Ask Me Something (The Something Series Book 2)
Read Ask Me Something (The Something Series Book 2) Online
Authors: Aubrey Bondurant
Ask
Me Something
By
Aubrey Bondurant
This
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and
incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a
fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual
events is purely coincidental.
This
book is for mature audiences only.
Cover
by: coversbykaren.com
Text
copyright © 2015 by Aubrey Bondurant
ONE
My perfectly
manicured nails flew across the keyboard with the intention of sending one last
email out this evening before I left to meet my friend Catherine. If I hoped to
take the next week off, flying out first thing on Christmas Eve, I needed to
ensure everything was in order. Not that I wouldn’t be working over the
holidays. I never truly turned it off as Vice President of the New York branch
of Gamble Advertising.
The direct line
lit on my desk phone, and I smiled at the number that flashed.
“Sasha Brooks
here,” I answered.
“Are you working
late tonight?” Brian’s smooth baritone came over the line.
Brian Carpenter was
the East Coast Regional Vice President for our company. We’d known each other
almost eight years. Over that time, we’d developed a relationship that was a
combination of colleagues and friends. When I’d been promoted last year,
however, he’d become my boss. Our working relationship was going through some
growing pains, but the biggest change had been my move from Charlotte up to New
York City, where I no longer saw him every day.
“Actually, I’m
finishing up right now.” Glancing at the clock, I saw it was only five-thirty.
Early, for me.
“Good. Are you free
for dinner tonight?”
My heart beat
faster. “Wait. You’re here in the city?” Brian traveled up here at least once a
month. When he did, we tried to get together outside of the office for dinner
or drinks. These occasions didn’t happen as often as when we’d both lived down
in Charlotte, so when he was in town I tried to rearrange my plans to see him.
“I am,” he
chuckled. “Otherwise it might be awkward.”
Shit. I couldn’t
get out of my commitment. “Cute. Uh, I wish I’d known. I have this thing
tonight.”
“Oh, yeah? Hot
date?”
I groaned and
decided to come clean even though he would give me a hard time. “I promised to
go with Catherine to a speed dating night.”
“Uh, I wasn’t
aware you were into that sort of thing.”
“Believe me, I’m
not. I’m doing it for Catherine. You should feel sorry for me.”
“Honey, I don’t
know who to feel sorrier for: you or those poor bastards you’re going to meet.
Why in the world is Catherine speed dating to begin with? She shouldn’t need
that type of thing to meet a man.”
I couldn’t help
smiling when he called me honey. It always got me in my sweet spot. “I tried to
tell her that, but I think she’s anxious because her ex got remarried a couple
of weeks ago. I’m accompanying her for support.”
“That’s rough,
but you’re being a good friend. I know this type of thing is outside your
comfort zone.”
Yes, it was. He knew
I had apprehension with new social situations. “What about drinks afterwards? If
you’re okay with the both of us, we should be finished by eight o’clock.”
“Sure. Text me
when you’re done and let me know where. I’ll meet you.”
“Okay, sounds
good. See you later.” At least my evening was looking up now.
***
Why the hell had
I agreed to this?
I’d asked myself that question ten times over since arriving but had yet to
come up with an answer that didn’t have me scoping out the exit signs in this
eclectic little coffee shop decorated for the holidays. The scene in front of
me was like a bad dream, but in all reality here I was at my first and hopefully
last Manhattan speed dating night.
Damn, the perky
woman in charge of the evening was talking to us ladies, and I hadn’t been
paying attention. I took in her big hair, heavy makeup—and were those shoulder
pads? Huh. It was like I was looking at Miss Texas circa nineteen eighty-five.
Considering she’d preserved her signature style while living in fashion-centric
New York City spoke volumes. The woman obviously had some impressive
self-confidence.
“Are you
nervous, Sasha?” Catherine asked, interrupting my wandering thoughts.
