The Worst Best Man Page 8

  “No problem, friends. I’m Raul, your instructor for today. Welcome.” He leans over and covers his mouth in a faux whisper. “I went to college and grad school here, and I’m losing my accent. But don’t tell anyone.”

  Smiling at Raul’s effort to make us feel comfortable, Jaslene and I introduce ourselves and exchange handshakes with him. We explain that we’re new to the class and that it was recommended to us by someone who takes it.

  “Max Hartley,” I say. “Do you know him?”

  Raul furrows his brows. “Not sure. But the membership is pretty fluid. I’ll know him when I see him.” Smiling broadly, he rubs his hands together. “Well, anyway, you’re going to have a great time.” He twists his upper body and scans the area around us. “Just drop your belongings in a cubby and find a spot to stretch. Restrooms are in the back. We’ll start in five minutes.”

  After we set our belongings down, Jaslene plops onto the floor, dramatic in her resistance to being drawn into my and Max’s skirmish. With a sigh, she reaches for her toes. “May I make an observation?”

  I step next to her and slip into a standing calf stretch. “Of course.”

  “When I said you should be petty,” she says, “I was thinking you’d be more subtle.”

  I grimace and drop to the ground. “The peppers were too much?”

  She snorts. “Yes, Lina, yes. It’s as though someone told you to flirt and you decided to flash your tits instead.”

  I snap my brows together and pretend to be confused. “Flashing your tits isn’t flirting?”

  Max’s head appears in the space between us. “Hey, there!”

  Jaslene and I both yelp and shrink away from him.

  He falls back on one knee and gives us a wry smile.

  “What the hell, Max?” I say.

  Yes, he surprised me, but I’m embarrassed more than anything else. Figures I’d be talking about flashing tits when he showed up.

  “Sorry about that,” he says. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Just wanted to say hello.”

  Okay, he doesn’t appear to have heard us. Small miracles.

  “Hi,” Jaslene says, her voice traitorously cheerful.

  “Where’d you come from?” I ask.

  “I was in the restroom changing into this,” he says, pointing at his white sleeveless compression tee and track pants. “Can’t do capoeira moves in a business suit.”

  He pushes himself to a standing position, and I’m forced to face some uncomfortable truths: Max has a chest. A sculpted chest. The kind of chest I can easily picture in bare form. Also, he’s sporting ripples in the area where the average person’s belly should be. His ab muscles are so obnoxious they show through his clothes. And Mother of God, the definition in his forearms suggests either he’s a workoutaholic or masturbates frequently. Now that I think about it, his right forearm is more developed than the left one.

  Where the hell did Hartley the Hottie come from?

  I’m going to get a crick in my neck if I don’t move my head soon, but my brain is having trouble processing the onslaught of information. It’s too hard to digest. For everyone’s safety, data as volatile as this should be doled out in carefully scheduled increments; to do otherwise would be irresponsible. Shame on you, Max.

  At Raul’s signal, the bateria begins to play an Afro-Brazilian rhythm. The people in the class shuffle around and find their places as I will my brain to forget everything it just saw.

  Max takes a spot next to me and leans close to my ear. “Unless someone requests it, flashing your tits is just as bad as sending unsolicited dick pics.”

  Oh God. I hate him. And if there’s any justice in this world, this class will teach me how to kick his ass.

  * * *

  After leading us through a series of warm-up stretches, Raul glides to the front of the class, the bateria still playing in the background. “Capoeira’s precise origin isn’t exactly clear. There are many theories about its inception. But what we do know is that this martial arts form was heavily influenced by enslaved Africans brought to Brazil in the sixteenth century. Are you aware that Brazil didn’t abolish slavery until 1888, and that almost four million enslaved persons were brought to the country during the slave trade?”

  A few classmates shake their heads, while others, plainly familiar with Brazil’s history, nod as though what he told them is old news.

