Let's Be Frank (23 page)

Plus, the last person I want to spend an evening playing “Happy Couple” in front of is Kyle, or The Beefcake with the Briefcase, as I’ve taken to mentally calling him. But Frankie’s suddenly determined to set Betty up with someone—anyone, apparently—and she swears Kyle is Betty’s type. I’m not so sure about that. I wouldn’t think a big… bank account… would be a turn-on for Betty. She doesn’t strike me as impressed by things like that. I guess that’s none of my concern, though.

On the other hand, I have a feeling Eau Claire concerns me, somehow, probably in a way I’m not going to like.

When Frankie doesn’t acknowledge my query into her estimated ready time, I lean against the bathroom door frame and submit to the conversation she’d obviously prefer, considering it’s the only thing she’s said to me so far. “What about Eau Claire?”

She presses her hair between the hot paddles of her flat iron (to straighten her already straight hair?) and drawls, “That’s where your next signing is. Three weekends from now. Saturday afternoon.”

My stomach drops. “Uh…” I say more as an expulsion of air than an expression of an idea or thought. My mind races to provide a valid excuse not to attend another public appearance as Frank.

Not that the one in Phoenix was horrible. It wasn’t. As a matter of fact, it went well. So well that Betty and I had to temper our giddy relief when we returned to the Liptons’ house, because we didn’t want to rub it in Frankie’s face how successful it was. I know, that doesn’t make any sense, but trust me… if she’s not part of the experience, she doesn’t want to hear about it. She likes the results (more book sales, increased traffic to her website and blog), but she’s not interested in listening to Betty and me bask in the afterglow.

Have I mentioned it’s been a tense couple of weeks since our return?

Now, I scramble for a reason—any reason—not to spend another day in a bookstore in a scratchy scarf. Family? No. Not believable that I’d care enough about a family event to choose it over anything else. Work? Yes! The old standby…

“Well, I can’t, because I, uh, have to work at Urgent Care that Saturday.”

Her shoulders slump but almost immediately straighten once more. “Oh. So? Switch with someone.”

“No can do, because…”

She stares expectantly at me in the mirror. Damn. I was hoping she’d accept my answer without explanation.

Because this is my first interaction with a woman… ever?

“I can’t, because… they’re cracking down on schedule swaps!” I nearly yell, then tone it down. “It’s been out of control lately, and a few times, nobody’s shown up for a shift, because of misunderstandings… and stuff.”

“Tell them it’s important.”

“How do I explain that, though? Lie?”

Yeah, because I’m totally averse to that, obviously.
I conveniently swat that thought away.

She bites her lower lip, continuing to run her long hair through the straightener. “Hmmm…” Her eyes light up. “Oh! I know! Tell them your girlfriend needs you that day for something she booked without consulting you first, and she can’t reschedule it.” Setting the flat iron on the counter, she slinks up to and rubs against me. “Pretty please? It’s all true! Well, Betty booked it, but I do need you…” Underscoring that seemingly innocent statement with a brush of her palm against the front of my pants, she smiles wickedly into my eyes.

My heart races. With a tight, painful swallow, I squeak, “That might work.” I clear my throat and add more assertively while backing away from her, “But don’t get your hopes up. They’re really strict lately. You know, a few asshats spoiling it for the rest of us.”

“It’s Betty you’d be disappointing,” she says in an ultra-casual way, returning to the bathroom counter and avoiding my eyes under the pretense of curling her eyelashes. “And you wouldn’t want that.”

I refuse to take the bait I’ve taken so many times since we’ve been back from Arizona. She’s thrust—um, different word, maybe? Thrown?—her best friend and me together to do her bidding wherever and whenever it suits her, and now she’s jealous of the time Betty and I spend together? And we’re not allowed to have fun or enjoy each other’s company while we do her grunt work? I’ve already told her I don’t think it works that way. I’m not going to say it again tonight.

Instead, I ask, “You nearly ready? Your buddy, Kyle, will think he’s been stood up.”

Plunking down the eyelash curler, she narrows her eyes at me. “Are you gonna be like that all night?”

