FRIDAY, 5:03 A.M.
“Ramon, you owe me,” I say as I push through the revolving door of my building. “The donut shop guy forgot his key, so he opened up a few minutes late, but I love you, so I waited, and—”
I break off when I see that Ramon’s not alone, as he usually is when I come bearing donuts.
This is what I get for being three minutes late.
The back of Andrew Mulroney, Esquire.
True to form, the guy doesn’t even turn his head to watch me approach, which is really his loss, because the light pink dress is a super-cute color on me, and the matching Manolo Blahnik stilettos are completely on point.
“Ms. Watkins, good morning,” the concierge says.
I heave a sigh. “Oh, Ramon, no. You have your deferential face on. I hate that.”
“Do you even know what deferential means?” Andrew asks, not looking up from where he’s writing something on an envelope in anal, pretentious little letters.
“Oh, you’re talking to me now?” I say with a fake start of surprise.
“I always speak with you, Georgiana. Someone has to tell you when you’re being ridiculous.”
“Which is always?” I guess wryly.
He finally looks up. Looks me over. “Are you wearing glitter?”
Maybe.
He doesn’t even glance my way as he tucks in the flap of the envelope and hands it to Ramon. “Spare key for my apartment. Someone will be coming by later today who will need to get in.”
“Exterminator?” I say, nudging the donut box toward Ramon. “Going to be a bit hard for them to eliminate the vermin, won’t it? What with the rat himself being in your office all day?”
Andrew sighs and bends to pick his bags and briefcase off the floor before turning to face me. “Custom closet designer.”
I nod in understanding as I select a sugared donut from the box. “Makes sense. You’ll want an expert to weigh in on how to best showcase your ruby-red slippers.”
I glance down, and the donut pauses halfway to my mouth when I realize he’s not wearing the red shoes. “Did Toto piss on your sneakers this morning? You’re not wearing your Oz kicks today.”
“Wasn’t wearing them yesterday or the day before either,” he says in a clipped tone as he adjusts his bag on his shoulder and picks up his black travel mug.
My eyes narrow just slightly as I chew my bite of donut and study him, wondering if his comment’s a very subtly disguised inquiry as to where I’ve been the past couple days.
Not that I’ll tell him, of course. My reasons for skipping our past morning meetings have been twofold. Partially I haven’t been feeling the going-out vibe; partially I may have taken his pretend you don’t exist and raised it a notch to I’m going to avoid you altogether.
I confess, I’ve put a lot more thought than I should into whether or not he’d even notice my absence, and I can’t hide my smirk now that he’s confirmed that he noticed, if not exactly cared.
I feel a tiny stab of relief that he’s as aware of me as I am of him, even if neither of us is happy with the situation.
If I had even a lick of sense, I’d forget him and this weird game we’re playing. Instead I keep coming back for more.
I’ve been thinking about why, and, well . . . I’m simply not used to people not liking me. And yes, I know how that sounds. Diva much? But really, usually people at least want to be my friend. He hated me on sight for no reason, and I seem to be having a wee bit of a difficult time letting it go.
“Miss me?” I ask, licking sugar off my finger, eager as ever to provoke him.
“Don’t look too pleased with yourself, Georgiana,” he says in a bored voice. “They’ve been the most peaceful mornings I’ve had in months.”
“You know what I think?”
“Breathless with wondering.”
“I think you’ve had too much peaceful in your life. I think peaceful has become synonymous with boring.”
His face is unreadable. “Are you sure we’re talking about my life, Georgiana?”
I withhold a flinch. Barely. The man’s barb hits closer to home than I care to let him see. “You’re the one who stole Dorothy’s slippers.”
“Of the two of us, you’re the one who dresses for attention.” His eyes flick downward just slightly, lingering on the expanse of bare legs, modest by nightclub standards, but admittedly a little short by Grace Kelly’s elegance standards.
I pop another piece of donut in my mouth and smile. “It’s fine. I won’t tell a soul you checked me out.”
“I wasn’t—” He clears his throat. “Forget it. You’re ridiculous.”
I’m grinning outright now, because that’s two you’re ridiculouses this morning, and when he takes to repeating himself, I know I’ve successfully gotten under his skin.
Georgie, one; Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, zero.
Ramon’s been more or less ignoring us, due to a sudden influx of phone calls, but there’s finally a gap in the incessant ringing and he leans forward to get our attention, his hand resting on a familiar Bergdorf box. “Mr. Mulroney, Ms. Watkins, before I forget: I’ve been off for the past two days, but I got your package when I got in late last night. I’ll wait until I’m with Marta to open it, but I saw the card and wanted to say thank you for your thoughtfulness.”
I clap my hands together happily. “Oh, you got it! Lovely!”
Andrew goes even more rigid than usual beside me, and he doesn’t say a word as he reaches out a hand and flicks open the little card with one long finger, reading my handiwork on the card.
He stares at it just a beat too long before raising his gaze to Ramon’s. “Congratulations. My best to both of you.”
“We already said that,” I say, pointing to the card. “See? Right here.”
He looks down at me, and with him being six foot two to my five foot five, it’s definitely a downward glare, even with my high heels.
For one delightful moment I think it’s finally going to happen. He’s finally going to lose his cool and show some sort of emotion.
Instead he inhales long and slow through his nose, as though trying to rein in his temper.
Unfortunately for me, he succeeds, and with a curt “Mr. Ramirez, Georgiana,” he turns and walks toward the front door.
Ramon’s phone rings, and he picks it up even as he points to the box and mouths another “Thank you.”
I give him a little wave, then help myself to another donut. I’ve earned it, after all.
This morning might be as close as I’ve come to making progress on cracking Andrew Mulroney, Esquire.