CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

 

The next few weeks are perfect. I'm not exaggerating. Perfect. And not only because they're filled with lots of hot, naked sexytimes with Connacht Garvey. Which is beyond fabulous.

I should get a few points out of the way before I continue. First of all, I'd heard some, er, things about Conn Garvey back in the day, before he devoted himself to Sasha, and while I wasn't exactly sure what those older girls were talking about, their comments stuck with me, and a part of me always wondered. Now I know: he's amazing. He's clever. And affectionate. And a take-charge kind of guy. Attentive, inventive…let's just say the boy's a giver. He likes to give. He gives and gives. And gives some more.

And that's all I'm going to say about that.

Best of all, more important than anything else, he loves me. It's the thought that's with me when I wake up in the morning and when I go to sleep at night and all day long in between. It's not weird. It's not creepy. It doesn't freak me out. I'll admit, sometimes I'll look at Conn and feel some sort of…shift…a listing, like I'm still on the deck of his boat and it's hit a huge wave. It's then I realize my new reality is vastly different from the one I've known. Or is it? Sure, Conn and I stepped into this midstream, but with a few minor adjustments on my part once in a while, as I get my sea legs, it's the most natural thing in the world.

The other parts of my life are going great as well. My dad is practically back to normal. He's made a sincere effort not to go looking for health-related trouble, but he can't help complaining once in a while. That's okay. It's still progress.

Hannah came back from Ohio after three weeks away. If she hadn't texted me once in a while, mostly demanding details about me and Conn, I'd have thought she'd fallen off the face of the earth. She doesn't talk much about what she did back home, but the glow in her cheeks gives her away. I think she's avoiding telling me she's been seeing Marty again because she's afraid I'll lecture her for not following my advice. I'm not sure I would though. Oh, I still think she's making a mistake, but the lingering sting of Mrs. Garvey's criticism makes me more inclined to keep my mouth shut about other people's relationships.

Speaking of the Garveys, they're actually honoring Conn's wishes and not talking about us. Constance still gives me the stink eye, of course, but Bruce is actually the one we have to watch out for. He's so thrilled his son and I are together, we're convinced he's going to slip first. Not that it much matters. Conn and I have gotten a bit sloppy about how we behave in public, which got us our own blind Bite on the Bottom in the latest Bugle Bites column. Something about some new/old lovebirds in town, often sharing the same nest. It wasn't the Bugle's best work, and consequently it didn't raise much suspicion. We simply went about our lovebirdy business, unconcerned.

With the season in Abbott's Bay winding down, the summer people are disappearing a few at a time. The rest will get called back to Mother Ship Manhattan, Boston, or wherever else over Labor Day weekend, and the town will go quiet again. Your New Best Friend is slowing down at the same time, as I expected. And, like it does every year around this time, the real estate market has picked up, as a number of renting summer people look into buying properties to prolong their love affair with Abbott's Bay, so I'm spending more time working as a real estate agent than a New Best Friend.

I'm glad my schedule is flexible, because Conn's is packed, what with running the old DBC and planning the new one. I meet up with him whenever he has time. Sometimes our lifestyles dovetail perfectly: there's nothing more heavenly than lounging in Conn's bed, sipping his coffee and perusing the real estate database for newly listed Provincetown locations.

Then he makes one of those moments even better when he says, almost casually, "How about a quick trip to New York for an investors' meeting?"

On equal footing with Conn, Jack, and Sasha, talking about Conn's future, bringing his dream to fruition? Yes, please. I set my coffee aside and express my approval with a deep, prolonged kiss.

"We should stay overnight," I suggest. "You need a break from all this restauranting."

"I do," he agrees, stretching his arms over his head, and I'm momentarily distracted by the captivating sight of his flexing triceps. "But I can't right now. Once things settle down though, I would be happy to wine and dine you in New York."

I rest my chin on his chest. "If I'm in New York, I'm going to feel an irresistible need to go shopping."

"Shocker. Well, you could go earlier, and I could meet you there, or you could stay overnight and take the train back the next day. Far be it from me to keep you from the fall fashions."

"Aw, you do love me."

I stretch up for another kiss, and he meets me halfway, pulling me to him, and the scratch of his chest hair against my bare skin drives me so crazy I barely notice his laptop is making noise. Reluctantly breaking our kiss, Conn glances at it.

"Huh. Video call from Jack."

He doesn't think twice about answering, while I squeak in panic and roll off the bed, landing on the floor with an unladylike thud.

"Dude. What's up?"

"What's up? I think I need to ask you that. Are you dying or something? You look like you're in bed, and it's past 5 a.m."

