The Worst Best Man Page 22

  A cheerful voice answers. “Good afternoon, this is Dotting the I Do’s, where no detail is missed. How can I help you?”

  “Uh, hi. This is Max Hartley. Is Lina . . . Carolina Santos in, please?”

  “Max, this is Jaslene, Lina’s assistant.”

  “Hi, Jaslene. Nice to speak with you under better circumstances.”

  She snorts. “Yeah, Natalia was in usual form that day. Sorry if we made you feel unwelcome.”

  “No worries. It’s good that Lina has people who have her back.”

  “That, she does,” Jaslene says. “Listen, Lina’s already at the Cartwright, so you can catch up with her there.”

  “At the . . . Cartwright?” I sift through my mental calendar, wondering if I’ve missed an appointment. Then I check the calendar on my watch, which shows I’m free all afternoon.

  “Weren’t you going to be meeting her for the tour of the . . . Oh shoot. Never mind, Max. I must have misunderstood Lina’s plans.”

  So Lina’s at the Cartwright, touring hotel rooms in connection with our project, but she didn’t invite me to join her. Interesting. “Thanks anyway, Jaslene.”

  “Max, wait,” she says in a tone of voice noticeably less cheerful than the one she used in her phone greeting.

  “Yes?”

  “If you go over there, check in with her first. Don’t show up without any warning. I already feel bad about telling you where she is.”

  “You have my word.”

  “Make that mean something, okay?”

  “You got it,” I say before hanging up.

  Jaslene and Natalia are fiercely loyal to Lina. Jaslene carries that fierceness in an understated way, whereas Natalia carries herself as though she’ll cut you. Either way, I’m glad these women are protective of her. If Lina let me, I’d be protective of her, too.

  * * *

  Me: Hi Lina. Just checking in to see if you wanted to get together to tour the rooms at the Cartwright. My schedule is pretty flexible this week.

  I fully intend to disclose my sources, but I’m curious to see how she’ll respond to my open-ended question.

  Lina: I’m actually at the Cartwright now. Not much to see here. Took a few pics but most of the info is available on the hotel website.

  Me: Maybe I’d see something you didn’t. You know, two sets of eyes and all that.

  Lina: Hmmm.

  Me: Okay, you got me. I just want to see you.

  Lina: How fast can you get here?

  Me: I’m in the hotel lobby. A minute, maybe?

  Lina: ???

  Me: I’ll explain upstairs if you still want me to join you.

  Lina: Sure, come on up. Room 408.

  Me: On my way.

  The elevator isn’t as fast as I thought it would be, so I take two minutes to get there. I knock on the door and smooth the sides of my hair as I wait for her to answer.

  Lina opens the door and steps to the side to let me in. “This is high-level stuff we’re doing here. Where’s your security detail?”

  “They’re downstairs. Told them to make sure no one makes it upstairs.” I enter the room and briefly scan my surroundings before my gaze settles on Lina. She’s wearing a yellow dress with tiny blue flowers on the skirt. It’s cinched at the waist and showcases her curvy figure. Her hair’s down today, the front twisted and held back with two yellow hair clips. I suddenly have a craving for banana cream pie. “Hi there.”

  “Hi there, yourself,” she says, her eyes twinkling. “How’d you find me?”

  I put up my hands. “Now, don’t count this against her, but Jaslene slipped and told me you were here.” I furrow my brows. “She seemed to think we’d be doing the tour together.”

  Lina turns toward the windows. “I wasn’t trying to box you out, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “I’m not implying anything. Was just wondering. Anyway, I’d understand if you didn’t feel comfortable being alone with me in a hotel room. We both know you lack self-control where I’m concerned.”

  She faces me and waggles her eyebrows. “You say that as a joke, but it’s totally true.”

  “And that’s a problem?”

  She wrinkles her nose and puts her hand out in a so-so motion. “Sort of, but I’m starting to get used to it.”