  “Some believe that it started in the quarters of enslaved people,” Raul says, “or in the quilombos, which were the settlements founded by those who escaped slavery. The idea being that the people battling could hide this form of training by making it look like a game or a dance. Today, we know it as a martial arts form, and as a symbol of Brazilian culture.”

  Raul plants his feet shoulders’ width apart and places his hands on his waist. “This evening’s class is all about the ginga. You can’t perform capoeira without it, so we’re going to focus on this move. Then we’ll add a little fun with the meia lua de frente, which is a type of front kick.” He puts a finger in the air. “Oh, I almost forgot. Do we have anyone who’s returning? Because you all should be first-timers. The class in progress starts after this one.”

  Expecting Max to raise his hand and sheepishly make his apologies, I turn in his direction and smirk at Jaslene, who’s on his other side. He just stands there, though, dutifully listening to Raul and smiling at his classmates.

  “Psst,” I say to him. “Wrong class, buddy.”

  He stares straight ahead. “No, it’s not. I’m a first-timer, too.”

  Jaslene groans. “You two are a mess.”

  I fire off my questions out the side of my mouth. “What do you mean? Didn’t you tell me you were taking this class already? Are you kidding me right now?”

  He whispers his response: “No, I said I take a class. I’m here. It’s a class. And I’m taking it. All true. Just so happens that I’m as much of a novice as you are.”

  I flick my gaze to the ceiling and count to ten. My choices are clear: I can get mad, or I can get petty. It’s not a difficult decision. I choose to be petty. Now I just need to figure out how.

  Max waves a hand in front of my face. “Hey, no need to go glassy-eyed. Truth is, I’ve been wanting to take this class for a while. It’s right around the corner from my place. And since you mentioned that you were stressed, I figured I could check out the class and you could benefit from it as well.”

  That pacifies me—but only a little. I’m still annoyed that he got me here under false pretenses, so retribution is in order. “It’s fine, Max. We’re here. Might as well make the most of it.”

  “Okay, everyone, pick a partner,” Raul says. “That’s the person you’ll face off with as you practice the ginga.” He turns to Jaslene and gives her a sweet smile. “I know you’re nervous, so you’re welcome to work with me.”

  Sure, Jaslene may be nervous, but I suspect Raul’s offer isn’t solely motivated by that fact.

  My best friend looks to me for my okay, and I nod.

  Seeing that everyone’s quickly pairing up, I tip my chin up in Max’s direction. “What do you say? Want to ginga with me?”

  Max pretends to clutch his nonexistent pearls. “Don’t you think that’s being a little forward? I mean, we barely know each other. Shouldn’t we go on a date or something first?”

  I hiss at him and he straightens.

  “Okay, okay,” he says. “Let’s do it.”

  We follow Raul’s instructions as he guides us through the footwork, a series of easy steps that incorporate the familiar rocking motion capoeira is so well known for. Max and I face each other, our bodies swaying as we step back, move from side to side, and swing our arms to protect our faces.

  “As you get more comfortable with the ginga, you should feel free to add your own expression,” Raul tells the class. “A little more movement in the hips. A little playfulness in your legs. Next, you can try the meia lua de frente, which is basically a front kick with a transition to a ginga, and a second front kick w
ith the other leg back into a ginga.” Raul demonstrates the kick several times. “Just repeat the steps and get comfortable with the movements.”

  The bateria slows the pace of the music, and as I repeat the steps in time with the berimbau’s rhythm, the ginga begins to take on a surprisingly soothing quality. But as I wait for a sense of total peace to blanket me, my mind replays how I got here. Max isn’t even a regular in this class. What an asshat.

  “This is great, isn’t it?” Max asks as he sways in front of me. He’s sticking to the ginga, choosing not to incorporate the kicks Raul encouraged us to practice. “I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

  “You think so?” I ask. “Well, let me try a meia lua de frente on you, then. Can’t be that hard, right?”

  Max grins. “Go for it.”

  We continue the ginga movement several times, and then I spring into action, sweeping my leg back and over in an arc right in front of Max’s face—just like my brother, Rey, taught me.

