Dirty Headlines
“Are you going to the library today?” Dad asked.
“Yeah, I need to catch up on some reading material for work. Why?”
“Oh, we got an invitation from Mrs. Hawthorne to come watch that new Jack Nicholson movie. She’s making Irish stew. But of course, you don’t have to come.”
“I’ll take a pass. I think you’ll have a good time by yourselves, anyway.” I knocked my shoulder against his, smiling brightly.
“It’s not what you think.”
“You don’t know what I think.”
Dad had never dated after Mom died, and not for my lack of trying to fix him up with people. I’d spent the majority of my college years trying to get him to sign up on dating sites—before he got sick. I was desperate for him to be happy, and never wanted him to think he shouldn’t be on my account.
“It’s really just a movie and dinner.”
“Dinner? I thought it was a lunch thing.”
We stopped by the grocery store on the corner of our street, and he blushed. Actually blushed. I was almost giddy with excitement. Such a natural human reaction, but on his pale, ill skin, it looked like a glorious sunrise.
“Don’t worry, I have other plans for the afternoon. How’s Milton?” He scratched his head.
Right. Milton. It’d been several weeks since I’d mentioned him to Dad. Then again, he’d very rarely dragged his butt to Brooklyn even when we were dating. Dad wasn’t too suspicious, because I worked insane hours—it still felt like I was barely at home to spend time with him. I didn’t want to explicitly lie to him, but this lie had gotten so big, it felt almost criminal to come clean at this point. Especially on this beautiful, sunny day, when we were both happy and smiling.
“He’s good, Dad.” I pulled him into a hug. “Taking names and kicking ass at The Thinking Man.” Not technically a lie. Our mutual so-called friends had been happy to break the news that Milton had recently been promoted to junior editor. For them, it was more reason for me to get down from the ego tree I’d climbed up and take him back. For me, it was yet more proof of the fact that he was still sleeping with his boss.
Of course, I wasn’t a big enough a hypocrite to point that out.
“My cell is broken at the moment, so I’m going to call you when I get to the library from the public phone. I’ll try you here, and at Mrs. Hawthorne’s, so please be available.”
Two hours later, I was walking to the subway on my way to the library. I’d dressed down, embracing the fact that it wasn’t a workday. I felt juvenile and reckless in skull-themed Chucks. The world felt lighter when you wore flannel shirts, ripped jeans, and a messenger bag. I adjusted the strap over my shoulder, about to enter the station when someone honked their horn behind me.
Rolling my eyes, I proceeded.
“Judith.” The commanding tone found its way straight to my core, making my stomach swirl with delicious heat. Jesus Christ, what was he doing here?
Jesus: “Didn’t you say something a while back about hitting Sunday Mass sometime in the next decade? Maybe you could take your foul-mouthed, engaged boss with you.”
I turned around slowly, feigning annoyance, because the alternative was showing him how much I cared, how much it affected me to see him here. In Brooklyn. On a Sunday. Take that, Milton.
Célian sat in his silver Mercedes-Benz in a navy, short-sleeved sport shirt, his Ray-Bans tipped down to examine me.
“What are you doing here?” I narrowed my eyes. I hadn’t spoken to him since the phone incident. We’d talked business in the office, but every time he’d tried to pretend like that night hadn’t happened—like he hadn’t broken my phone just because I’d exchanged numbers with some random guy at a diner—I turned around and walked away.
“You can’t keep ignoring me.”
“Pretty sure I can. Exhibit A: this conversation.”
“I’m your boss.”
“Precisely, and you crossed a lot of lines.”
“You could have made a great lawyer.”
“Not satisfied with my performance as a reporter?”
“Quite the contrary. As a booty call, however, you do a lousy job.”
“Good. Consider this my official resignation.”
He lifted his hand, waving a brand new cellphone. It was the new model that had just come out a hot minute ago and was already out of stock.
“With twelve cases in different colors to suit your mood.” He shot me his devastatingly charming smirk. “Truce?”
“Never. But I do need a phone.”
This was a gift I was willing to accept solely because he was responsible for the untimely death of my previous phone. It’d been a rough few days without one, but I wasn’t exactly swimming in money to buy a replacement. I’d had to arrive at work even earlier and leave slightly later to make sure I wasn’t needed or MIA, and at home, I checked my email every half hour.
He clutched the new device to his chest, and mine tightened in response.
“Come get it, Chucks.”
He was blocking the traffic, and someone honked behind him. Three, long beeps.
“You want to get her number, park like a goddamn man and let us through!” someone yelled behind him.
Célian ignored the guy completely, ruthlessly entitled to the bone.