  That’s quite an admission, but I know better than to make a big deal of it. I sweep my arm through the air. “So, did you come up with any brilliant ideas about how to use the room?”

  Lina presses two fingers to her parted lips as she studies me, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Absolutely.”

  My mouth goes slack and my heart bangs around like shutters in a storm. Still, I’m going to be the voice of reason because we’re in what could one day be her place of business. “I like where your head is at, but I should point out the obvious.”

  She stalks closer. “Which is?”

  I put up a hand. “You never know who might be around, or even whether Rebecca will take a trip up here, in which case”—I bare my teeth—“awkward.”

  Dean thinks I have no control. I wish he could see me now. He’d be so proud.

  She freezes in place, tilts her head, and purses her lips in thought. “But a kiss couldn’t hurt, right?”

  Lina gives the best kisses, so there’s no way I’m saying no to her suggestion. I narrow the distance between us and draw her body flush against mine. She immediately throws her arms over my shoulders and threads her fingers through the hair at the nape of my neck, standing on her toes and angling her head in one fluid sequence. It’s a succession of movements that seems instinctual, as though kissing me is part of her muscle memory.

  This kiss is lazy and tender, so my eyes pop open when her hands trail down my back and land on my ass. I groan into her mouth and grind into her, unable to resist the possibility of creating enough friction to get her aroused with our clothes on.

  Someone knocks on the door and we freeze.

  “Shit,” she whispers.

  “Fuck,” I whisper back.

  “Lina, it’s Rebecca. Just thought I’d stop by to say hi.”

  Lina looks up at me, her lips curled in mock disgust. “You summoned her.”

  I grit my teeth. “We don’t have time for pointing fingers.”

  She shrugs. “Just play it off. We’re in here working.”

  I look down at my crotch, which is sporting an erection of sizable proportions. “That doesn’t suggest we were working. And I don’t even have a jacket to cover it.”

  “Get in the shower,” she says. “She’ll never guess you’re here.”

  So this is where my life is headed. I’m hiding in showers now.

  She widens her eyes and shoos me away. “Go.”

  I tiptoe to the bathroom while she strides to the door. As silently as I can, I peel back the curtain and climb inside the tub.

  “Hey, there,” Lina says to Rebecca. “I’m almost done here.”

  “Didn’t mean to disturb your work, but Bill in reception told me you were visiting, so I decided to swing by.”

  “Oh, that’s nice.”

  “So what do you think of the room?” Rebecca asks.

  “It’s spacious. Huge. Massive. Impressive.”

  If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was talking about my hard-on.

  “You think so?” Rebecca asks. “I didn’t realize it was larger than average.”

  “Oh yes. Yes, it is. And I should know. I’ve seen quite a few in my day, but this one definitely stands up. Out. Stands out.”

  Yep. She’s talking about my dick. Bravo, Lina. Bravo.

  “It’s functional yet attractive. And it’s sure to bring pleasure to whomever has the good fortune of using it. The best part, though, is that it’s equipped for significant expansion if you use your imagination.”

  That it is, Ms. Santos.

  “Well, I’m intrigued,” Rebecca says. “Can’t wait to see your presentation.”

  “I’m excited, too.”

 
; The room door opens.

  “You coming?” Rebecca asks.

  I squeeze my eyes shut.

  “Unfortunately, not yet,” Lina says. “But soon.”

  “Okay, then. Good to see you again.”

  “Yes, great to see you, too.”

  After the door shuts, I count to fifteen, then jump out of the tub and leave the bathroom.

  Lina’s standing by the window wearing a wicked grin. “You’re such a bad influence on me.”

  I pull her to my chest. Within seconds, her gaze grows heavy with anticipation.

  “There will be consequences for your shameless behavior, though,” I say.

  She gives me a flirty smile. “Oh yeah? When will you apply them?”

  I step back and tweak her on the nose. “‘Unfortunately, not yet. But soon.’”

  Lina drops her hands to her sides and stamps her foot. “When is soon?”

  “When will I get to see your place?” I ask.

