Mr. Wrong Read online

  “So you want to get eighteen-year-olds thinking about retirement.”

  “I didn’t say it was going to be easy. But I’m really excited about it, and I think that if we market it the right way it could work. Spectacularly.”

  “And that’s where you come in,” he says.

  “That’s where I come in. If we’re going to sell it, it’s going to be because of me. Or because of my department, which for all intents and purposes is the same thing.”

  “That’s a lot to take on one set of shoulders.”

  “It’s just the way it is,” I say. “I’m the head of the department, so Creative and Copywriting and Web Development and all of that falls under my umbrella. This is why the whole thing is making me a nervous wreck. If it fails, it’s on me.”

  “And if it succeeds?” he asks.

  “Then I might get a raise. And a big success under my belt should I need leverage later on.”

  “Leverage for what?”

  “Who can say? But this is the corporate world; it always pays to have an ace up your sleeve.”

  “Office politics,” he says with distaste. “Sounds too stressful for me. I don’t do stress.”

  “Doing stress isn’t really a choice, is it? I mean, I would think no matter where you are, stress is going to find you. Surely your job gets stressful.”

  “I enjoy my job enough that the normal stress of it doesn’t bother me at all,” he says. “And if the stress gets to be too much … well, I can just move east and find a new soap, right?” He smiles at me again, but for the first time I don’t see his eyes backing it up.

  “Is that what happened?” I ask quietly.

  “I don’t really want to talk about it.” He doesn’t sound angry, but he also doesn’t sound like he’s going to budge on that, so I leave it alone.

  Before I can think of what to say next, Mitch switches the conversation back to me, asking me questions about where I grew up and stuff. I find myself telling him all sorts of things that I generally keep to myself. We both have a good laugh over the story about the year my dad walked in on my birthday party and didn’t remember it was my birthday. It’s one of my favorites—I mean, it sucks that my dad forgot my birthday, but it really is a funny story. Especially the way I tell it.

  “And he goes ‘What the hell is the cake for?’” I say, laughing.

  “Seriously?” Mitch shakes his head like he can’t even believe it.

  “It’s true, cross my heart. And so cranky, like it was a huge inconvenience to come home and find all these kids in the house.” I take a big gulp of beer and smile, remembering his face.

  Mitch just shakes his head again, but he’s laughing a little, too. “You’re really tough, to be able to laugh that off.”

  “Seriously, it wasn’t a big deal. Still isn’t. He loved me like crazy.” I’m still giggling when I realize he’s not laughing anymore. I turn to look at him and he’s staring at me, his eyes hooded and undecipherable. The color looks different in this light, darker. “Mitch—”

  “Don’t say anything,” he says, and I hush up obediently. “I know we don’t know each other well, and this is our first date.”

  “Yes.”

  He reaches out and cups my face in his hands, strokes my cheek with his thumb, slides his hands down to cup the curves of my shoulders. “But you look really beautiful when you’re being brave, and I’ve decided that I’m going to kiss you.”

  Uh-oh.

  I start to say something—what?—but before I can get a word out he’s leaning half out of his seat and pulling me halfway out of mine to meet him. I put my hands on his knees to balance myself and then, as promised, he kisses me.

  Oh, my.

  It’s a soft kiss, not much more than a shared, lingering breath. It’s not at all like I thought it would be.

  Wait a minute, I think, does that mean I’ve been thinking about what it would be like to kiss him?

  Well, maybe a little.

  His teeth tease at my lower lip, then his tongue flickers out and traces along the path where his teeth were. His lips are perfect, and he’s kissing me quite expertly, with just the right amount of pressure. I part my lips almost involuntarily and he gently meets my tongue with his.

  What is going on? How is this happening? How much have I had to drink? My God, is anyone watching?

  These questions flit in and out of my mind, but I can’t seem to concentrate on them. I can’t seem to do much of anything, really, except kiss him back. So I do that, moving to meet his tongue with my own, learning the taste and feel of his mouth.

  His hands leave my shoulders and trail down my arms, and as the kiss deepens and gets more intense I feel his hands slipping under my shirt. His fingers brush across my back, just above the waistline of my pants. His skin is rough against mine; frankly, it’s sexy as hell.

  But it’s also one hell of a wake-up call. What am I doing? Kari sent me on a mission; she didn’t send me out here to get kissed.

  I break off the kiss and pull away, and he backs off immediately. He moves his hands and rests them on the curve of my hips—in a position that, to be honest, isn’t any less indecent. But at least my pants are between us this way. I take my hands off his knees and fold them in my lap to hide their trembling. My God, he smells so good.

  He doesn’t say anything; he just looks at me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I should never have agreed to this. This is awful.”

  He looks mildly offended. “I didn’t think it was that bad.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” I fumble for the words. “I like you very much.”

  “Good—”

  “You don’t understand. I don’t like you that way.”

  “You were doing fine just now,” he says, but he takes his hands off my hips and reaches for his beer.

