Ruckus
“Sounds fair.” I nodded, about to close the door again. I really was tired. And even though I was happy, I also needed a shower and to clear my airways after the flight.
“And, sweetheart?” He looked over his shoulder, pressing the elevator button.
“Yes, Mr. Bossy Pants?”
“Congratulations, you have a new boyfriend.”
“You’re not my boyfriend.”
“Your Facebook status claims differently.”
“What?!”
Ping. He walked into the elevator, a cunning smile on his face as the door slid shut.
“Like the fucking post, Rosie. Goodbye.”
I had a tech guy with a lot of free time (and probably wasted sperm) on his hands who made things happen. That was how Dean Cole and Rose LeBlanc became in a relationship on Facebook, even though they weren’t even friends two days ago. I wanted to make sure Rosie knew that this wasn’t another drawn-out fling, and that the next time someone out of our group was going to go down the aisle, it would be us, and it would be us in every sense of the word. She was going to wear flip-flops, and I was going to wear her out until they had to surgically remove my dick from her body.
How did it feel to find out my ex-girlfriend was having a baby? It felt like a thousand knives to my stomach, but not because she was knocked up by the guy I grew up with.
“I can’t have kids.”
Every time I thought about the way she whispered it into my ear, I felt like polishing off a whole bottle of whiskey. It was unfair. Unfair that fucking Nina could have a baby but Rosie couldn’t. Rosie was the definition of mother material. She had enough compassion to last for five people. How could she even volunteer at a children’s hospital? Fuck if I had a clue, but I did understand why Millie didn’t want to tell Rosie about it until the time was right.
“Mr. Cole.” Sue breezed into my office, offering me a nod. It was a Tuesday, but Sue looked like a Monday morning. Her attire black, head-to-toe and she wore a frozen smile of a cheap porcelain doll. “How are you today? How was Mr. Spencer’s wedding?”
“I’m great, the wedding was eventful, and I am not in the mood for small talk, so let’s cut to the chase.” I rolled a tennis ball in my hand and watched her from my executive chair. Out of all the shit that had happened, the best part was that Rosie finally realized that Millie didn’t give a damn about us. Relief washed over me when Baby LeBlanc told me her sister was okay with us. Not because I cared about what Millie thought. But because she did.
I thought Millie was going to warn her about my manwhoring ways. Not that I was a manwhore. I was just…a man. What the fuck was I supposed to do? Sit around and wait for Rosie to realize it was always us?
“I need you to call all the florists on this block and send every single rose they have, no matter the color, to The Black Hole on Broadway. Addressed to Rose LeBlanc,” I told Sue. Her eyes darted up from her iPad for the first time since she got into my office, and they zeroed in on me like a target.
The thought of doing it myself crossed my mind for exactly one second. Giving a call to those florists, or asking our temp receptionist to do it, was not exactly rocket science. But then I realized that there was a fine line between being considerate and a pussy, and hell if I was gonna hop over to the unfortunate side just to please my PA. Sue still worked for me. I had three deals waiting on my desk, a hundred unanswered emails and four business calls I needed to set up. I was not going to spare her feelings and drown in more work. At the same time, this had to be done.
“Oh?” she asked, tucking the iPad under her arm on a pout. “Any message to go with it?” And if eyes could speak, I would be showered with a message full of profanity and physical damage threats.
I told Sue what the cards should say—plural, one for each bouquet—and even though I didn’t mention my name, I had no doubt Rosie would know who was behind this gesture. She fucking better. I made a mental note to ask her if Dr. Dickface still kept in touch with her. If so, I needed to pay him a visit, make sure he understood that I was taking over from here.
Sue slid her forefinger over her iPad, finally making the necessary arrangements as I’d asked her, before lifting her gaze back to me.
“Every rose on the block?”
“Every rose in Manhattan,” I amended.
“That could cost you a pretty penny.”
“I have a beautiful bank account, Sue,” I flashed her a cocky smile. “I can fucking afford it. Anything else?”
“Yes, actually. Can I ask you something, Mr. Cole?”
Again with the Mr. Cole. This chick wasn’t going to let this one go. I rubbed my palm over my chin and sat back. “Go for it.”
“What does Miss LeBlanc have that the rest of the human population doesn’t?” she inquired, meaning I’d never sent anyone flowers, let alone an amount that could potentially fill a whole forest. I smirked, because the answer was so fucking simple, yet so fucking complicated at the same time.