“Like what?”

“‘Your buddy, Kyle,’” she imitates in a deep, dopey voice that sounds nothing like me. “All snide?”

“I’m not being snide. He
is
your buddy, is he not?” I step aside for her to pass, and I wait in the hallway while she roots around in the heap of shoes on her closet floor. By some miracle, she quickly finds a matching pair and emerges with them.

Holding onto my forearm as she slips them on, she answers, “Yes, he’s my
friend.
And I hope he’ll be your friend, too.” She lets go of me and grabs her tiny purse from the back of the couch.

“Absolutely,” I reply, following her out the door.

I only hope Betty puts the kibosh on Frankie’s matchmaking dreams, so I never have to deliver on that empty agreement.

*****

As I predicted, by the time we get to the restaurant, Kyle’s waiting for us in an intimate booth. Even Betty beat us here. They’re sitting across from each other and seem to be chatting comfortably, both nursing large glasses of dark red wine.

Oh, great. It’s one of
those
places. So, if I order a beer, I’ll look like a rube. I’d rather have nothing than drink a mouth-puckering, eighteen-dollar bowl of tannins that gives me insta-headache, so after Frankie asks for a glass of white wine, I say, “Water, thanks,” and take the only remaining seat, next to Kyle.

He holds out his hand for a manly shake, but I refuse to participate in one of those grip-strength contests paper-pushers like him are so fond of and keep it firm, yet brief.

“It’s good to finally meet you,” he says, practically blinding me with his milk-fed smile.

“You, too.” For some reason, I glance at Betty when I say that. Her curved right eyebrow lets me know my lame attempts at civility are failing. I can’t help it, though; this guy gives me a rash no ointment can cure.

Frankie jumps in. “Sorry we’re so late. Bad hair day.”

“You must be talking about Nate, because your hair looks perfect,” Kyle says smoothly. “No offense,” he adds in my direction without taking his eyes off a now-blushing Frankie.

Betty hides her smirk in her wineglass while I try to convert my scowl into something that may be interpreted as a smile… in a room full of seeing-impaired people.

“None taken,” I mumble, looking over my shoulder for the waiter, wishing he’d return with my tasty, refreshing water.

Frankie tries again to kick-start the conversation. “Kyle owns a computer software company. What’s your company’s specialty again? Video games?”

He perks up. “Yes! Although, we’re not really a software company, per se.”

“Oops. Sorry!” Frankie giggles.

“No problem.” He shoots her a magnanimous smile across the table and lightly taps the back of her hand, which he has to stretch to reach. He doesn’t seem to notice me burning a hole in the top of his tan, manicured paw, which lingers on Frankie’s fingers. “We specialize in video game development. You a big gamer, Nate?”

Oh, so he
does
know I’m here. For a second, I thought maybe Betty and I were invisible attendees at what feels like a date between Kyle and Frankie.

I shake my head to re-focus my eyes and look away from his audacious mitt. “Me? Oh. No. I mean, some of my friends like to play a bit, so when I’m with them—which is hardly ever anymore, anyway—I play, but… I don’t own a gaming system, or anything like that.”

“Outdoorsy, huh? Hey, I have a boat and a lake house. You and Frankie—and Betty, of course,” he swiftly appends, remembering his real date for the evening and smiling at her, “should come up for a weekend and hang out. Lots of trails. You have a mountain bike?”

Starting to feel like the gray crayon in the Big Box, I again shake my head. “Nope. I’m more of a runner.”

“Trail running?”

I barely suppress the sigh that wants to jump free from my chest due to this tedious conversation. I also almost lie and agree, if only to end the misery, but instead, I say truthfully, “I usually just have time for quick jogs before or after work, around my neighborhood.”

“Right on. I get it. I’m super-busy, too. I hardly ever leave my office to work out. I installed cardio and weight machines in the building a few years ago, so my employees and I can squeeze in some workouts when we’re in the middle of a new development.”

While the waiter finally delivers our drinks, I say, “Sounds like you have a busy, interesting life.”