Observing her
barely contained enthusiasm, I realized I’d need to fake it tonight in order to
be a good friend. Right. That’s why I was here: to be supportive. Deep breaths
and think about how much fun I was going to pretend to have.
I gave Catherine
a wan smile. “No, this is less intimidating than a one-on-one blind date.”
She beamed, and
I knew that I’d done the right thing in agreeing to accompany her tonight.
Catherine’s divorce last year had taken quite a toll on her self-esteem when it
came to dating and men. Since we’d become good friends, she’d confided in me
about trying to venture out. Being single, I’d agreed to come along so that she
wouldn’t have to do it alone. It was my own fault for getting into this
situation. Upon meeting Catherine, I’d gone out with her like I’d written the
book on how to meet men. This was the image I’d created for myself, and I was
too invested to back down now.
Taking a deep
breath, I glanced at my watch. If all went according to plan, we’d be done in less
than two hours. I’d text Brian and we’d meet for drinks. It had been three
weeks since I’d last seen him, and I was looking forward to it.
Catherine handed
me a chai tea and I wished it was something stronger. Amongst the twenty women
attending, I wondered how many of them were regulars to this type of thing? Is
this what females over the age of thirty did to meet men in this city? I was
slightly north of that aging milestone, but I felt more pressure in imagining a
romantic relationship than in worrying about a biological clock ticking.
I observed the
men file in and take their seats. The women assessed them with quiet whispers,
practically giddy with anticipation over the potential to meet the man of their
dreams.
“Remember,
ladies, you only get one chance to make a good first impression,” Ms. Texas advised
us.
Like I needed a
reminder about the importance of a good first impression or the fact that I
wasn’t the kind of girl known for making one. Initially, I came off as
unfriendly, but the truth was wrapped around my wrist in the form of a hair
band. I snapped it discreetly: once, twice and a third time, telling myself
that I wouldn’t let my anxiety control me.
“The gentlemen
are getting their nametags and sheets together, so only five more minutes,
ladies,” our MC of Love offered up.
For a moment it
was so laughable that someone like me was here trying to make a good first
impression that I knew I had to fire off a text to Brian.
“About to start.
Lady in charge said to be sure to make a good first impression.”
“Your specialty.
Remember no RBF.”
“Haha, very
funny.”
RBF was an
acronym for Resting Bitch Face. I had it. I couldn’t help it. And I’d refused
to believe it until he’d essentially proven it to me years ago. Our
professional relationship wasn’t without its challenges, considering I wasn’t
always the easiest person to manage. But the one thing I could always count on
was him being honest with me even if it meant telling me I had a resting bitch
face.
“I’d wish you
luck, but I wouldn’t really mean it,”
he texted back.
I wondered if
he’d intended it the way it sounded. We were always flirting like this, with
neither of us actually making a move beyond the platonic.
Bracing myself,
I downed one final gulp of my tea before Ms. You-Can-Find-Love-In-Five-Minutes
told us to stand in front of a chair along the line.
The bell
sounded, and we each took a seat in front of prospective mates with the clock
ticking.
Raising a brow
at the man across from me, I tried very hard to keep my face from sliding into
RBF. My mind wandered to why Brian was up in New York in the first place. He
hadn’t mentioned it when we’d spoken yesterday on the phone.
Crap. I was
still thinking about Brian, and the man in front of me at the small table had
been talking for two full minutes. I shifted my focus to him.
He wasn’t
unattractive. And that was pretty much the only description I could give as he
finished up.
“That’s me in a
nutshell. How about you?” he asked.
Er, okay. “My
name is Sasha—”
“Yeah that’s on
your nametag,” he teased.
Before I could
help it, my eyes narrowed. I watched him shift uncomfortably. Oh, hell. I’d
gone from resting bitch face to full-on active bitch face. “Right, sorry. I’m
nervous,” I fibbed, trying to recover. I took a deep breath. “I’m thirty-two,
and I work a lot of hours in the advertising field. Um, I moved up here from
Charlotte, North Carolina, last year.”
