Raspberry Crush (41 page)

"He's ridiculous," Peach consoled.

"He just waddled away without giving me a chance to say anything."

"What a fool."

"Right after he called me Lydia."

"Savage."

"Yeah," Lonnie agreed. "Well, beyond calling Lucky Noodle for takeout, I'm out of ideas."

"Which reminds me, why'd you put Lucky Noodle on our speed dial? If that doesn't prove how hurting our lives are—"

"I'm telling you, it's good. You've never even tried it."

"What can I say? I'm a vegetarian. My aversion to meat includes mystery meat." She paused before she spoke again, and Lonnie could tell she had just spit out her gum. "So, speaking of bosses, you know what Iris told me before?"

"I thought your boss's name was Cheryl."

"No, no. Cheryl's just her overly dependent, thirty-five-year-old daughter."

"Oh, yeah."

"I'm technically Iris's assistant."

"Right."

"So this morning Iris said she thinks of me as another daughter."

"That's sweet."

"Then she told me to rinse out her underwear."

Lonnie laughed. As annoying as Beauregard Twit was, Lonnie was thrilled not to have her sister Peach's job as a personal assistant to a high-maintenance society woman. Apparently, Iris Mew worked out of her home—in this case, a sprawling mansion in Chestnut Hill—organizing local charity events. Peach had gotten the job by answering an ad in the
Boston Globe
the first week she'd moved back to Boston.

Peach was twenty-two and beautiful, with light, streaky hair and glittery blue eyes. The quality of Lonnie's life had definitely been improved after her bubbly, artistic little sister moved into her studio apartment.

"So how's Dominick?"

"What do you mean?" Lonnie assumed her best act-casual tone.

Peach wasn't buying it. "Hmm, I mean: what's new with that sexy, funny computer geek who works three floors below you, e-mails you, and wants to slip his hard disk into your G drive?"

Lonnie shook her head and muttered, "I can't handle you."

Peach giggled. "What?"

"There are so many things wrong with the statement you just made," she said. "First of all, I never said he was sexy."

"It was implied," Peach said.

"In what?"

"In the way you get all awkward when he comes up in conversation. Much like you're doing right now." Lonnie opened her mouth to protest, but then shut it, realizing that yelling "I'm not awkward!" would probably only confirm said awkwardness. "Have you two met for lunch lately?"

"No. Last week he had to work through his lunches, and the week before that I spent all my lunches finalizing things for the holiday party. Or, at least, I
thought
I was finalizing things," she finished, remembering Twit's sudden request to change the entire menu.

"Okay, so I say the time for passivity has passed. Just go down to GraphNet and throw him down on his desk. Wait, he has his own office, right?"

"Would it even matter?" Lonnie asked, grinning. "And, in case you've forgotten, I do already have a practically-semi boyfriend. I know Terry is easygoing, but I don't think he'd love it if I just pounced on some poor, clueless guy. Well, some other poor, clueless guy."

Peach let out a sigh, and Lonnie told herself to ignore it. She'd had a feeling for a while that her sister didn't like Terry—or at least the idea of her
with
Terry—but she'd never felt like pressing the issue. As far as she was concerned, Terry was agreeable, entertaining, and most important, uncomplicated. But for some reason, this time she challenged Peach: "Okay, what? What's wrong with Terry?"

"Nothing, nothing."

"
What?"

"Really, nothing. It's just... Look, I know Terry's a real...
funny
guy," Peach began. Meanwhile, Lonnie knew that tone of voice and could just picture her sister grimacing and making quotation marks with her fingers. "But he lives in New York City," she went on, "What kind of future does this relationship have?"

"Future?" Lonnie repeated, horrified. "You sound just like Mom, and I know that can't possibly be your intention."

"By the way," Peach went on, "is Terry still coming up for Christmas?"

"Yeah. Well, no. His show's on the twenty-first. I think he's leaving the next day. But, it'll be fun—"

"Mmm-hmm," she said with perceptible lackluster.

"It will. You're coming with me to his show, right?"

"I don't get what the show is."

"He said its one of those comedy contests. You know, a bunch of amateurs doing stand-up, and a talent scout in the audience. That kind of thing. Terry's just hosting it."

"Yeah, all right. I'll go."

