Better Than Safe (4 page)

“Did she tell you her idea about doing a segment this fall on influential British design? She wants to feature couture, home design, art, and architecture. She’s trying to get Simon Pickard, the London-based art—”

“Yes, I know him.” My brusque tone said more than I intended to divulge about how well I knew the acclaimed arsehole.

“Ahh. I sense a story. I don’t have time to dish, but later you can—oh my God, I can’t believe I was going to let you hang up without asking about your coffee date!” Aaron dropped his voice conspiratorially. “Tell me all about it. Is he yummy or what?”

I huffed humorlessly as I moved toward the door. I had a meeting to attend and I wasn’t going to spend another precious minute talking about my debacle last Saturday with Seth Landau.

“‘Or what’ is the operative phrase,” I snarked. “Seth is very handsome but he is not my type.”

“Seth is everyone’s type. I may be practically married, but I’m not dead. What happened? Tell me in one minute or less. I have an assistant waiting at my door. Hurry. Dish!”

I chuckled and briefly filled him in on my less than satisfactory coffee date. Aaron was uncharacteristically quiet when I finished with, “In short, it was an hour of my life I’d like back, please.”

“Hmm. That’s weird. He’s a little temperamental but he’s always courteous and kinda sweet. I wonder—I bet he was intimidated by you. You’re older, wiser, successful. Maybe he was nerv—”

“It doesn’t matter, Aaron. We aren’t suited. It happens more often than not. Look, I’m late for a meeting and—”

“Me too. I’m really sorry. I don’t know why he’d act so weird. It just doesn’t make sense.”

“It’s no bother to me. But here’s a thought… if he really wants to date someone with an accent, set him up with Simon Pickard. They’d be perfect for each other.”

“Actually I think—oh shoot, I gotta run. Talk to you soon!”

I stared at my cell for a moment and sighed. Simon Pickard. I hadn’t heard his name in a while and it had been years since I’d seen him. My mind immediately conjured Simon’s insanely handsome face and lean toned physique. I could see his dark head bent over a canvas in serious concentration. The way his brow furrowed as he struggled to perfect a study in light and shadow. His passion had been beguiling and utterly fascinating to me as a younger man. But his mercurial moods made him a difficult man to know. I grinned at the very thought of him sitting across a table with Seth Landau as Seth gushed over his “sexy accent.” God, I’d love to be a fly on that wall, I thought with a laugh.

T
HE
SCHEDULE
showed the incoming train should have arrived five minutes ago. For once I didn’t mind the delay. The cab ride through downtown DC rush hour traffic had been nerve-wracking. I white-knuckled my overnight bag as the taxi driver careened around corners at gravity defying speeds in his effort to make sure I wasn’t late. I handed over a large tip on top of the fee and shook my head at the absurdity of paying for what surely could have been my last ride on the planet.

I took out my phone and scrolled through messages while I waited. My thumbs flew across the small keypad as I typed a brief response to a request for a ridiculous discount in marketing pricing for a hip new designer shoe company. Not happening. I made an effort to keep my wording cordial but firm, smiling slightly before pushing send just as the train approached the platform. Perfect timing.

“Hi! Um… wow. I didn’t expect—you heading to Baltimore too?”

Or not.

Seth. He was dressed in a blue, long-sleeved plaid shirt and a pair of very worn jeans. The guitar case and rucksack at his feet completed the ultra-casual look of a “dude” on his way to play a gig somewhere. The man
was
a chameleon. He looked nothing like he had at the fashion shoot or even at coffee last weekend. But he still looked delicious. The instant memory of my relief when our “date” was over kept me from staring too long. Handsome but vacuous. Not my type.

“Yes. For work. One night only.”

I was aware of my clipped tone and distant vibe, but I couldn’t fake it. I didn’t want anything more to do with him. He was dangerous eye candy, but we had nothing in common. I couldn’t bear the thought of engaging in innocuous conversation even on the express ride to Penn Station. I’d rather read caustic e-mails, thank you very much.