"It's been known to happen."

"Maybe for the rest of the population. You're usually up to your eyeballs in coffee and food orders and paperwork by now."

Trying to stay out of the camera's view, I flail around, looking for my underwear. Conn and I haven't discussed revealing our relationship to Jack, but we're aware it's going to have to come up eventually. When I'm naked and freshly flipped out of Conn's bed, however, is not that time. Staying low, I reach out a hand and grab hold of my bra, which is pinned under Conn's torso. I give it a couple of tugs. Conn rocks to one side to let my bra loose. It promptly snaps back and smacks me in the face.

"Ow."

"Oh crap!" comes Jack's gleeful shout. "I'm sorry—why didn't you tell me you've got a…guest?"

I scuttle farther away from the bed like a crab. Conn looks over at me and starts laughing. Yeah, not one of my sexier moves.

"It's fine. Really. Not a big deal."

Thanks a lot, I mouth at Conn as I get to my feet. I know he doesn't mean it though, by the lustful look he's giving me as I back out of the room.

"I think I should leave you and your special friend alone." When Conn doesn't answer, Jack continues, "One quick thing—I need to move our investors' meeting to two o'clock. Is that okay?"

"Yeah, yeah—not a problem. Gotta go."

Conn slams the laptop shut, leaps off the bed, and chases me into the bathroom.

 

*   *   *

 

A few days later I'm checking my outfit in my full-length mirror. The mountain of rejected clothes on the bed behind me illustrates my desperation to impress the fashionistas in New York, but really I've just got Sasha in mind. I've settled on a tan linen pencil skirt with pale pink ribbon trim and a little flare at the knee, and a cream-colored crossover silk blouse. I could have gone with one of my business suits, but that would make me look like I'm trying too hard. This outfit, on the other hand, works perfectly—it's feminine, a little more casual, and quite honestly looks more like me. Plus, if the cut of the skirt puts a wiggle in my walk, so much the better for my sex life. Conn watching me move like that all day can only work to my advantage in the long run.

We settled on traveling separately so I could squeeze in a little shopping before the midafternoon meeting. That means I had to get up at the crack of OMG to catch the first train of the day—if I can get to the station on time, that is. I come out of the carriage house to find a black car in the driveway blocking mine. And a man in a suit standing next to it.

"Miss Melanie Abbott?"

"Er…yes?"

"Courtesy of Mr. Rossiter," he says, smoothly opening the rear door of the luxury sedan.

Get outta town.

Which, apparently, is Jack's plan.

Of course I call him the minute I'm settled in the back seat and the driver, who introduces himself as Xavier, hands me a bottle of water from a refrigerated compartment. "You sent your driver?"

"I sent a driver."

"What do you want, Jack?"

"It's not what I want. It's what I need. And that's for you to arrive as soon as possible."

"Jack…"

"Oops, I've got another call. We'll talk when you get here."

That scam artist has me fretting the entire drive, which lasts several hours. Most women like it when Jack Rossiter turns on the charm, but it only makes me suspicious.

Xavier pulls the car over and opens the back door for me somewhere in the middle of Manhattan, at the front entrance of an impressive high-rise amid many more impressive high-rises. The Rossiter Building. Of course. A well-dressed gentleman meets me at the door, greets me by name like Xavier did, and leads me to the elevators. I'm dizzy by the time the elevator reaches its destination, and not just from the speed of the ascent. When the doors open, I see a huge sign on the opposite wall: National News Network.

Jack steps away from the reception desk where he's obviously been charming the knickers off the young woman seated there, judging by the high color in her cheeks, and approaches me, arms outstretched. "Miss Melanie! Now, wasn't that a nicer way to travel? I mean, I could have sent the helicopter, but I figured you might think it was a bit much."

"Jack." I don't give him the hug he's reaching for. "If this is what I think it is…"

"Like I'd have forgotten our little deal."

"We have no deal."

"There were flowers and a promise."

"I never said I'd take you up on it."

He puts a hand on my back and steers me toward a door. "Just come see what I'm talking about."

Down some narrow hallways, through some office areas, around some corners, and we're in an actual TV studio ensconced in the windowless center of the building. A tangle of taped-down cables all over the floor, hot overhead lights, cameras, a production booth, a set with a tall news desk.

"That could be you up there, behind the desk, next to the host of our noon show," Jack says in my ear. "A special segment, maybe weekly? Your New Best Friend goes national." He pauses but only for a moment. "Come on, Miss Melanie—it's a no-brainer! Say you'll do it, and I'll talk to the producers right now."