  I resist the urge to tell him that he wasn’t too shabby himself. Not to mention the urge to reach out and stroke that gorgeous jawline until he stops frowning at me like he’s doing now.

  I keep my thoughts—and my hands—to myself. There’s no sense in encouraging him any more than I already have.

  The thing is—and it makes me sound shallow, but it’s not that—there’s a very specific sort of guy that, for me, is the end goal. And it’s not about money, it’s not about his job exactly, or any one thing I can put my finger on. I just know what Mr. Right is supposed to be like, and this isn’t it.

  A few years ago? Mitch would have made a spectacular Mr. Right Now. But that’s not where I’m at anymore. And he can call it a checklist if he wants to, but I’m not ashamed of wanting very specific things in my life—and I don’t need some sexy dude swaggering in and upending my ideas about what I need. I know what I need.

  But oh Lord, what I need and what I want are not the same thing right now.

  “It’s not that I didn’t want to kiss you just then”—Lord, it sure isn’t—“but there are so many reasons why we really should keep this strictly just friends.”

  “Give me one,” he challenges.

  I rack my brain, trying to remember all the good reasons I had. “You’re just not my type, Mitch,” I say lamely.

  He shakes his head. “That’s a stupid reason. I don’t think that even qualifies as a reason.”

  “It’s not stupid. Everyone’s got a type—a Mr. Right.”

  “Like Drew.”

  I nod. “Well, yeah.”

  “And I’m Mr. Wrong.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not saying that. It’s just … people are attracted to a specific kind of person, you know?”

  “So you don’t find me attractive?” He sounds like he doesn’t believe that for a second. Does he have to be so unshakeable, so supremely self-confident?

  “No, it’s not that—of course you’re—I mean—” This isn’t working out how I’d hoped. “Whether or not someone is attractive isn’t the only thing that matters.”

  “So what does matter?” he asks. “What is it about me that you don’t like?”

  Huh. I’ll be damned—I can’t think of a single thing.

  “You don’t understand,” I say again. This is, apparently, the best I can do.

  “I understand more than you think,” he says. “I understand that if you stopped worrying about Mr. Right, you might find that things aren’t as cut and dried as you think. You might find that people don’t fit into those neat boxes you want to put them in.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. Do I put people in boxes? I certainly don’t mean to. “All I’m saying is, I think you’re a really nice guy, and I would like us to be friends.”

  “Friends,” he says.

  “Yes, I’ve enjoyed talking with you and I would like to do more of it.” I try on a smile. After all, it’s the unvarnished truth. The whole truth. Just friends. Whatever just happened here was an anomaly.

  After a moment, he nods. “Friends it is, then. That’s probably for the best, all things considered.”

  What’s that supposed to mean? Oh, wait, isn’t that pretty much what I said to him? Somehow it sounds different when he says it. Plus, why did he give in so easily?

  “So … friend,” he says, “let’s go find a cab and take you home.” He stands up and offers me his arm again.

  He’s not very good at this friends thing. Kari never escorts me around with our arms wound together.

  “I can just take the train, really,” I say.

  “Friends or no friends, I’m not letting you wander off on our first—and only—date. I’ll see you home.”

  And how is a girl supposed to say no to something like that?

  Chapter Nine

  Kari lets me sleep until eight o’clock on Saturday. Then she starts calling—first my house phone, then my cell. I ignore each of them twice, then finally drag myself out to the kitchen to answer the phone there when it starts ringing again.

  “Hi, Kari.” I open the cupboard above the coffee machine only to discover that I have no coffee. I meant to stop on the way home from my date. My not-date. My evening.

  “How’d you know it was me?”

  “Who the hell else would call me at this ungodly hour on a weekend? Did it occur to you I might be tired from my hot date?”

  “That’s why I’m downstairs with coffee.”

  Oh Lord, she’s not screwing around. She knows my weak spot: Coffee. Now.

  I buzz her in and move the pile of books and papers on the table over to the counter, then check the fridge for anything breakfast-like—or even food-like. No dice; I have a bottle of ketchup, a foam container of leftover Thai takeout from last weekend, and a water pitcher that’s currently as dry as the Sahara. How luxurious my life is.

  I let Kari in and snatch my cup of coffee from her hand, taking a gulp. Double cream, double sugar. Perfection.

  It’s too hot, of course, and I immediately regret it when I burn my mouth, then immediately regret it again when I go back for more.

  “Why did you call instead of buzzing?”

  “I did, like five times.”

  Ugh. I’m gonna have to call the property management company and have them come to fix it, which is just about the last thing I feel like doing.

  “And, I might add, I called five times as well. I was starting to think you were dead up here. Or had company.”

  I roll my eyes. “I did not have company. I’m exhausted, though.”

  “That sounds promising.” She sets her coffee on the table and takes a seat facing me.

  I lean against the counter rather than sit. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  “No problem,” she says. “So, are you tired from your hot date?”

  “Actually, I was home well before ten. I just couldn’t sleep.”

  “You drink too much coffee,” she says.