"Thank you," Lonnie said, smiling, and then glanced at the clock. "Oh, I gotta get back to work and figure all this stuff out."

"Actually, I should get going, too. I've got a long day ahead of me; Iris's cat needs more of that specialty litter from Mansfield. See ya at home."

After Lonnie hung up, she let herself finally face the disheveled papers spread across the top of her desk. Out of habit, she glanced up at the clock on the wall again: 11:51
a.m
. She momentarily debated another cup of coffee, knowing full well it was a procrastination strategy. Then she thought about Twit's Chinese whim, as well as her usual daily tasks, and the fact that all the office's kitchen had left the last time she looked were decrepit-looking packets of Sanka, and decided to stay at her desk. She plunged into the first stack to her right and thought,
Things could be worse.

Lonnie had been temping at Twit & Bell, a very modest-size Boston law firm, for the past six months. She took the job shortly after earning her second master's degree—that one in feminist theory, and the first in sociology—with "temp" being the operative word. When she'd first taken the job, she'd been at a crossroads: she'd always loved school, but after turning twenty-seven, she felt a little old to be a professional student. Shouldn't she put all her academic training to more use? Shouldn't she, as her mother tactfully put it, "decide what you're going to do with the proverbial rest of your life"?

The question was: what? She hadn't gone to graduate school with the goal of teaching. It had just seemed like a comfortable thing to do after college. She'd had a particular affinity for sociology because she'd always been fascinated by human behavior and its infinite possibilities for analysis. In other words, she was a people watcher.

During her last semester, she'd worked at a women's shelter as part of her sociology final project. Her experience there had stirred a sincere interest in women's issues, which was why she'd enrolled in a feminist theory graduate program next, while still continuing to work at the shelter.

But she had earned her second master's six months ago, and the shelter had closed down only a month after that, so yes, she had to admit, her mother had a point about her wasting more time than she needed to temping at Twit & Bell. In her defense though, she was paid fabulously well for wasting time. Apparently, Beauregard Twit had trouble, keeping temps, and the income she made doing his tyrannical, insane bidding was helping her pay off her grad school loans.

Finally, though, Lonnie was getting more serious about her future. Over a month ago, she'd sent her resume to several universities, in search of an instructor position. Now she was waiting to hear, and with any luck she'd have a teaching job lined up for September.

It could be worse,
Lonnie thought to herself again as she logged onto the payroll database and began entering Twit's weekly hours. Six months temping as Beauregard Twit's assistant could be maddening, especially considering what a capricious twerp he was, but it had its good points. Twit & Bell was right in the middle of Boston, situated in a proud, tall building that combined old stone architecture with mirrored glass. The whole firm—which included exactly seven attorneys, four paralegals, five administrative assistants, three accountants acting as payroll, one systems analyst, and a human resource department consisting solely of elitist pain-in-the-ass Bette Linsey—fit nicely on the twenty-third floor. The firm was carpeted in plush lavender-pink, and decorated by expensive black-and-chrome office furniture and Georgia O'Keeffe prints. Lunther Bell, the firm's other founding partner, made a point of mentioning every chance he got that flowers were synonymous with female genitalia.

A message box appeared on Lonnie's computer screen, new mail. She clicked on her inbox icon and felt her heart lurch when she saw who had sent her mail. Dominick. His message was simple.
Lunch?

I wish,
she typed back.
Tomorrow?
She clicked send, and felt a slight pit forming in her stomach. What was her problem? She didn't understand what was going on between her and Dominick. Okay, that wasn't entirely true. She didn't understand what was going on between her and her hormones. She was involved with someone already; she had no business thinking carnal thoughts about Dominick. Thinking, dreaming, fixating..

"Hey, Lonnie!"

It was the gruff voice of Delia Smucker, who was technically Matt Fetchug's and B.J. Flynn's assistant, but in reality catered a lot more to Lunther Bell. "I have something for you to do," she barked as she made her way down the hall.

She walked in hurried, ungracious strides—overswinging her hips and not really pulling it off—before she came to a full stop in front of Lonnie's desk. "Here," she grumbled, and tossed down a stack of paper. Then she dropped a stack of envelopes, which veered off into an accordion-style mess, before scattering everywhere. Lonnie looked down, then back up at Delia's face, which was unseasonably tan for December.