“Cool. Me too. I’m playing with my buddy’s band tonight. I was supposed to get up there earlier today but I got going in the studio and—where are you sitting?” He slung his bag over his shoulder and glanced up at the numbers on the express train car before looking at me.

“First class,” I said in my snobbiest posh accent. I hated the blasted affectation, but on the other hand, it was generally an effective way to ensure I’d be left alone.

Seth chuckled and rolled his eyes, then sauntered toward the first class cabin, throwing a sly grin at me. “Me too. Allow me to escort you.”

He picked up his guitar case and walked toward the car, leaving me with my mouth wide open. I let out a deep breath and pocketed my phone before trudging after him.

I found my seat and pulled out my computer. I was usually content to read or listen to music or an audiobook on a shorter ride, but now I was anxious to appear as busy as possible. When the train lurched to a start and the seat next to me remained empty, I sighed with relief. I didn’t dare look to see where Seth was sitting. Knowing he was on the same train was distracting enough.

F
IVE
MINUTES
into a mostly quiet ride, I was successfully immersed in a fashion editor’s blog about upcoming fall styles. The much-anticipated September issues wouldn’t be released for another five months, but the hype began early. Buzz words like clean lines, capes, furs, and androgynous silhouettes were used liberally. It was part of my job to spice up bland descriptions with jazzier catchphrases to pair with the scintillating photos the better publications generated. I didn’t do as much copywriting as I had in the past, but I still used the skills I’d honed to direct the general feel I wanted each ad to depict. I was contemplating the word “androgynous,” thinking it sounded rather 80s, when someone flopped into the seat next to me.

“Hey. Looks like this seat is free. Thought I’d keep you company. How’s it going?”

I bit the side of my cheek hard before turning to my unwanted company. He was giving me a wide-eyed, playful look that threw me off guard. I stared at him lamely for a moment, trying to remember why I hadn’t liked him. Then he opened his mouth and it all came back to me.

“The moron next to me was listening to classical music so fuckin’ loud on his iPhone I swear it was like, ‘why bother with the headphones, dude? Everyone can hear anyway.’ At least it wasn’t jazz.” His gorgeous grin split his face in two. “JK! That’s short for ‘just kidding’ in case your American slang is rusty.”

I gave him a tight-lipped smile and closed my laptop as I counted to ten in French in my head. Then English. “Thank you for clarifying. This seat might be taken.”

“Whatevs. If it is, I’ll trade. So whatcha doin’ in Baltimore?” He chuckled at my blank stare, but pressed on. “What? You don’t feel like talking? I must have made a worse impression than I thought last weekend. You never returned my text. Are you pissed?”

This sort of direct inquiry was something I never understood. Why couldn’t he take the social cue and move on? No. I didn’t like that he’d been late, but it wasn’t necessarily the reason I didn’t care for him. Did I really have to spell it out? I took a deep breath and pasted a plastic smile on my face as I turned to answer him, willing myself not to be swayed by his chiseled cheekbones and stubbled jaw. Or the way his eyes twinkled mischievously.

“No. I’m not bothered in the slightest.”

“Yeah, that’s why you’re using the mega Brit accent on me.”

“Excuse me? Whatever is that supposed to mean?” I sounded like a priggish arse to my own ears. I’d move if I were sitting next to me, I thought with a frown.

“You know what it means. You’re giving me the brush-off, the ‘I’m not interested’ vibe.”

“And you’re not picking up the signal,” I said testily.

We stared at each other for a second before Seth burst out laughing. He flung his head back merrily before draping himself over the armrest, completely invading my space. “I’m slow. Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry in the slightest. Nor are you sorry you were late. Not that it matters. As I told you, I don’t care. We’ve met once. For a coffee and it was… well, if we’re speaking plainly—”

“What does that mean? ‘Speaking plainly,’” he asked with a smirk, fluttering his long eyelashes.

“Are you having fun?”

“Yeah. Kinda. You’re funny.”

“You don’t think I’m funny. You think I
talk
funny.”

