No Perfect Princess (7 page)

:: Happy New Year, blondie. ::

:: Same! OMG soooo dam dunk! Wish you were here to kiss me! ::

:: So do I—especially now that I see your dam dunk side. ::

:: You funning at me? ::

:: Probably. ::

:: Good. I like it when you’re fun. ::

:: No driving like that, by the way. ::

:: Nope. Neber. Andre taking Taylor and me home. ::

:: Taylor? ::

:: Taylor GIRL not Taylor BOY, k? She works with me. ::

:: Oh. Well, okay. I guess I like Taylor, then. ::

:: I have to pee. Brb ::

:: You’ve been gone awhile, you OK? ::     :: Margaux? Answer, please. ::

:: Yep, yep. Fine, Daddy. Just texting Andre. Sorry. ::

Those weren’t even the worst of it. The ones from after Taylor and I got back to my place…
well, shit.
He was never going to let me live those down.

:: Captain A! You still up? Oh, wait. You’re always UP lol ::

:: Still being naughty, I see. ::

:: You like me naughty… ::     :: Still here? ::

:: Yeah. I’m just glad you’re okay. I was waiting to hear you made it home. ::

:: Such a gentleman. ::

:: Not always. ::

:: Just when it counts. Ttyt k? So tried. ::

:: You mean so drunk? ::

:: Yeah, that too. Sleep well. XO ::

:: Better if you were here. Stop torturing me and say you’ll come see me. ::

:: zzzzz zzzzzz ::

:: Brat. ::

Michael

I
’d been waiting
for her text all day.

:: Yo, Captain America ::

:: Yes, beautiful? ::

:: Mack Daddy Teddy Bear has arrived safe and sound. Thought you’d want to know. ::

:: What the hell are you talking about? ::

:: Shut UP. This has YOU written all over it, Pearson. All eight fucking FEET of it. ::

:: All eight feet of what? ::

:: Fine. I’ll just blame it on the cute guy at Starbuck’s who keeps comp’ing my latte. I’m sure he’d love to take credit for an eight-foot-tall teddy bear who came bearing six dozen black and red tulips. ::

:: The hell? ::

:: Thought you’d see it my way. ::

:: You win, sugar. You win. ::

:: Of course I do. ::

:: You do have your ways. ::

:: So can I ask a question? ::

:: Of course. ::

:: How’d you know black and red are my favorite colors? ::

:: I have MY ways too, beautiful. Now can I ask you a question? ::

:: Only seems fair. ::

:: Will you be my valentine? ::

:: Does the hideous bear have to stay at my house or yours? ::

:: Yours, of course. ::

:: Then I won’t be your valentine. ::

:: Dammit. ::

Margaux

I
n like a
lion, out like a lamb—or some dumb shit poetry like that. Spring pulled into San Diego in all its glorious fashion, but my heart felt frozen in place. Not such a new feeling, really, but my self-imposed dry spell wasn’t helping one damn bit.

Working day and night helped dull the pain but even Killian started to notice—especially when I politely turned down a dinner invitation from his buddies, Fletcher Ford and Drake Newland, during their visit to SoCal for the year-end board meeting. Kil had gaped like I’d dyed my hair into a rainbow then let the colors sink into my brain. I’d almost agreed with him. More than a few times, I’d confessed about pining for that matched set of hotness and their idea of dinner, a special package deal that redefined the words “best buddies share
everything
”. Imagining the possibilities usually got me wet and tingly in all the right ways. The fantasy ranked high on my personal bucket list. But I couldn’t muster the enthusiasm even to have drinks with the boys.

What the hell
?

I’d gotten home that night and checked my temperature, convinced I was coming down with some virus that caused irrational behavior. Sadly, everything checked in as normal, confirming my ailment couldn’t be written off as a physical issue.

The real—and worse—diagnosis?

I had it bad for Michael Pearson.

And had no damn idea if he felt remotely the same way.