  “Are you fishing for an invitation?”

  Damn right I am. It’d be much easier to fantasize about Lina if I can picture her in her own bed. Or walking around in her underwear and a sheer tank top that hugs her breasts—

  “Max,” she says sharply.

  “What was the question?”

  She blows out her cheeks. “I asked if you were fishing for an invitation to my place.”

  Pretending I have a fishing rod in my hands, I throw out the line and reel her in. “Yes, I’m absolutely fishing for an invitation.”

  She touches a hand to her heart and licks her lips. “You are cordially invited to my place for dinner, then.”

  “When?” I say, knowing this is a big deal for her.

  “How about Friday?” she asks.

  That’s four days away. I’m inclined to stamp my foot and ask to come over tonight, but since I was patting myself on the back about my self-control just a few minutes ago, I can’t very well complain without being hypocritical as fuck. “Friday’s fine.”

  “And we won’t need to worry about waking up early”—she draws in a long breath—“if you want to stay, that is. Totally up to you. I’m used to sleeping alone, so you shouldn’t feel obligated. It was just a—”

  I take a step toward her and thread her hand with mine. “Lina, I’d like to stay.”

  She exhales. “Okay, great. It’s a dinner date.”

  “Maybe we could watch a movie, too.”

  “Maybe,” she says, shrugging. “If there’s time.”

  If there’s time? I definitely like the sound of that. “Since we’ve already established that you lack self-control around me, I’m going to head out.” I spin away from her and walk to the door. Once there, I turn around and wink at her. “See you Friday.”

  Damn. Four days is going to seem like a lifetime.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Lina

  From: MHartley@AtlasCommunications.com

  To: CSantos@DottingTheIDos.com; KSproul@AtlasCommunications.com

  Date: April 24 - 9:37 am

  Subject: Materials for Pitch to Cartwright Hotel Group

  Lina, meet Karen.

  Karen, meet Lina.

  Lina, Karen is our in-house graphic designer. She’ll be helping us prepare materials for the pitch to the Cartwright Hotel Group on May 14. Our initial thinking is that Karen could prepare mock website landing pages, social media graphics, and storyboards for any video elements. Let me know if that sounds good to you.

  The wedding-godmother theme is a go, but I’m still working through the conceptual framework. Taking more time than I expected. If anything jumps out at you, feel free to send your ideas my way.

  Hope you’re well.

  —Max

  April 24 – 9:54 am

  Me: I like it when you’re in business mode. Makes me want to visit you in your office so I can role-play as your assistant. I’d take excellent dicktation.

  April 24 – 9:57 am

  Max: That can be arranged. I have a lot of dicktation to give you.

  April 24 – 9:58 am

  Max: Are you sexting me???

  April 24 – 9:59 am

  Me: Yes.

  April 24 – 10:00 am

  Max: Be still my beating cock.

  From: CSantos@DottingTheIDos.com

  To: MHartley@AtlasCommunications.com; KSproul@AtlasCommunications.com

  Date: April 24 - 10:03 am

  Subject: Re: Materials for Pitch to Cartwright Hotel Group

  Nice to meet you, Karen.

  Max, I’m on board with using the types of pitch materials you identified, and if I think of anything, I’ll definitely let you know. Maybe there’s a reason you’re taking more time than expected on the wedding-godmother theme? I’ll think about that, too. In any case, I can’t wait to see what you come up with.

  All my best,

  Lina

  April 24 — 10:09 am

  Me: Planning to cook for you Friday evening. A Brazilian dish. Any allergies? Foods you hate?

  April 24 – 10:12 am

  Max: No food allergies. Can’t stand green peas. And just so you know, I’ve developed an aversion to spicy peppers. Will be on the lookout for those. Ahem. Can I bring anything?

  April 24 – 10:13 am

  Me: Dessert from the Sugar Shoppe?

  April 24 – 10:14 am

  Max: Done. Looking forward to it.

  April 24 – 10:15 am

  Me: Same.