“True. Funny sexy, though. Not funny ha-ha.”

“Hmph. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. So plainly speaking, you don’t like me because… why? I’m an asshole, a stupid American, a—”

“You’re a tosser. And we’re not suited in the slightest. So while having a spot of coffee with you was passable, I’m not keen on pretense, Mr. Landau.”

“Ooh. Mr. Landau must be code for ‘I think you’re a bloody fuckhead’ too. Do you think that? No. Don’t answer. You’ll only hurt my feelings.”

He slumped back in his chair with a dejected look that made me roll my eyes.

“Somehow I doubt your feelings can be hurt.”

“Don’t be so sure. I’m the sensitive artist type. A brooding model and sometime guitarist who really just wishes he could paint in peace and quiet. Unless my rock star dream comes true,” he added in a jocular tone, inviting me to laugh at him.

“Rock star. Right.”

“It’s a joke. This gig in Baltimore will probably be another one of those craptastic nights when my inner voice of reason is screaming at me to get a fucking clue. I have to stop saying yes when Rand calls me to take over for his lame ass guitarist. The rocker dream needs to die. It’s not my dream anyway.”

I had no idea what he was talking about. I reached for my cell, fully intending to ignore him for the hour or so till we pulled into the station, but I heard myself ask, “Whose is it?”

“Rand… my best friend. Any and all art is vicious. You will forever suck if you don’t practice your craft. No shortcuts. No excuses. If you’re serious, you have to give it your all. It must be like that in… what do you do again? Advertising, right?”

“Yes, and I do understand, believe it or not. I’ve been surrounded by artists in one form or another my entire life.”

“You mean fashion designers and stylists?” He gave a short laugh and brushed his fingers through his hair before continuing. “Talk about divas! Some of them are unbelievable. And handsy. I get groped during fittings on the regular. There’s always someone with their hand on my junk claiming they have a small adjustment to make. I know for a fact designers, photographers, stylists, assistants… none of ’em would get away with half the stunts they pull if they tried the same shit with the girls.”

“Probably true,” I muttered.

“So what kind of artists are you surrounded by? Did you mean designers?”

I gave him an incredulous look. “Why? Are you suddenly interested or are you just bored?”

“You’re being rude, Mr. Fallon,” he deadpanned with a mocking serious expression.

I let out a huff of reluctant amusement. He was rather charming suddenly and though I wasn’t going to fool myself that I may have misjudged him, I decided it wouldn’t hurt to be friendly for the duration of the ride to Baltimore.

“Perhaps. No, I didn’t mean designers, though yes, I deal with some persnickety types daily. I meant… well, my father is an artist and my mother is a curator for a small museum in Canterbury. I’ve been around painters, sculptors, and photographers since birth.”

“Canterbury. Is that where you’re from? I thought you said you were from London.”

“Canterbury is relatively close to London. Less than a two-hour drive. I was born there but I lived in London proper for years before moving to the States.”

“Something famous happened there. A book or something.” He snapped his fingers as though he were trying to remember the title.

“You’re thinking of
The Canterbury Tales
.”

“Yeah. I read it in high school. Boring as hell. What the fuck was it even about?”

I sighed dramatically and picked up my phone. Forget it. I couldn’t even pretend not to be put off. It was one thing to be ignorant of a subject, but to wallow in stupidity was ridiculous.

“Uh oh. I’m losing you. Let me try to remember. Hmm. Hmm.” He hummed, pursing his lips and tapping at his temple as though trying very hard to conjure a long-forgotten lesson. His expression went from thoughtful to earnest till he finally slapped his leg and turned to me with a triumphant grin. “I got it!”

I cocked my head and made a face. “What is it you’ve ‘got’?”

Seth chuckled, nonplussed by my snobbish inquiry. “It’s a collection of stories, written in verse and prose, about a storytelling contest during a pilgrimage. It was significant because… hmm, well one reason was that it was the first time a story was written to reflect the voice of all classes. Which was cool in theory, but in the fourteenth century, I don’t think the lower class was doing much reading, you know?”