Boomerang (18 page)

Mia

Q: Are you a lover or a fighter?

I
march into the Boomerang office Monday morning like I’m going to war. I’ve got on an emerald bandage dress in clinging jersey, black leather stiletto boots, and my hair hangs loose, in glossy fat curls slicked into obedience by Skyler. I walk the rows of cubicles, carrying a gargantuan box of just-baked fritters and pastries that I dole out to my co-workers en route to my desk. I leave behind a trail of doughy sweetness and the groans of foodgasms.

Let the games begin.

Because he could have said anything. That’s what I keep thinking. We’ve got this amazing language just
loaded
with words, phrases, even entire
sentences
. Ethan had a choice of thousands of them, a verbal cornucopia, and he said it meant
nothing
.

Our hot, dreamy moment in my mom’s studio. The charge of
connection
—not just sex—that passed between us. The feeling of being
right
, in the right place, with the right person, doing the exact right thing—all of it.

Meant nothing.

Which translates to
I
mean nothing.

At least that’s what I heard as I walked away, my throat squeezing around sudden tears I
refused
to shed. And after they left, when I lay on the sofa in the living room with my head on Nana’s lap, that’s what kept drumming through my mind:
nothing, nothing, nothing
.

To think I’d been within a breath of giving up this internship—for
him
. Because I wanted Ethan more than the job and because the idea of going out on “field research” dates made me want to puke into my purse.

Now, though, I plan to enjoy it. My life, post-acting-like-an-idiot-over-some-boy, is going to be a box of chocolates, and I’m going to take a bite out of each and every one.

Ethan’s already at our desk, tablet open before him. He’s wearing the same suit he dressed in for our first day of work, and my mind wants to shoot me right back to that morning, to waking in his bed, laughing with him as we tried to locate my clothes.

I clamp my mind shut around the images and hold out the box.

“Morning,” I say, my voice as bright and fake as neon. “Bear claw?” That’s all that’s left, other than a nub of cruller.

“Good morning.” He looks in the box and then up at me. His eyes are shadowed. “Thanks. I’m good.”

I spin away and put the last pastry on the kitchen counter then stuff the Stan’s box into the wastebasket, crushing it viciously beneath the toe of my boot. Returning to my desk, I settle in and switch on my tablet.

“Mia, look—” he begins.

At the same time I say, “Big day today.”

We both say, “Sorry, what?”

“You first,” I tell him, calling up my Boomerang profile and trying to decide if I need new photos. Maybe I should wear something sexier than the silk blouse I wore on my first day of work. Maybe get a little more cleavage going. And have Ethan take the pictures.

“Just . . .” He rubs the back of his neck. “What I said the other night? It came out harsher than—”

I put up a hand to stop him. It’s bad enough I had to hear it in the first place, that I spent a weekend feeling dumb and miserable and used.

And I already know he’s sorry. I saw it all over his face the minute he said it. But that doesn’t matter. It’s the seesaw I can’t stand. The whole up-and-down, back-and-forth, endless torture of it. My heart just can’t take the ride.

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “Really. You were right. We just—let ourselves get carried away, and it was fun, but . . .” I can’t quite seem to look at him, so I focus on the spot between his straight, expressive eyebrows. “Let’s just put all that in a box and tuck it away, all right?”

“All right,” he says. “Great.”

The hiss of the espresso machine fills the awkward silence for one long moment. I don’t know what I wanted him to say. I do know it wasn’t
that
.

“What were you going to say?” he asks.

“Oh, just that it’s a big day today. We get to pick our first Boomerang dates.”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Fun.”

“It might be.” I scroll through some of the profiles and land on the smarmiest-looking dude I can find—mirrored shades, giant margarita in one hand and his arms draped over the shoulders of straw-blond Amazonian twins. Who he kept
in
the picture. “Like, here’s someone: ‘RobbyDTF.’ ” I turn the tablet in Ethan’s direction. “What do you think?”

“RobbyDTF,” he says, giving me a look. “Subtle.”

“Well, why bother with subtlety? Isn’t that the whole promise of the site? ‘Play hard. Throw it back,’ right? Robby looks like the kind of guy who can play hard.”

Ethan winces. Or maybe I imagine he does. “And weren’t you the one talking about all the great experiences Boomerang members can have? The memories they can create? Does that guy seem like he’s going to give you a great memory, Mia?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” I turn the tablet back around and pretend to consider. Robby’s orange tan reminds me of a basketball, and his teeth have a menacing glint, like a shark’s. “Maybe some nights aren’t about making memories. Maybe they’re just about hooking up and having fun.”

Now we lock eyes, and I see hurt and frustration in his. But the snowball’s already rolling downhill.

Paolo, the art director, comes over and drapes himself over the edge of my desk, back to Ethan. He’s wearing black skinny jeans, rolled up to reveal white socks and red Converse. He’s compact, with red-framed glasses, immaculate dark stubble, and golden-bronze skin that makes me want to take him out in the sunlight and film him.

“Dope fritters,” he says and holds out his fist for a bump.

I laugh and touch my knuckles to his. This is his first visit to Intern Gulag, other than to pass by on his way to the coffeemaker.

“You better step up your game, son,” he says to Ethan. “This one’s gonna fritter you out of a job.”