"Oh, so you need me to stuff the env—"

"This isn't brain surgery, Lonnie," Delia said unoriginally. "You fold the letters, put them in the envelopes, and then seal them. Okay?"

Wonderful. Except you're, not my boss. And also, you're a bitch.
"Yeah, okay." Lonnie turned back to her monitor and opened up one of the spreadsheets she'd been working on for Twit. "I'll do it on my lunch hour."

"No, I need it done
now,"
Delia commanded, sounding supremely put out. "Why? What does Beauregard have you working on?" She brazenly leaned over Lonnie's desk to get a look at her monitor.

"I've just got a lot to do before the holiday party," Lonnie replied, keeping an even tone, while Delia ogled her computer screen.

It was hard to take Delia's rudeness seriously, because she was equally abrasive to everyone. Not counting Twit and Bell, of course. She was even openly hostile to Matt and B.J., despite the fact that they were her direct supervisors. She was obviously smart enough to figure out that there wasn't a damn thing they could do about it, because Lunther wouldn't listen to complaints about her, and Twit nearly drooled every time she tossed her bleached-blond, straw-textured, semiteased hair over her shoulders. Go figure.

"All right," Lonnie agreed, and started straightening the scattered letters and envelopes. Without so much as an insincere thanks, Delia turned on the heel of her white, pointy-toed pump, and sashayed off. Only instead of charging back down the hall, she pushed through the main glass doors and headed toward the elevators.

"I'm goin' for a smoke," she called over her shoulder, while blatantly grabbing at her wedgie. Lonnie shook her head; some people were shameless. It was obvious that Delia was just dumping her own work on the already-exploited temp, rather than exercising any real authority. Oh well.

She glanced back at her monitor and discovered that she had a new mail message. She clicked on her inbox. Hey,
Pretty Woman. Thought of some new material about taxi drivers. Call me tonight. Later gator!
Okay, Terry could be corny, but it was in an endearing way. And it was flattering that he trusted her enough to try out his material on her before he performed it live.

So, why didn't Lonnie get half as excited for his emails as she did for Dominick's? After all, Terry was her practically-semi boyfriend, while Dominick was only her sort-of friend. Why on earth was she so conflicted?

She stretched back in her leather chair and mulled over that question. On the one hand, there was Terry Pine. A twenty-five-year-old cutie with shaggy, light brown hair and a pale dusting of freckles across his nose. He wasn't tall, about five-eight, but he had a six-pack that was more than drool worthy. Too bad it just made Lonnie more aware of her own soft center and the fact that breaking two donuts into quarters and quickly eating the pieces standing up still constituted scarfing down two donuts. Most central to Terry's appeal: he was silly, immature, and lived four hours away. But Lonnie quickly stopped that train of thought before it could wander too far down the path of uncomfortable self-analysis.

Then there was Dominick Carter and the fact that ever since she'd run into him on the elevator two months before, she'd become strangely susceptible to heart palpitations and sweating in southern places. She didn't completely understand the intensity of her attraction. After all, she'd known Dominick in college. Well, she'd known
of
him. He'd been a senior when she was a sophomore, and friends with Eric Yagher—the gorgeous object of Lonnie's lust, a preppy guy with soft blond hair that felt like feathers. Back in college, Lonnie had always been too busy looking for Eric to take special notice of Dominick. But now her thoughts drifted to him daily. She felt guilty about it, too, but every time she tried to conjure up Terry's cute, freshly scrubbed face, she'd still get images of a fuller, older one. One darkened by a hint of five o'clock shadow...

A message box came up on her screen again.

She clicked on her new mail and read Dominick's response to her lunch invitation for the following day:
I can't—we have a business lunch tomorrow. How about a quick drink tonight after work? Don't say no. I'll meet you at six in the lobby?

Lonnie typed back
okay
and started feeling more of those sweats and palpitations coming on.
It's just going to be a quick drink,
she thought to herself, and rested her elbows on the desk to support the weight of her forehead in her hands. So what if this would be the first time they'd been out together when one of them didn't have to rush back to the office? So what if it included alcohol? So what if it didn't take even one drop of any mind-altering substance to make Dominick look damn good?