  * * *

  The intercom chimes just as I’m removing the empadão from the oven. I tried to make the recipe my bitch, but the pie’s blackened surface and the acrid smell of burned pastry dough confirm that I’m the one who’s fucked.

  Muttering a year’s worth of obscenities in under twenty seconds, I place the baking dish on the stove and fling my oven mitts across the room. The menu now consists of a green salad and roasted carrots. Apparently I’m expecting Peter Rabbit.

  I press the intercom with more force than necessary. “Yes?”

  “Lina, it’s Max.”

  “Hey, there.” I inject my tone with as much cheer as I can muster. “I’m glad you made it. Come on up.” Then I buzz him in.

  Remembering the state of my kitchen, I scurry to the door and open it wide. When Max steps off the elevator, a bakery box in hand, I’m swinging the door back and forth to air out the apartment. I give him a brief once-over, taking in his dark-washed jeans and untucked white button-down shirt. Whether in casual or business clothes, he always exudes confidence in his personal style, never appearing as if he’s trying too hard. I like what I see.

  His eyebrows shoot up as he approaches. “Technical difficulties?”

  “That’s putting it mildly.” When he reaches me, I drop my head to his chest. “I ruined dinner.”

  With his free hand, he gathers my hair and pushes it to one shoulder, which deprives me of my natural hiding place. “Dinner would only be ruined if I couldn’t spend it with you.”

  I look up at him. I’m making a valiant effort to suppress my heart-eyes gaze, but I probably look like the emoji personified. “Aww, that’s sweet. I’d still recommend that you hold that thought until you see what’s for dinner.”

  I should also tell him that swoony statements are wasted on a fling, but I can’t bring myself to detract from his superb delivery. Maybe he doesn’t need a reminder that this is a no-strings affair, but I do. Note to self: Don’t get any ridiculous ideas about a long-term future with Max.

  He follows me inside, places the bakery box on the kitchen island, and scans the area. Management calls it an open-concept design. In truth, they’re too cheap to put up walls.

  “Whoa,” he says on a spin. “You mocked me about my Crate & Barrel living room. Now I get to tease you about yours. Do you have enough candles, Lina?” He makes jazz hands. “Planters, shaggy pillows, and tapestries, oh my!”

  I playfully shove him toward the kitchen area. “How rude. Guests aren’t supposed to comment on . . . I’m going to shut up
now.”

  “Smart woman,” he says, winking at me. He looks at the stove and points at the empadão. “Is that the patient?”

  I snort. “Yes.”

  He walks over, a hand under his chin, then nods gravely. “What was it supposed to be?”

  “An empadão de frango. It’s basically a Brazilian potpie. The crust should be buttery and flaky. The chicken and vegetables inside should be moist and perfectly seasoned. Instead, we have this monstrosity.”

  “Is there any point in keeping it?” he asks.

  “Only as a reminder that I’ll never be able to re-create the dishes my mother makes. Otherwise, no.” I blow out a harsh breath, holding back the tears that always threaten to fall whenever I get even a tiny bit emotional. “I can’t even bake a fucking pie.”

  Max raises a brow. “Hey, hey. Watch an hour of Nailed It! and you’ll see you’re not alone. It’s just a pie.”

  I plop onto a stool by the island. “It’s not just a pie, Max. I wanted to make a special dinner. Share something from my culture. That didn’t go well, obviously. I don’t know how I’m supposed to pass on family traditions if I can’t follow a basic recipe.”

  He takes the stool next to me and folds his hands on the counter. “Is it your mother’s?”

  I jerk my head up. “What?”

  “The recipe,” he says. “Is it your mother’s?”

  “God, no. She doesn’t write anything down. Says the best way to learn is to watch and assist. I don’t understand how it comes so easily to her. I ask how much I should add of something—flour, tomatoes, garlic, whatever—and she says, ‘a little bit of this, a little bit of that.’” I turn to him. “Max, my mother doesn’t even own measuring cups.”