“Do you like
your job?” He appeared genuinely curious.
“Yes, absolutely.”
There should be no reason why I shouldn’t enjoy it. My career was exactly where
I’d always dreamed it would be. So what if my level of anxiety had increased
with it? It was to be expected, right? The higher the paycheck, the larger the
responsibility, my dad had once told me.
“That’s good.
Not many people can say that. I’m currently between jobs and trying my hand at
Broadway auditions.”
Uh, yeah. I
could officially add that statement to my virtual list of instant turnoffs.
Be
nice,
I reminded myself. “Is there any particular part or show you’re
interested in?”
He nodded
enthusiastically. “My dream would be one of the monkeys in the Wicked
production.”
For a moment, I
entertained the idea that I was on some type of reality television show where I
was being punked. I even looked up for the hidden camera or for some celebrity
to come out. Who the hell said their Broadway dream was to be a monkey? After
thirty seconds, it became obvious this was for real, and even though my mind
was saying,
I’ve got nothing
, my mouth mercifully managed, “That’s
nice.”
Thank God I was
literally saved by the bell. But as I scanned down the long line of nineteen
more men, the panic started to well up.
Catherine caught
my eye and gave me a wink. She was enjoying herself. Undoubtedly she would make
a great impression in the small allotted time. We might both be polished and professional
career women who were single in the city, but that was about it when it came to
the similarities between us. Her blonde hair was soft and framed her
heart-shaped face flawlessly. My chin-length hair was black and cut in a
chic-bob. She was fair with blue eyes and classic features, whereas I had my
biological mother’s brown eyes, olive skin and full lips from somewhere else in
my family gene pool. Despite being the editor for Cosmo magazine, Catherine was
down-to-earth and genuinely sweet. Sweet would never be a word to describe me. I
snapped my band under the next table three more times, willing myself to stay
calm. I could do this.
Five guys later,
I was ready to feign a minor medical emergency. The next candidate, however,
interrupted my thoughts on what appendicitis might look like. He was very
attractive. Since his eyes were running over me with frank interest, I could
tell he might be thinking the same thing.
“I’m Bradley,
and you must be lost. A woman like you definitely doesn’t need a speed date to
find a man,” he theorized.
He was
clean-cut, and professional in a suit and tie. But he still wasn’t as handsome
as Brian.
Jesus. Where had
that thought come from? Giving Bradley a smile, I confessed, “I’m here with a
friend who wanted to come. What about you?”
“I’m in the same
situation. Can you believe some of the losers at this tonight?”
My smile
faltered. Sweet might never describe me, but I wasn’t mean-spirited. “Uh, I
don’t know that I’d go that far.”
“That blonde two
down had promise, but then she started talking about her divorce. Like a
prospective date wants to hear about that kind of baggage. Completely
pathetic.”
Active bitch
face came out in full force. “That blonde happens to be my friend. And I’ve
learned all I need to about you,
Bradley
.”
“Come on, don’t
you believe in second chances?” he cajoled, leaning forward. The practiced look
he was giving me suggested that Bradley had probably enjoyed his share of
second chances with women.
“Not when they
need to happen within the first five minutes, I don’t.” I smiled tightly and
took out my phone to google symptoms of acute medical emergencies.
***
The rest of the
evening was a blur. In addition to being soured on bachelor number six, by the
time I got to number twenty, I could barely manage a smile. Since bachelor
seven had been a doctor, I’d abandoned the idea of feigning an episode of
anything medical. The man was creepy enough that he’d most likely perform
mouth-to-mouth for a sprained ankle. Ugh.
Catherine, on the
other hand, was thrilled with the evening and the results. Our
hostess-of-human-torture-otherwise-known-as-speed-dating passed out the contact
information of the men who’d been interested and Catherine had garnered
fourteen of them.
Was there no
other female participant here tonight who was indignant that they’d polled the
men instead of us women? I folded my paper and tucked it into my purse wishing
I could throw it away without hurting Catherine’s feelings.
