound like Mitch.

  In fact, if Ryan had to deal with that voice, he probably can’t understand why I didn’t hang up on Aiyana immediately and return Mitch’s call.

  Ryan is right. I am losing my mind.

  “Do you still have that message?” I ask.

  “Of course,” he says cautiously.

  “You can throw it out.” I’m not going to do it. I can’t go through with it. It’s too weird.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” I say. “No.”

  Oh, God.

  Ryan doesn’t say anything.

  I relent. “Oh, give me the number.”

  “Okay,” he says slowly. “Got a pen?”

  “No,” I say. “Never mind. I don’t want it.” I hang up.

  I pick up the phone and dial Kari’s work number. I get her voice mail.

  “Kari, it’s Jenna. Please call me. I need to talk to you.” I hang up and think about it. If I don’t go through with it, she’s going to kill me.

  I think about that for a minute and then buzz Ryan again, but instead of answering, he opens my door.

  “I think I’d like that number after all,” I tell him.

  He crosses the office and puts the message slip on my desk. “Why don’t I just leave this here,” he suggests carefully, “and you can decide what to do from there.”

  I nod. “Good plan.”

  He turns to leave, then turns back. “You know I’m not gay, right?”

  “Of course!” What an odd thing to say. I met Ryan’s girlfriend at the Christmas party and she is gorgeous. And anyway, why would I care if he was?

  “I’ve never regretted it, until I talked to that guy.” He winks at me and I laugh, feeling just a little bit less like throwing myself out my office window. Not that it opens. “You should call him,” he tells me, and leaves.

  I really shouldn’t. But I do. I dial each number very carefully, knowing I’ll only dare to do this once.

  He answers on the first ring. “Hello?”

  Good Lord, he can’t even say hello without making my knees weak. This is impossible.

  “It’s Jenna,” I say. “From the bar the other night?” And the hot breakfast date the other morning?

  “I’m so glad you called.” His voice softens, gets deeper. Is there no end to the subtle variations of that voice? This is the first time I’ve heard this one. It would melt rocks.

  “So am I.” I realize I’m breathless and—more importantly—I’m telling the truth. That freaks me out a little, and I decide I’d better keep this short. “I’m sorry, but I only have a few minutes.”

  “That’s all right. I’m sure you’re busy.”

  “I am,” I say. “I’ve got this new product and we’re not even half ready—I don’t know if you know what I do—”

  “Kari told me,” he says. “Well, I asked.”

  “As you can maybe imagine, it’s been a hard week.”

  “But it’s only Tuesday.”

  I laugh. “You’re right. God, I can’t wait for Friday.”

  “Actually,” he says, “that’s why I called.”

  I appraise this conversational gambit with admiration. It’s obvious what he’s about to do, and of course I would have to say yes no matter how clumsy he was, but I can’t help but admire his approach. He is smooth.

  “Is it?” I ask.

  “Yes. I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner, maybe tell me what it is about your job that’s putting that frown in your voice.”

  This is crazy. I can’t do this. I open my mouth to say No, thank you, but nothing comes out.

  I should have thought about this more carefully before I called. On the one hand, there is an actual ethical issue here, dating him to get soap opera scoops for my friend. On the other, Kari is my very best friend and it means a lot to her.

  On the other hand—I guess I have three hands now—I’d get to listen to him talk some more. I can’t say I wouldn’t appreciate that. Not that I’m interested, or anything. But I can still enjoy him.

  One way or the other, I should probably give him an answer before he thinks I hung up or something.

  Mitch is clearly a master at this. Where another guy might be intimidated by my silence and press too hard, he’s just waiting for my answer.

  Caught between yes and no, I go with: “I probably won’t be fit company by the end of the week. Work is really killing me.”

  “Why don’t you let me worry about whether or not I enjoy your company, and you just be ready at six.”

  Wow, he’s good.

  “I guess I could do that,” I say slowly.

  Apparently that’s all he needs. “Fantastic. Give me your address and number.”

  I do, and he repeats it back to make sure he’s got it right. He gets it right the first time, of course. I won’t have to worry about him getting the directions wrong and being late. I’m starting to have a feeling I won’t have to worry about him doing anything wrong. Apparently the big cosmic joke is that this guy who is totally Mr. Wrong is, so far at least, doing everything exactly right.

  “Anywhere in particular you want to have dinner?” he asks. “I have a place in mind but if you want to choose—”

  “Oh, no, that’s fine,” I say. “Whatever you like. Just tell me how to dress.”

  “Dress to kill,” he says—no, that’s not right. He growls.

  It’s a good thing I’m sitting down, because my legs get a little wobbly. I hope we get to know each other well enough that I can ask him to tone it down with the voice. It’s really too much sometimes.

  “I will,” I say, though I don’t really know what that means. Dress super-fancy, because we’re going to Per Se? Not likely, I think. Literally dress to kill, because there could be a rumble at the Taco Loco?

  “Excellent.” There’s some shouting in the background and he says, “I’m sorry, I gotta go.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you Friday.” I’m surprised to find that I wish he didn’t have to get off the phone. I could listen to him all day. Well, I’ll be able to listen to him all night Friday.

  All evening, rather; not all night. I will not be having an all-night date.

  “You sure will,” Mitch says, and for an awful second I think that I’ve spoken aloud. Then I realize he’s just agreeing that I’ll see him Friday. “Can’t wait.” And he hangs up without saying goodbye.

  Damned soap opera people. I know that’s where Kari gets it.

  Kari. Damn it. I got a little … carried away with setting up our date-that’s-not-a-date, and kind of forgot about Kari there for a minute. Oops.

  As if thinking about her has conjured her up, Ryan buzzes to tell me she’s on line two.

  “You called?” she says, when I pick up.

  “The eagle has landed,” I intone solemnly.