“My heart, Sue,” I said. “She has my heart.”
What makes you feel alive?
Verbal foreplay.
The chase.
The hunt.
But most of all…the part where I surrender.
Rosie
Let me guess, you slept with Sue.
Dean
I think we’re going to have an easier time if I give you a list of the women I haven’t slept with in Manhattan than the other way around.
Rosie
Remind me why I’m having sex with you again?
Dean
Because no other man knows that in order to give you an earth-shattering orgasm, you want your nipple to be pulled at the exact same time I pinch your clit. Because you like me, maybe even love me, although I am willing to wait until you admit that to yourself. I can go on, shall I?
Rosie
God, Dean.
Dean
God and Dean are synonyms. Save battery power. Choose one next time you text me. What do you want to have for dinner?
Rosie
I made plans with Elle.
Dean
Not my favorite dish, but it’s not going to tamper with our plans. Elle can join us. I’ll book us a place at The Red Hill Tavern for eight.
That was before he sent me flowers.
Although, to be completely honest, calling what he did sending me flowers was like calling the Pacific Ocean a small puddle. There were a thousand—maybe more—roses in all colors arriving in chunks. Vans double-parked in front of the café, and honestly, I was starting to get a little irritated with the amount of tips I had to pay all the delivery guys.
“If I swoon any harder over your boyfriend, I will give birth to a freaking ovary right here and now,” Elle threatened, plucking card after card from the dozens of reds, whites, and pinks that filled the café with the alluring scent of freshness and nature. They all had one word and said the same thing.
Mine.
Mine.
Mine.
Mine.
Mine.
A harem of customers vocally wondered what the occasion was, and when Elle answered them, they begged me for a picture of my boyfriend. After I showed them his Facebook profile picture—of him puffing on a cigar, his legs crossed over his office desk in a sharp suit in black and white, they proceeded to tell me that if I won’t marry him within the next year, I was a hopeless idiot, because the man is obviously perfect.
I tended to agree.
Millie and I spent last night talking on the phone for three hours. She was on her honeymoon in the Maldives sipping virgin cocktails in a swimsuit, but still found the time to humor me. Mama and Daddy made zero effort to patch things up with me, and I didn’t reach out to them either—not until they gave up the stupid idea of me moving back to Todos Santos—but I loved hearing all about Millie’s cravings and how her lower abdomen was hard and swollen. Or how she caught Vicious almost shedding a tear at their ultrasound appointment they had, even though he said that he had something in his eye.
Big softy.
I then told her just how much I liked Dean, confessing that my love for him was over a decade old. She cried when she heard how much heartache it had caused me to see them together, but I think it was the hormones because she also cried when I gave her a mini-spoiler about the next episode of Keeping Up With the Kardashians. She told me that Vicious claimed Dean’s interest in me was genuine and sincere, and I didn’t want to tell her that I already knew, because her ex-boyfriend and I shared more than just small talk back when they were together. Things that didn’t include words. Or touching. Things that tortured and taunted us to the point we drove each other crazy.
Then she mentioned that Dean had a fling with Sue, and I simply had to stick my nose into the subject.
When Dean proclaimed me as his girlfriend on our Facebook pages—how the hell had he done that, I had yet to find out—he meant every word. He hadn’t gone through all this hassle to fool around with other people behind my back.
I shook my head and landed back on planet Earth, grabbing a steamy mug from the dishwasher underneath the bar and wiping it dry.
“Pushy Dean invited himself to our dinner tonight,” I told Elle, and her grin was so wide it was contagious. Or at least that was what I’d convinced myself of when my cheeks hurt from smiling.
“You think his hot, vain ass is going to pig out on pizza with us?” she asked. Elle had given up on her skinny-bitching diet since the bakery down the street reopened. I shook my head.
“He is booking us a reservation at The Red Hill Tavern.”
“That’s crazy expensive!”
“I don’t think he expects us to pay.”
“I think he expects you to pay in sexual favors.”
I didn’t want to say anything, but deep down, I was already waiting for the check.
The good news: the HotHole was charming Elle’s socks off.
The bad news: he swept me off my feet in the process, too.
I watched them wordlessly, twirling the prawns and pasta with my fork as Elle hooted loudly time after time when Dean said something funny or asked her a question, or was just generally his charismatic, engaging self.