Unless he was hit by the amnesia stick in the last five minutes, Vik knows exactly where we’re headed.
“I have reservations for us at Picasso.”
Vik nods. “Harper likes the fountain. You want to show her a good time, you make sure she can see it, you feel me? Pretty fucking romantic watching the show.”
“Hey.” I’m pretty sure my face is moving from peony pink to flaming tomato red. Best friend does not mean Vik gets to act like my dad. “I can manage my own date.”
Vik doesn’t get the hint. “She likes shellfish. Steak so raw you think it’s gonna fucking moo at you. Anything with truffles in it or sugar on it.”
James smiles, and it’s a nice smile. The corners of his mouth curve right up, the smile reaching his eyes. He’s decided this is funny, and I can’t really blame him. I’m starting to suspect that Vik would wrap me in a chastity belt if he had one handy.
“We’ll get the biggest lobsters in Vegas,” he promises easily. “Are we ready?”
Vik shoves off the wall. “How are you getting there?”
Jeez. “Vik—”
He holds up a hand. “Let the man answer the question, Harper.”
“My car’s out front,” James says. “Mercedes-Benz C-Class. The National Highway Traffic Safety Administration promises Harper will be safe with me. It’s got one of the best ratings for crashes.”
“Are you planning on crashing tonight?”
Wisely, James starts heading for the door.
I follow him, snagging my purse from the side table. “We’re done here.”
Vik ignores me. “Harper’s fucking priceless. You treat her like that, you feel me?”
“Absolutely.” James pulls the door open and waits for me to go first. God. He’s such a gentleman.
“Thanks for having this conversation with me.” Vik slaps James on the back. We’re all bottled up at the door, and I’m starting to get concerned that I might never get to head out on my date (at least not without a bonus biker chaperone) when Vik’s phone rings.
That’s his dad’s ringtone.
“What’s up?” he asks as he steps away.
“Are you ready?” James presses his hand against the small of my back and my new firebird, urging me toward the door. He’s right. We should totally take advantage of Vik’s distraction to escape. I’m sure we’ve got reservations and shouldn’t be late, but something’s up from the way Vik’s free hand taps out an impatient rhythm against his thigh. I can’t hear much but I know that Mr. Serge isn’t in the best of health, physically or mentally, and Vik worries.
“Is everything okay?” I wait for Vik to hang up and follow us out before locking up. James moves down the hall ahead of us, punching the button for the elevator and generally giving us some space.
Vik shakes his head. “My dad’s had some kind of thing. Don’t know what, but Lora’s driving him to the ER because he’s refusing an ambulance. She says it’s probably just heartburn, but we should be sure. I’m gonna go meet them.”
“I can go with you.”
“I’ve got this. You go on your date.” He pauses, and for a moment I think he might kiss me—or pull me into a hug. We’re friends. It would be okay. Instead after a few awkward seconds, he shoots me a careful smile and lopes toward the stairwell.
“See you,” he calls over his shoulder.
So I go. I mean, what else can I do? And it turns out fine. Fine but boring. James doesn’t have tattoos, doesn’t ride balls-out, but he also doesn’t judge me. Or fuck me up against a wall, kiss me senseless, make me laugh.
Turns out, a guy can wear a suit and still be Mr. All Wrong.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Harper
VIK’S NOT MY loaner penis.
Okay.
He’s not just my loaner penis.
He’s not just anything. How do I know this? Let me count the ways. Item one: I’m reading his texts while I mainline my sad desk salad at work. Usually, I do a quick run-through of the major financial news sites while I work my way through two cups of arugula and a can of dolphin-safe tuna fish. Item two? I spent the weekend texting him and trying not to run over to his place to check up on him.
I’m not sure how his dad is doing, or if Vik’s okay. He spent the weekend with his dad, which I totally get. The Friday-night ER visit turned out to be precautionary rather than required, and his dad’s back home. Vik is still trying to sort out tests and doctors, but he claims everything is more or less fine. I’m not so convinced, even though today’s text has me smiling, and it’s not even funny. Or dirty. Or unusual.
And that’s the problem right there.
My phone always starts buzzing at 12:01 because he knows I’ll ignore him before I take my solo thirty minutes. At 12:01, however, he’ll text What r u doing? and I’ll text back. That’s how our Mondays go. There are limits, of course, on the shareable stuff. I don’t give him details about my trades or the investments I’ve set up; I don’t tell him dollar amounts, names or personally identifying information. We’re just swapping stories. He knows about Coffee Man, who never comes in without two Americanos clutched in his hands, and who gets progressively more jittery as our half-hour appointment winds to a close because it’s time for his next hit. He laughs his ass off at It Girl, whose portfolio is entirely invested in the fashion industry—and who picks her stocks based on the contents of her closet. He tells me to give Weeping Widow a hug (which I can’t, although she really needs it) when she dissolves into tears yet again because I want her to make changes to the investments her husband set up and she wants everything to stay the same even though it’s already changed.
Sure enough, my phone buzzes with Vik’s favorite question. What r we eating today?
I’m not adventurous when it comes to