That wasn’t true. There was
that kiss
before he’d left—and since then, a lot of those teasing, semi-steamy texts. Okay, he’d also tried calling, all of two times—but on both, I’d been at the office on deadlines, meaning conversations didn’t delve much deeper than the weather, Montgomery/Stone wedding updates, and a few attempts at cutesy on his part, always starting the same way. Was I staying out of trouble? And if I wasn’t, was I at least being safe?

Ugh. It was as comfortable as Charlie Brown and his cute little redheaded girl—only he didn’t have a dancing dog for his comedy relief, and I wasn’t sure “cute” and I shared the same universe. I vowed to give him hell about paying five cents for Lucy the Shrink the next time we talked.

Like I knew when the hell
that
would be.

Which laid the breadcrumbs back to our huge damn problem.

Would there
be
a “next time to talk”?

He’d said a month’s absence. It was now closing in on three. And his begging invitations for me to join him in Podunk—err, I mean Julian—had almost stopped. Everything was still friendly between us but it stopped right there, no more and no less. I had no right to pry, so I never did. I also had no right to expect calls and texts on a regular basis, so I never asked. We really were locked in a
Peanuts
world. Pleasant, pretty, sometimes funny—and flat, flat, flat.

Exactly where I’d pressed my love life.

Good grief.

It fit the holding pattern I hated more with each day. Shit. This was uncharacteristic if not a total anomaly, and it needed to stop. If I didn’t get some game soon, the lady parts were going to start looking like one of those abandoned amusement parks in horror movies. Scary clowns would be next.

Not going there.

It was
so
time to round up my girls and head for some for some Happy Hour troublemaking.

Cue the Snoopy snickers again. Who the hell was I kidding? I didn’t have “girls” to round up. I was the type of woman other women hated, much less wanted to go out “troublemaking” with. Sure, Taylor from the sales department had invited me to that New Year’s Eve thing, but we’d ended the night on my big sofa, snoring and drooling on each other, still in our party dresses and makeup. No shock at all that we hadn’t been out again since.

Maybe it was time to change things.

I phoned Taylor, Claire, and two other girls from sales, talking them into hitting one of the gastropubs in the Gaslamp District. I so needed this.
I
wasn’t the one who’d gone hermit crab in Sweet Apple Acres, and it was damn time to remind myself of that. I intended to
live
tonight, starting with a cosmo down my throat, and—chemistry and karma willing—ending with a cock between my legs. I was done pining for a guy who’d dumped me before even knowing he wanted me.

I gave myself another once-over in the bathroom mirrors. Everything worked. I’d gone for minimal but classy accessories over a pewter-colored V-neck with tiny stiches of silver, falling over buttery black leather pants that fit in all the right places. Killer Alexander McQueen cage booties added four inches of style and at least a few hours of attitude.

After one more check on the outfit, I leaned in to coat my lips in my favorite berry-colored stain. This stuff was better than war paint, perfect for a night of drinking and debauchery. I teased my hair higher at the roots and approved of what stared back at me.
Aha.
There she was—the man eater I once knew. She’d been MIA for too long, lost to a calmer, tamer, and—gasp—nicer young thing.
Gawd
. And
gag
. Claire was rubbing off on me in all the wrong ways. Time to sharpen the pretty minx claws and drag an equally pretty, wholly unsuspecting piece of masculinity back here. I had needs, and for tonight, none of them involved the name Michael Pearson.

Three hours, four cocktails, and eleven strikeouts later, I clacked back into my building with head low and spirits lower. I was half-drunk and one hundred percent lonely. And a little miserable. And a lot confused.

Fuck. What a night. When did the male population become so pitiful? Correction: the
teen
male population. Clearly, they’d lowered the drinking age in California to sixteen and none of us had gotten the memo.

Hey, girl. Don’t lock me outta
that
heaven.

Hey, girl. You’ll have to ‘scuse me. Gotta fetch the fire extinguisher to put you out.

Hey, girl. This feels like a fairy tale. Let’s see if my body fits your magic slipper.

Those had all been before my favorite…

Hey girl. Your tits are fine. They need to come play. And the rest of you can come along, too.

