Boomerang (12 page)

We draw apart awkwardly, looking everywhere except at each other. Silently, Mia catches up with Candy, but I need a few seconds. Not only to get my dick to calm down, but because I need to get my anger under control, too.

What did I do wrong? I definitely just crossed some kind of line. Did this internship get into her head? The fact that we’re competing? Or is it something with her ex? But that can’t be it. She’s been single for a whole year.

Why the hell am I spinning on this anyway? I should be glad she has some kind of hang-up about being with me. I should be fucking
thrilled
about it.

Candy is waiting for us at a larger booth around the corner, her arms crossed, her foot tapping. She looks from me to Mia. Probably, she’s sensed the shift in the mood between us, but I don’t give a shit.

“This is the layout we’re using for this year’s show,” Candy says, gesturing to a large booth that’s shaped like a T. “Blackwood is paying for an end location—that means he’ll have 180 degrees of coverage. We’ll use the same color palette and furnishings, the same look as last year, but we’ll divide the booth with a wall, keeping the lounge to one side, and the computer terminals to the other. That way the people who feel more inclined to linger and mingle can, while the ones who just want to see the website can log on, check it out, and move on. Any questions?”

Mia and I look at each other.

“Wait,” she says, “you mean the booth for the conference is already planned? It’s
done
?”

“No. It’s not paid for yet. You did bring the company credit card?”

I’ve got nothing. It’s all I can do not to start breaking booth shit right now.

Mia is quiet at my side.

Candy’s face splits into a smile. “You didn’t actually think my sister was going to let you two make a decision, did you?”

I still can’t think of a single thing to say, and apparently Mia can’t either.

“Oh, you
did
.” Candy shakes her head. “That is so cute.”

Chapter 15

Mia

Q: Are you a pouter or a problem-solver?

W
e stop at a park to split a sandwich before heading back to the Boomerang offices. I watch as Ethan brushes leaves off a picnic bench for me, his dress shirt coming loose from his belt to expose a narrow swatch of tanned flesh.

Oh, Mia
, I think.
You are so screwed.

Because of his body, sure: the sleek solidity of it, the feel of him, pressed against me. Hard. The sensation of being exactly right, molecule-to-molecule, as he set me down in the display showroom.

But I can resist a body. I’m screwed because of his smile, because of that dimple that deepens when he laughs, his straight, even teeth, perfect except for one slightly turned incisor. I’m screwed because of his thick, serious brows, his perfect angular nose, and his eyes like a lake in the rain. I’m screwed, most of all, because of his kindness, which radiates from every pore. His passion, when he lets himself talk about things he loves. Because he insisted on paying me back for the cab and on paying for our sandwich. I’m screwed because of him, all of him. My body
and
my brain are conspiring against me here, but I can’t let myself give in to them.

“What are we going to do about this Cookie situation?” I ask, swatting away a fly that’s settled on the wax paper spread open between us. I move my half of the turkey and avocado sandwich toward me and pop open my diet Coke. It bubbles onto my hand, and I lick my finger then catch him watching me, which threatens to send me down another path of
truly
unproductive thinking.

“Situation?” he murmurs, raising his eyes slowly to mine like he’s coming out of a dream.

“Yeah. Cookie. She’s going to keep making it tough for
either
of us to get this job. Though I don’t know why.”

“Maybe an intern killed her mother.”

I laugh. “Or her missing triplet, Cupcake.”

Ethan takes a bite, chews thoughtfully. His strong jaw flexes, and I have to say, the boy even makes eating look good.

“I guess we can keep working on her, try to thaw her out a bit. But we probably need to get around her and go for Adam.”

“And say what? His booth design sucks?”

He grins. “Something like that.” Finishing his sandwich in two more bites, he adds, “Maybe I should do the talking, Curls. I’ve noticed you have some issues with diplomacy.”

“Yeah, because your chocolate chip cookie gambit was so impressive.” A seedpod spirals down between us, and I finger-punt it off the table. Even though I brought it up, suddenly I resent talking about work. “Maybe you can work on Adam during your soccer game this weekend.”

As Skyler likes to point out, I sometimes have tone-modulation issues, and the statement comes out sounding more sarcastic than I intend.

“Hey,” says Ethan, sitting back. “Adam invited himself along. I didn’t want him there.”