National exposure? Me on TV? Ludicrous. And completely unnecessary. More important…"Why?" I demand, looking Jack squarely in the eye.

"Why what?"

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because I want to make you happy, M." My shortened name sounds strange coming from him. It's too intimate. Usually only Conn calls me that. "Don't you want to be successful?"

I pull away from his encircling arm. "I am successful."

He laughs winningly and stuffs his hands into his pockets, bunching up his suit jacket in the most charming way. "Okay," he says. "I mean, of course you are. For Abbott's Bay."

"I was covered in the Huffington Post."

"And that's great." Ah, that patronizing tone. It makes me feel seventeen again. "But I'm talking television."

"Why didn't you talk to me about this after the meeting this afternoon? Why get me here early?"

"Well, now. There's nothing I like more than a little alone time with Miss Melanie."

Oh, he's definitely pulling out all the stops to charm me, but it's not going to convince me of anything. Then his cell phone goes off, and he answers it with a wink at me, his index finger up in a "just a minute" gesture. He goes out into the hallway, leaving me standing on the fringe of the set. I watch technicians and producers bustle about, preparing for today's show. It's interesting, but it doesn't pull me in. I decide to give Jack a solid no. If he ever comes back, that is. Five minutes, seven, ten. Still no Jack. I duck out of the studio before they go on the air so I won't be stuck there till the first commercial break.

The hallway's empty.

 

*   *   *

 

"There you are."

Conn's face lights up at the sight of me, and it looks like he's about to lean in to kiss me. While normally I'd be all for it, I have to stop him with a raised eyebrow, because Jack is in the conference room as well, on his phone again.

Conn settles for a subtle squeeze of my hand then pulls out one of the leather chairs and drops into it. "How was the train?"

"Funny story. I'll tell you later."

"And the shopping?"

I shrug. I wasn't exactly in the mood after Jack disappeared on me. I waited for him a while longer then somehow found my way out of the NNN labyrinth alone. I was a few blocks away when Jack called me, confused as to why I'd disappeared. The nerve. He convinced me to have lunch with him later, but I insisted we order in instead of going to a restaurant. We were just finishing up when Conn arrived.

Jack finishes his call, and he and Conn fall into their usual warm, jokey guy banter. Fifteen minutes later, Sasha sweeps in with kisses for everyone.

When she gets to me, she looks me up and down and exclaims, "Melanie! I love your outfit! It's so cute!"

"Cute"? My heart sinks. Now that I look at it from her point of view, it is "cute," especially compared to her sleek couture ensemble. She's managed to knock me down with one word. But she's smiling at me and the guys as she pulls her giant dove-gray cashmere shawl-wrap away from her neck.

"Goodness, it's warmer than I thought. Didn't need this old thing."

"This old thing" looks brand new and obscenely expensive, but all right.

"This is exciting, isn't it?" she enthuses. "And Melanie, it's so wonderful to have you here too. Are you taking notes for us?"

What?

"No, of course not," Jack says. "One of the assistants is on her way in."

"Oh!" Sasha flashes a bewildered look around the table. "Well, it's nice that you came along with Conn. It must have been a lovely day for a drive."

"Sasha," Conn says patiently, but I detect an underlying note of irritation, "Melanie is one of my investors."

"Is she?"

Conn must be able to feel me tense up, because suddenly his hand is on my knee. One squeeze and my hips sink back onto the cushion. Two, and my rigid back relaxes a bit. Three, and I'm ready to take on Sasha with her own weapon of choice—sickeningly sweet disingenuousness.

"It's true," I say to her with my best smile. "I'm here to keep Garvey honest."

"Aren't we all!" She laughs then says, almost offhandedly, "It's very daring of you to dip into your trust fund for this."

"I don't have a trust fund, Sasha."

"Break your piggy bank then."

Oh, I swear…but Conn's hand is on my knee again, so I settle. Not before Sasha's eyes lock onto Conn's arm. She can't see under the table, but he's clearly reaching over to me.

Just then Conn's phone rings. He apologizes for the interruption, but Jack waves a lazy hand at him to take the call. He rises, walks over to the windows, and stares out at the view as he talks. Sasha excuses herself, murmuring something about a visit to the "little girls' room."

I use the free moment to lean over to Jack and say quietly, "Okay, fine. I'll do the TV spots. But it's going to cost you an obscene amount of money."

Without a moment's hesitation he shrugs and says, "Name your price."

My price? Enough to move me up into Jack and Sasha's stratum of this venture. Enough to earn Sasha's respect. Enough to stop being Little Melanie pretending to be a grownup.