I’d walked away. Far away. If not, I would’ve seriously started checking IDs—or recording every line for the book I’d transcribe them into. It’d net millions. I’d probably land on the talk show circuit for a while. If I was lucky they’d book me next to Paul Rudd, and we could run dueling
Mac and Me
clips.

Missed opportunities. Story of my damn life lately.

It wasn’t like I’d been off the scene
that
long. Things really couldn’t have changed that drastically. And now I was going to rock a nasty hangover
and
an unfulfilled pussy. Dammit, I couldn’t spend another night with my vibrator. I was so sick of that plastic excuse for hot-blooded cock. No way. Couldn’t do it. Not again.

I stepped into the elevator while fumbling for the key fob for access to the VIP floors of the building. But before I got to it, my grip slipped on my phone.

Smash
.

The thing hit the elevator’s floor at full velocity.

“Fucking. Perfect.”

I couldn’t wring out any more sarcasm as I picked it up and glared at the crack across the lower right corner of the screen. Adding insult to injury? As the lifts doors closed, a rousing Musak version of
Master and Servant
began.

I suffered in silence as the lift climbed toward the fifteenth floor. At least
something
around here was getting action from a shaft tonight.

I just wanted to shower off the bar stench—in cold water—and climb into bed. I considered calling in sick tomorrow morning. Claire
had
commented how hard I’d been working. I could pull off a sick day and no one would blink an eye.

In the end, I went for a long, hot shower—and the resolve that four cosmos, a bad band, and three dozen assholes weren’t going to take away a perfectly good work day from me. What would I do with it, anyway? Mope around about he-who-wouldn’t-be-named? I’d feel better after a good night’s sleep, which couldn’t come soon enough.

With the bad memories of the night washed away by my lavender shampoo and rosemary soap, I felt coherent again. After slipping into my favorite silk pajamas, I grabbed my phone for one more email scan while I settled into bed. Swiping past the crack wasn’t a problem, thank God—though not giving in to the temptation of Michael-oriented thoughts wasn’t as easy.

Shit. I’d done it. With his name back out in the universe, coupled now with my impaired judgment, I decided to put my liquid courage to use and send the recluse a text.

One text
. One
.

I nodded groggily. One wouldn’t hurt. I deserved it, dammit. The miserable attempt at a night of fun and fornication had only led to a thousand more thoughts of him, nameless and all. Maybe touching base would scrub him off my mind, too—at least for a little bit.

:: Thinking of you. Sleep well. ::

I blinked hard at the text that came back. Then swore like a sailor.

:: Who is this? ::

I didn’t know what to say. “Who the fuck
is
this?” Well, that was something. Just not the right something. Obviously.

What the hell was going on? While I fought back thoughts of him like a swoony girl half my age, was Adonis-on-the-mountain juggling so many girls, he couldn’t keep track?

Fury blazed. I’d turned down a parade of himbos willing to come back here and service me with their young, nubile cocks—even it meant drawing them a guide for where things went—but rejected them all out of comparison to him. Had I used the wrong analysis data? Held up the wrong example? Actually broken my own rules and let myself walk out on a limb—for
this
return?

I hit the caps lock and started flicking my thumbs over the keys.

:: F-U-C-K Y-O— ::

:: JK, sugar. Can’t seem to stop thinking of you, either. ::

“Shit shit shit shit shit.”

I couldn’t slam the backspace key fast enough, freaked he’d sense even the obscenities I hadn’t gotten to yet.

After I finally allowed myself to breathe again, I also smiled. Well, well. He was thinking about me too.

As I flopped back into the pillows, my grin faded.

Now
what?

“Your turn on the high dive, lady.”

The self-encouragement was anything but that. But I couldn’t just leave him hanging.

I hopped out of bed and paced to soothe my hammering pulse—and racing brain. It had been weeks since I last heard from him; that alone ruled out a lot of plays except sweet or sour. The obvious choice was full throttle on the bitch wagon—but even if well-justified, it’d crash the conversation before it started. More long weeks would pass before either of us screwed up the balls to reach out again.