  I nod, although it had much less to do with coffee than with thinking about that kiss at Jacks. “I had a lovely time but, as I predicted, there were no sparks.” I take the lid off my coffee and blow on it to cool it. No sparks. Yeah, right.

  “But did you have fun?” she asks.

  “I had a lovely time,” I repeat. “He’s very charming and funny and smart, and we talked a lot about work and stuff.”

  Oops. I shouldn’t have mentioned work. His work, after all, is what this visit is about—and a topic I actually want to avoid.

  But it’s too late now. “What about work?” she asks, her voice excited.

  “Well, he wanted to know all about Grow,” I say, spitting the last word out. Kari knows how I feel about this name; I’ve certainly made it clear more than once. More than twice really. Probably about six thousand times.

  “And?”

  “And so I told him all about it, and what I was working on. We didn’t get into the stupid brochure, but—”

  “Jenna,” she half-yells, and bangs the table with the palm of her hand. “You know I don’t want to hear about that right now! What did he say about his job?”

  “To be honest, Kari, not a whole lot. I told you I wasn’t going to grill him.”

  “Did he say anything about what his new storyline is going to be on MC?”

  “He said a bunch of great stuff about the woman who plays his mom.” That seems safe to pass along. “And they’re pairing him with his stepsister. I forget the name.” That might be less safe, but it’s not like he told me to keep it to myself or anything.

  “Cassie?” she prompts.

  “Yeah, that’s it. He said it was scandalous.”

  “I’ve seen worse,” she says, but doesn’t elaborate.

  Just as well—the last thing I want is to get into a detailed discussion about some crazy soap opera plot I probably wouldn’t be able to follow anyway.

  “That was all he told me about that.”

  “You were with him all that time, and that’s all he said about MC?”

  “It was only a few hours. And, by the way, dinner was delicious, thanks for asking.”

  She throws her hands up. “I’m glad you had a nice dinner, but I sent you on a mission.”

  “Do you have to be so obsessive?”

  “I prefer to think of it as focused. Now, this is an exciting tidbit, but it’s not exactly going to set the internet on fire, you know.”

  “No, I don’t know. I have no idea what sets your friends on fire.” At this point, I’d like to set her friends on fire. Bunch of busybodies, ruining my perfectly nice date. Evening. Whatever.

  “Did he say what his mom is going to do about it?”

  Well, that’s a weird question. “I don’t know if he keeps his mom updated on his storylines.”

  “Not his mom mom! His soap opera mom. Lucille!” Kari has clearly had it with me. “You know, when he starts banging Cassie?”

  “Oh. No, he didn’t mention it. He really didn’t say anything else.” Well, he did drop that hint about leaving the last job because something stressed him out, but unless he decides to be more specific than that, I don’t see how that can even be considered decent gossip.

  Plus, there was something about the way he looked when he said it—something kind of defeated. I don’t think I want to share it with anyone. He didn’t tell me to keep that to myself, either … but I think I will anyway.

  Her voice is exasperated now. “Surely he said something. You didn’t just talk about yourself all night, did you?”

  “Not all night. He was just kind of close-mouthed about work. We talked about our families and school and stuff like that. Just getting-to-know-you stuff.”

  Although now that I consider it, we talked about my family and my work. He didn’t tell me much of anything, did he? He was born in North Carolina, moved to LA when he was nineteen … and that’s all I’ve got. He plays it awfully close to the vest, Mitch does.

  “Jenna,” Kari says sternly, “you did a terrible job. One little tidbit about Cassie isn’t going to amount to much as far as scoops go.”

  “Well, excuse me.”

  “When are you going to see him again? Did you set a date?”

  “You make it sound like we’re getting married,” I say, and brood into my coffee.

  “I should be so lucky. When’s your next date?”

  “We didn’t make one. Like I said, there just wasn’t any….” I hesitate. “Any spark.”

  Oh, I’m such a liar.

  “I don’t care about your spark! Call him and set up another date.”

  “I can’t do that. That’s so mercenary.”

  I finish off my coffee and wish I had more. Kari must see the coffee-related sadness in my eyes, because she holds hers out. I’m not too proud to take it, either.

  “I don’t see how it’s any different from setting up the first date,” she says. “Just this time you call him instead of vice versa.”

  I sigh. The thing is, I would love to see him again. And we did decide to be friends. It’s not out of line for me to call him to get together—in fact, I’d like to call him to get together.

  But do I want to do it as part of some scheme to get Kari her spoilers?

  Not really. I sigh again.

  “Quit sighing at me and call him,” she barks.

  “Stop being so bossy,” I say. “I didn’t agree to go out with him a million times.”

  “I told all my online friends that I met him and I’d be able to get good spoilers for them.”

  “I thought you and your friends didn’t even like Midnight Confessions. You always made it sound like you just cared about Doctors and Nurses.”

  “Well, that’s the best of them,” she says. “But I watch the others, too. And now that Mitch has switched shows, a lot of people are paying more attention to MC than they used to. Myself included. And I told them I’d get them some spoilers.”

  “Hey, I told you that thing about his sister.”