Boomerang (13 page)

Aw . . . Shit.

Mia.

An image pops into my mind. Her, smiling in the convertible with my tie looped around her dark hair.

That was Tuesday.

The last time I was alone with her.

The last time we were easy with each other, before a wall went up.

It’s okay to just want things,
she’d said that day at the park.

It’d taken everything in me not to say,
You’re wrong, Mia. It’s not okay for me to want you.

All week I’ve been sitting across from her. I’ve learned she takes her sandwiches apart and puts them back together again before she eats them. I’ve learned she talks about her friends more than herself, and her family more than her friends. I’ve learned the film she’s making is about her grandma, who has Alzheimer’s. I’ve learned her hair is sort of like a barometer—a pretty good predictor of her mood.

And I’ve learned that I like everything about her.

Every. Single. Goddamn. Thing.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I pull up her name in my address book and send her a text.

Ethan:
Hey Curls

My heart creeps into my throat as I watch the message post as
sent
. This is a bad call. Really fucking stupid. I’m about to toss my phone aside when her reply pops up.

Mia:
Hey! What’s up?

Okay. Time to make up a reason to have texted her.

Ethan:
Big plans tonight?

Mia:
Nothing much. Family night. You?

Ethan:
Nothing as exciting as last Sunday.

Mia:
You spent it with Adam at Duke’s, didn’t you?

Ethan:
That night was all you, Curls.

There’s a two-second pause.

Mia:
Are you flirting with me?

Ethan:
That would mean breaking company rules.

Mia:
Yeah, but are you?

Ethan:
Yes.

Ethan:
I am.

Ethan:
Speaking of

Ethan:
what are you wearing?

I’m joking about that line, mostly. But I can’t resist trying out a classic since I’m pretty much a sexting virgin. Alison balked at any flirting I did with her this way. She wasn’t much for flirting, period.

I stare at my phone, waiting for Mia to put me in my place. Then her reply comes through and I almost fumble the phone.

Mia:
Your necktie and nothing else.

Holy shit.

Ethan:
Really???

Mia:
No

Mia:

Mia:
You still there?

Ethan:
Yes. Getting into cold shower.

The wood I’m sporting is going to require more than a shower. Awesome. Nothing like a supersized helping of sexual frustration when you’re about to head out for the night.

Mia:
You look good when you shower.

Jesus.
She’s trying to kill me.

I stare at the words, my mind firing off images of us together. Shower. Standing. Bed. Chair. Rinse and repeat. It’s like the best kind of slide show in the universe.

I can’t remember the last time a girl’s gotten me this worked up. Whether it’s okay to want her or not has no apparent effect. I fucking
want
her.

I check the time. 6:57.

What did I do to deserve this?

Ethan:
I have to go. Ride almost here.

Mia:
Okay.

Ethan:
Have fun tonight, Curls.

Mia:
You too.

I sit there and reread our exchange until Adam texts me that he’s downstairs. I tell him I’m on my way then take a few seconds to pull myself together.

Vomit. Car wrecks.

Vomit in car wrecks.

Okay. Good enough.

I reach for my tie, but stop myself and drop it back on the dresser. Don’t need that distraction hanging around my neck all night. A white dress shirt is going to have to pass.

I find Adam waiting at the curb in a charcoal gray Bugatti. Getting in feels like climbing into a panther, all sinewy and low. I’m not much of a luxury car guy—my idea of a sweet ride is a great off-road truck—but Adam’s car converts me on the spot.

“It’s a little flashy,” Adam admits as he pulls onto the street, “but it was a symbolic gesture for me.”

“Symbolic?” The smells inside are strong: leather upholstery and a faint trace of motor oil. A badass combination. I breathe it in, my head returning to a Mia-free zone. “How so?”

“I had two early investors in my first start-up. One was French, the other German. Prior to going public, they tried to join together and squeeze me out.” Adam’s grin is devilish. “They failed.”

The dude is
a boss
. I feel a surge of optimism. Why was I bent out of shape earlier? I’m hanging out with Adam Blackwood. In a freakin’
Bugatti
.

“Did you buy the car after the IPO?” I ask.

Adam nods. “It was the first thing I did. Bugattis are French design, but the company is a subsidiary of Volkswagen.”

“A German automaker,” I say, filling in the blank.