“I’ll bring you a wedding cake tomorrow,” Ethan says with a scowl. “What do you need?”

“It’s more what you need,” he says, and takes my tablet. “Really, Mia? RobbyDTF? Just. No.”

“But look at that tan,” I say, grinning. “And maybe he comes with the girls, too.”

“Well, that
would
be a bonus. But no. Keep trying.” He walks around to Ethan’s side of the desk and leans over his shoulder.

“Seriously,” Ethan pushes away from him. “What’s up?”

“I’m here to help you pick a date, man!” he says. “It’s like a rite of passage here. Your first awkward Boomerang hookup. I need in on that action.”

“I think we’ve got it,” I say. “But thanks so much.”

“You don’t understand,” he tells me. “I work directly under Cookie. Do you know what that means? It means I get to have my ass chewed about twenty-six times a day.” He loops his thumbs into his trousers, grinning. “I can show you the teeth marks.”

“Not necessary,” I say. “Though you have my sympathies.”

“I should. So, what I’m saying is, you can’t deny a man his small pleasures.”

“Well then, by all means.” Ethan hands over his tablet. “You pick.” He drums his fingers on our desk and gives me a look. “Make her hot.”

“Duh, dude. Of course.” He takes the tablet, and I can see a reflection of the screen in his glasses as he scrolls through profiles. He stops on one and reads for a minute, his lips moving. “Oh, man,” he groans. “Her.”

Ethan takes a look and grins. “Definitely.”

Turning the tablet in my direction, Paolo asks, “What do you think?”

The girl is all long willowy limbs, a redhead with brown eyes and a spray of adorable freckles on her nose. Her name’s Raylene Powers, and her profile claims she’s an avid rock-climber and helps build houses for the homeless. In one photo, she’s actually standing between former president Jimmy Carter and Beyoncé.

I want to make a joke that he needs to find more of a go-getter, but my mouth feels packed with cotton. “Pretty,” I manage.

“Score!” exclaims Paolo. “That’s a winner.” He reaches for my computer. “Let’s do you now.”

“For Christ’s sake, Paolo,” comes a screeching voice that turns my spine to ice.

“Shit! Cookie,” Paolo whispers. He leaps to his feet, looking around for an escape route. “Hide me.”

I’m seriously about to stuff him under my desk when Cookie comes clipping around the corner. She stops and stands there, arms folded, and drills a hole through Paolo’s skull with her eyes.

“Paolo,” she says in a tone that’s terrifyingly pleasant. “Do you love this country?”

“You’re on your own, kid,” he says to me, and races away.

She aims her laser beam focus in my direction. “Did you want to offer
me
a pastry, Mia?”

I almost pee, she’s so scary. “Well, umm, you didn’t seem to want Ethan’s cookies the other day.”

She huffs away, and I watch her go.

Turning back to the screen, I sigh. “Oh, what the hell difference does it make?” I murmur, and launch my virtual boomerang at RobbyDTF.

Chapter 24

Ethan

Q: We all have a disastrous date in our past. What’s yours?

W
hoever invented the partner desk deserves a slow and agonizing death.

I can’t look up from my tablet without seeing Mia’s smile. Her lips. Her cleavage. She is literally in my visual “at ease” position. Right in front of me. Three feet away.

It’s been torture all week, and it’s not getting any easier.

I’m tempted to swap spots with the espresso machine and work at the kitchen counter, but that’s probably what she wants. I have to be the reason she ramped up her clothes from work appropriate to drop-dead sexy. The way she looks in that black dress is destroying my focus. Just killing it. But no way am I letting her know that.

To try to distract myself, I pull up my date’s profile.

Redheads have never been my thing since that hair color’s pretty much lost on me, but she looks promising, even if she did go to USC. I can get past an intercollegiate rivalry and overlook her name, Raylene Powers, which is just . . . confusingly masculine. Paolo called her hot. That’s a little generous, but she’s no slouch in the looks department.

I try to picture myself having fun with her, maybe getting her back to my apartment, and end up with the memory of Mia naked in my bathroom, brushing her teeth with her finger.

Nice going, Vance. That worked.

Moving to plan B in my Mia Avoidance Strategy, I pull up the files I’m working on for the booth design. I’ve decided my entire approach is going to focus on movement, because it’s what I know best.

For my graduating thesis in psychology, I did a study on the aftereffect of endorphins on athletes. Based on my survey, the sense of euphoria after a strenuous workout had a predictable outcome, with seventy-two percent of my test subjects choosing getting down as their most desired post-endorphin-rush activity. Which was surprising, in a way, since that runner’s high feeling is similar to an orgasm afterglow, but hey. Can’t have too much of a good thing, can you?

I guess Old Newton had it right. Bodies in motion tend to want to stay in motion.

I type up some notes on how to integrate all of that into a booth design, zoning out for a while, until Cookie’s shrill voice explodes down the hall.

I glance up and find Mia watching me, her green eyes holding an undercurrent of sadness. I look down at my screen again, my stomach tightening. The things I said to her in the alcove at her parents’ house come to mind, and I feel my face heat.

What a fucking asshole.

I pulled the jealous boyfriend card on her after one kiss. But,
Jesus
. What a kiss. And it wasn’t just Saturday night. It was our first night, too. Mystery evening. In which I woke up with a hot, smart, funny naked girl in my bed.