  Max, who’s unprepared for the kick, jerks back and falls on his butt. Grumbling about vindictive people, he struggles to his feet as Raul walks over to us.

  “That was excellent,” Raul tells me. “You’ve done this before?”

  I nod. “At home only. My brother took a class a few years back. Used me as his practice buddy.”

  Max rubs his butt as he straightens. “Funny that you never mentioned that.”

  I give him a smug grin. “My brother wasn’t an instructor. We did it just for fun. It wasn’t a class. So, yes, I’m still a first-timer. Would you like to go again?”

  Max ignores me. “Raul?”

  “Yes, friend?” Raul says.

  “May I have another partner, please?” he asks.

  “Come,” Raul says with a grin. “Lina and Jaslene can pair up while you and I work together.”

  I snort at Max and wave goodbye to him as he walks (escapes) across the studio floor with Raul. Max was right: Capoeira is an effective stress reliever. I’m feeling better already.

  Chapter Nine

  Max

  Late for the firm’s weekly staff meeting, I enter the conference room and take the first available chair. As I lower myself onto the seat, I’m reminded that my right butt cheek’s still sore from the ass-whooping Lina treated me to last night.

  Seconds later, my mother sweeps into the conference room as if she’s an army general making a rare appearance among her enlisted soldiers.

  She settles in at the head of the table and leans back to read a sheet of paper her assistant is holding in his hands, then her gaze jumps from person to person, until she’s made eye contact with everyone in the room. “Okay, folks. Let’s talk developing business first.” She whips her head in Andrew’s direction. “What’s going on with the Cartwright Hotel Group?”

  This is one of those rare moments when I don’t mind that she’s inclined to check in with Andrew first. We wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for him.

  Brother dearest loosens his tie as he stalls for time. “The Cartwright account?” He clears his throat. “Um, well, let’s see, things are going great. Wouldn’t you say so, Max?”

  I glare at him across the table. He’s the emperor of his own prickdom. A master at burdening others with his bullshit. Lina is his ex-fiancée, not mine, and yet he wants me to tackle the unenviable task of hiding her involvement in this project. But as usual, I clean up his mess.

  “We’re covering new ground with this assignment,” I begin. “In essence, the client’s designed a long-term interview for two people vying for the position of wedding coordinator. I’m working with one. Andrew’s working with the other. We’re each due to present our pitches in five weeks.”

  “That’s interesting,” my mother says. “It’ll be a great way to home in on your different approaches to the same mission.”

  Yes, exactly. Glad to know she sees this, too.

  Her gaze sways between Andrew and me. “Just remember the goal is to ingratiate yourself with the client, too. We want all of the Cartwright’s marketing work if that’s possible.”

  “We’re on it,” Andrew says unhelpfully.

  The rest of the staff report on their work, and we break just before eleven. I’m checking my phone for new emails as everyone shuffles from the room. When I look up, Andrew’s still sitting there, eyeing me pensively.

  “What?” I ask.

  He smooths his tie as he speaks. “I chatted with the other candidate this morning. His name’s Henry. Sounds like a good guy. We’re meeting tomorrow to discuss our plans. How’s it going on your end?”

  Not well, but I’m not sharing that morsel of juicy information with Andrew. “Lina and I had a working lunch yesterday.” I consider whether to tell him about last night’s capoeira class, then decide it’s not work related, which is a revelation of its own. That outing served no purpose other than to give me an excuse to spend more time with a woman who’s irritable, unforgiving, and maddening to the extreme. None of this is Andrew’s concern. “We talked about a game plan, and I’m hoping to finalize the details this week.”

  That’s assuming she’ll answer my calls. I’m probably blocked by now.

  Andrew presses his lips together and nods, looking suitably impressed that Lina and I have connected. “How is she? Is she dating anyone?”