“I stay occupied,” he admits. It would sound more humble without that sarcastic sneer on his smug face.

He turns his attention to the waiter, who seems to be waiting for us to stop talking. Sure enough, given his opening, the server rattles off the chef’s specialties for the day and asks if we’re ready to order.

None of us has had a chance to look at the menus, but Kyle offers to order for the whole table. I’d rather choose my own food so I know exactly what I’m eating, but then again, I’m sure Monsieur Know-It-All will keep us informed as we go. I nod my consent and struggle not to laugh as he earnestly says the name of each dish in confident French.

When the waiter leaves, Betty clears her throat. “So, Kyle… we know why Frankie’s on that shuttle so often, but what has you traveling so much? Business or pleasure?”

Fingering his glass’s stem, he replies. “Business. Always business. My company’s headquartered in Chicago, but I’m from here, and my family still lives here. I keep an apartment in Chicago—”

“On the Miracle Mile?” Betty inquires in a snooty voice.

Closing one eye in a wink, Kyle laughs. “Yes, as a matter of fact. Are you making fun of me?”

“Maybe,” she says. “Actually, I was kidding. I’ve heard that term a billion times on TV; it’s about the only thing I know about Chicago, other than those stinky Bears.”

“Hey, I fly my Packers flag high and proud during football season, make no mistake. I’m a major Cheesehead.” At this, he turns to me, as if it should matter most to the other guy at the table.

I smile weakly. “I like cheese, too. I mean, go Pack.”

“Damn right. Anyway, I have an apartment there, where I stay during the week. Then, most weekends, unless we’re on a massive deadline, I fly here to stay at my house or hang out at the lake and spend time with family. I have three sisters, and I’ve lost count of how many nieces and nephews I have—I think it’s ten now, but my youngest sister has another one on the way.” He taps the table. “If you haven’t guessed, we’re Catholic. Although I’m not practicing.”

My gosh. And I thought
I
had verbal diarrhea. This guy needs an Immodium martini. I can tell by the look on her face that Betty’s waiting for the perfect opportunity to zing him, but Frankie seems captivated, although she must have heard all this before. Clearly, this guy’s favorite topic is himself. I’ve known him for fifteen minutes and could write his damn profile on a dating website. As many times as she’s sat next to him on a plane, she must be well-informed enough to write his obituary, which he may need, if he doesn’t stop looking at my girlfriend like that.

Our soup course arrives. Kyle stops talking about himself long enough to tell us it’s a fish soup and adds some pretentious detail about the region in France where it originated and how beautiful it is there.

“You’ve been?” Frankie asks, holding her spoon near her mouth while she waits for his answer.

Betty rolls her eyes and grabs a piece of crusty bread, which she butters as if trying to punish it.

Kyle shrugs. “Yeah. For business, of course. I tried to get some sightseeing in, though. My girlfriend at the time insisted.”

“All work and no play makes Kyle an insufferable dickhead, right?” Betty says sweetly, fluttering her eyelashes over her piece of bread and across the table at him.

He pauses before smiling uncertainly and answering, “Yes… I guess so.”

“What’s the point in working so hard to make all that money if you’re not going to take the time to enjoy it?” Again, her tone is light, but her eyes are hard.

The answer must be hiding in Kyle’s soup bowl, because he stares into it for a long time. Finally, he replies, “I enjoy what I do for a living. My source of income is also my favorite hobby. Nothing wrong with that, right?”

“Not at all,” Betty chirps. “Only the luckiest of us can claim that.”

When Kyle looks up, his eyes are as hard as Betty’s. “I
am
one of the lucky ones. I also believe in making my own luck.”

I’m not sure what’s going on here, but it’s simultaneously uncomfortable and fascinating and thrilling. I can’t tell if Betty wants to screw him or stab him. Or both.

Before she can deliver what I’m sure would be a delightfully scorching retort, Frankie steps in. “It
is
amazing to be able to turn what you love into a money-making venture. I’m experiencing that for the first time in my life, and it’s awesome.”