“Why not?” I strip the top piece of bread off my sandwich and sling it at a couple of squirrels darting around in the shade. “It’s a good strategy.”

“I don’t give a damn about that,” Ethan says, and his brittle tone matches mine. “I’m not trying to strategize. I just want to play some soccer. That’s all I want.”

“Clearly, you want more than that.”

“Meaning what?”

“The job. You want the job.” I fold the bottom half of the sandwich over and take a bite. Suddenly, I’m ravenous.

“And you don’t?”

I swallow, and the sandwich wends a slow, painful path down my esophagus.
Chew, Mia. For God’s sake.

“No, I do,” I say. “And I think it’s okay to want it. So you don’t have to act like every move you make is unintentional. You got Rhett and Adam to come play soccer. That’s great for you. So just—it’s okay to just want things.”

Which makes me wonder if I need to be less squeamish about using my mom as bait. If it helps me get this job, what will it hurt?

He looks at me, and we’re quiet for a long moment. I pick up my sandwich, just to do something. A breeze riffles the sandwich wrapper, and it skids across the table and onto the ground. I bend to retrieve it, aware that things have taken a really strange turn—and that I’m the one steering. Holy hell. What is wrong with me?

I march off toward a garbage can, failing to avoid the image rising in my mind. Kyle on our last night. The oceanfront cantina, where moonlight gave everything a magical glow, and his words almost disappeared beneath the insistent rush of the ocean. “I just don’t know what I want, Mia.”

None of which is poor Ethan’s fault, of course. I take a few deep breaths—stupid to do over a garbage can—and return to the table.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’m being unfair.”

“It’s okay,” he tells me and gets to his feet.

He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. What’s there—curiosity, concern—makes me want to tuck myself into his pocket and just live there. Kyle would give me this panicked, checking-for-exits look any time I had even the slightest blip in my emotional baseline.

“Want to drive back?” I ask, and hold up the valet key.

“Sure.”

We get in, and he starts the engine. “We’ll figure it out.”

“What?”

“The booth thing. Let’s talk to Adam about it when we get back. We’ll go in together.”

“Okay.”

He looks at me for a long moment and then takes off his tie and hands it to me with a smile.

“What’s this for?”

“I thought you could tie it around your hair,” he tells me. “Should have thought of it sooner.”

I draw the silken fabric through my fingers, wishing he didn’t make it so easy to like him. “That’s really thoughtful.” I pull my hair back and cinch it with the tie. The edges tickle the back of my neck, raising goose bumps.

“Ready?” he asks.

I nod. “Let’s go.”

Chapter 16

Ethan

Q: Blind dates: a chance for fun or failure?

I
sis raps on the bathroom door. “We’re leaving, E! Have a nice dinner with your new boyfriend!”

“Go easy on him, Spicy,” Jason says. “The man is in crisis.” His voice grows muffled and louder, like he’s right on the other side of the door. “Ethan, sorry about that. Hey, almost forgot. I left your corsage for Blackwood on the kitchen table.”

He can barely finish the sentence. No one’s funnier to Jason than Jason. I listen to his laugh grow quieter until the front door shuts, and the apartment’s quiet.

I swipe a stray drop of shaving cream off my ear, considering my reflection in the mirror. I look like I’m about to start a fight or hold up a bank—instead of join Adam for dinner.

It’s Saturday night. I should be heading to The Reel Inn for fish tacos and beer with Jason, Isis, and the rest of the crew. Especially considering that Blackwood and Rhett came to soccer this morning. The pickup game was a success. Adam hung in there like a champ, and Rhett didn’t die from heat exhaustion. I showed them both a great time. Shouldn’t that be enough?

I jam the towel onto the rack and head to my bedroom. On a surge of hope, I grab my cell phone off my dresser to see if Adam canceled, but all I find is his message from an hour ago.

Adam:
I need you to come to a dinner tonight. I’ll pick you up at 7.

What could I say except okay?

I check the time, seeing that I have ten minutes to kill before he gets here. I debate straightening up my room for half a second, then sit on the end of my bed and squeeze my hands into fists.

Why did he ask me? The guy was a self-made millionaire at eighteen. Aren’t women lining up to spend a night with him? And why do I care? He’s a good guy, and this is a positive sign for my career prospects. The more he and I connect, the better my odds are of beating—