  Oh, hell no. I’m not going to be his spy, or worse, his re-matchmaker. “Andrew, if you need to know anything about Lina, I suggest you go directly to the source. I refuse to be the middleman.”

  He waves me off. “Yeah, okay. I get it. It’s no big deal. I thought I’d feel differently when I saw her again, but no, I’m sure we weren’t meant to get married. She’s a great woman, though. I wish her well.”

  “And now you’re trying to help someone else get the job she desperately wants.”

  He shrugs. “It’s unfortunate that doing my job means she’ll lose hers, but Lina’s a professional. She’ll handle it with class.”

  Jesus. The last time he said something like that he was asking me to break the news that he wasn’t going to marry her.

  “You’re forgetting something, though,” I say.

  “What’s that?” he asks on a yawn.

  As he waits for my reply, he leans forward, just an inch, and that tells me he’s only pretending he couldn’t care less about what that something might be.

  I rise from my seat and swipe my phone off the table. “Lina and I are now the team to beat. And I have a feeling we’re going to be unbeatable together.”

  Probably.

  Okay, maybe.

  Shit. Who am I kidding?

  * * *

  I’m at my desk drafting a client newsletter mock-up when my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I absently pull out the phone as I read the last paragraph of the work I’ve written so far. When I glance at the screen, I see that it’s a text from Lina, and it turns out to be the answer to my prayers.

  Lina: Hi Max. Let’s call a truce, okay? There’s really no point in holding a grudge. I’m meeting a client this afternoon for a cake tasting. Figured this was as good a time as any for you to see me in action. What do you say?

  Holy shit, this is everything I’ve ever wanted in a single text: forgiveness and cake. Sweets are my weakness, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I’d subject myself to unspeakable abuses—giving up Netflix, for example—if it meant I could eat my favorite flavor of cake every day: the incomparable marble with buttercream frosting. I’ve never been to a cake tasting, but I imagine I’ll be able to, you know, taste cake, and that, quite frankly, sounds like the best afternoon of my life.

  Me: Cake makes for a great fresh start, so I say yes. Where and when?

  She sends me the bakery’s address, and we agree to meet a few minutes before the appointment so she can give me a little background. Lina’s already given the client the heads-up that I’d like to attend, and they’re cool with my joining them.

  An hour and a half later, I stride into the Sugar Shoppe in Georgetown. Fo
r a minute, I simply take in the sweets that seemingly cover every available surface of the bakery: pies, cakes, eclairs, and chocolates. For another few seconds, I consider dropping to my knees and praying at this altar of sugary perfection. The space is cheerful, with bright white walls and several bistro tables set in soft pastels. And the smells. God, the smells. It’s as though I dabbed cake-scented cologne on my wrists. How did I not know this place existed? Does it deliver? Can I get a job here?

  Someone bumps my shoulder, clearing the visions of sugarplums in my head. The person interrupting my daydream is Lina, and her brows are furrowed as she looks at me with suspicion. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” I sweep my hand in an arc. “Just appreciating the view.”

  She smiles. “It is something, isn’t it?” Leaning over to survey the area behind me, she says, “We should have a reserved table. Let me check in.”

  She strides to the counter, then speaks with the woman at the register. Not long after, she motions me over to a table in the corner. “This one’s ours.”

  We sit across from each other at a table so tiny we may as well be sitting in each other’s lap.

  “Cozy,” she says.

  I snort. “Your cozy is my awkward.”

  She grins. “Oh good. It’s not just me.”

  Her hair’s pulled back in a ponytail, and my gaze is drawn to her facial features. Until today, I never noticed how expressive her face can be if she’s not scowling. When she walked in, her befuddlement was apparent in the crinkle of her brows. And even now, the humor in her eyes is hard to miss.

  The woman at the counter arrives with a pitcher of water and three glasses. “We’re waiting for Mr. Sands, right?”

  “Yes,” Lina says. “Do you mind if we move this seat out of the way? The client uses a wheelchair.”

  “Sure,” the woman says. “I’ll put it in the back.”