“Exactly. This car reminds me to be careful about who I bring close.” His voice drops, clouding with some dark emotion as he adds, “It’s a lesson I’ve taken to heart.”

He shifts into third as we merge onto the freeway. The car surges forward and we fall silent, that conversation over.

The way he navigates the traffic is defiant and a little vicious, like he’s racing his own demons. But then we pull off the freeway and he smiles, and charismatic, cool Adam is back.

“I appreciate you coming to this with me,” he says, the roar of the engine finally growing quieter. “I didn’t want to pass up the opportunity. Having you there will relieve any awkwardness.”

I’m totally lost. “Awkwardness?”

“Well, I
am
her boss.”

No.

No fucking way.

I have to remind myself to breathe. “Adam . . . Where exactly are we going?”

“Didn’t I tell you?” he says. “To Mia’s parents’ house for dinner. I’m a big fan of her mother’s work.” His gaze drops to my neck and his eyes narrow. “Check behind your seat. I think I have an extra tie back there. It’s probably best to play it safe.”

Yeah, that’s a negative. Seeing Mia tonight is going to be the exact opposite of playing it safe.

Chapter 17

Mia

Q: Do you like to cook?

A
pparently, the globe has tilted off its axis because my mom has decided to cook. Which means the homey meal I’d planned—my dad’s special Lasagna Milanese—has turned into . . . well, I don’t know what, exactly. It’s blue; it smells like a foot; and it’s somehow taken every pot and pan within a fifteen-mile radius to produce.

“He’ll be here in ten minutes,” I say, attempting to straighten as she creates, which is exactly as effective as sweeping up after a tornado. “Why don’t you go get changed, Mom, and I’ll . . .” I look at my father, who has gone into his usual wine-selection fugue state, and mouth, “Order a pizza?”

I really should have thought this through. I couldn’t stand the idea of Adam and Ethan jocking it up together without my finding some way to even the odds, but now I feel as gross as I expected to feel in trotting out my mother. I feel guilty and frazzled, and Ethan’s flirty text messages do
not
help.

I try my best to thrust that aside. Along with the image of him handing me his tie in the car, smiling at me across our desks at work. Standing in the shower, water making a slow trail down the contours of his abs.

My mom dumps a chopping board full of what looks like chives into something brown and burbling. I’m pretty sure there’s an eye of newt in there somewhere.

“Pearl,” says my dad. He plunks three bottles on the table—a Chianti, a Pinot Grigio, and a half-consumed bottle of Jim Beam I’m pretty sure is meant for him. “Let me take over for a bit. Go put on something nice so we can make the kid look good.”

“Fine!” My mother shoves lids onto a few pots and heads out of the kitchen, untying her apron as she goes. “Don’t let the messicant burn.”

“What the hell is messicant?” My dad puts his arm around me and gingerly lifts one of the lids. Steam rises, forming the shape of a skull-and-crossbones before wafting toward the range hood.

Okay, not really, but it smells like death’s armpit, and not one thing on the oven looks like actual food.

“Why did you let her cook?” I ask, mopping up Pollack-like spatters all over the slate countertops.

My dad pours a couple of fingers of bourbon and hands it to me. Then he pours a larger portion for himself. “Makes her frisky,” he says, and clinks his glass against mine. “Salud!”

Kill. Me. Now.

The doorbell rings, and I consider diving out the window, Cowardly Lion-style, but I shove my bourbon glass into my father’s hand. “Please, if you love me,” I say, gesturing at the stovetop. “Do something with this.”

Hurrying down the hallway, I smooth back my hair, brush the wrinkles from my peach linen dress, and slip back into the silver platform sandals I’d left near the front door.

I plaster a smile on my face and open the door to find Adam Blackwood there, a bottle of wine in one hand and a bouquet of pink daffodils in the other.

And Ethan beside him.

I blink, pretty sure I’m hallucinating, but no, it’s Ethan. He looks absolutely devastating in a sharp white dress shirt and slim black tie.

“Ethan,” I squeak. Clearing my throat, I try again. “Hey.”

“Surprise,” he says, with a small shrug.

Adam moves past me into the house. “Surprise?” he says, giving me a puzzled look. “I’m sorry. I phoned your mother and asked if it was all right to bring a colleague. She didn’t tell you?”