Rebound (5 page)

W
hat was
that
about, Cookie? You put her in the
kitchen
?”

“Yes! It was a good place for her.” Cookie drops into the chair opposite my desk. She crosses her legs and rolls her eyes. “You saw how she came in here this morning, Adam. She acts like she owns the goddamn place! She needs to know she can’t steamroll us just because she represents her daddy’s money.”

I picture Alison moments ago, standing before her team like an army general. Cookie’s exaggerating, but it’s true. She showed a cool side I hadn’t seen at all on Saturday night. She was totally in control, confident and assertive about her needs.

The office
kitchen
for Quick’s daughter? Christ. That could have been a disaster.

“Cookie, listen. We have to play ball with her—and her team. If they perceive this as a hostile workplace, do you think they’re going to want to invest?”

“We shouldn’t have to kiss her ass, Adam!”

“Yes, we should! Professionally speaking!”

Nice. Way to clarify that one, Blackwood.

Cookie jumps a little, surprised by my raised voice.

I didn’t sleep well last night, despite a long surf session yesterday with Grey. Nightmares of Chloe kept waking me. Added to this Alison Quick complication, my nerves are shredded this morning.

“Sorry, Cookie,” I say, but she doesn’t look offended. She looks like she’s trying to diagnose me with her gaze.

The door swings open, and my maintenance guys come in. I’m relieved by the distraction. Darryl pushes an office chair with a small printer sitting on the seat, Ralph carries a heavy box.

“Where to, boss?” Darryl asks.

“Right there,” I say, nodding to the small conference table in my office.

Cookie and I fall into a tense silence as the guys move the table closer to the wall and get an impromptu workstation set up for Alison. She’ll be here with me, and her assistant, accountant, and lawyer will get cubicles outside.

“You asked me not say anything, Adam, and I won’t,” Cookie says after Darryl and Ralph leave. “I won’t tell anyone about your romantic tryst, but I do
not
like that girl.”

“What are you worried about, Cookie? That I won’t be able to stay away from her? That I’ll screw up the deal because a pretty girl talked to me? Trust me. I’ve got plenty of other options. And you saw Alison just now. She’s over what happened. It’s no big deal.”

Actually, it surprised me
how
over it Alison seemed. A little
too
over it. Like Saturday never happened.

“She’s not trustworthy,” Cookie says.

Her choice of words catches my attention. “What do you know about her?”

She opens her mouth to speak, then shakes her head. “Nothing.”

That’s a lie.

Interesting.

Cookie always tells me the truth. Always.

“I want what’s best for the company,” she says quickly. “And I just don’t like her.”

“You’ve made that clear, Cookie.” I push out a long breath and check the time on my phone. I have lunch with Alison in five minutes, and then I’ll be taking her by the location I’ve leased for Blackwood Films. First, though, I need to get Cookie to settle the hell down.

She wields power in my company. She’s head of marketing, but more than that, no one questions her motives. She’s like a surly guard dog: you might not love her, but you trust her. You
need
her. If she doesn’t like Alison, people will notice and follow her lead. I can’t have that. I can’t have Cookie slinging arrows at the people holding the coin purse.

“Listen, Cookie. There’s nothing between Alison and me. It was a random thing. We didn’t know and we were just having a little fun. She’s not going to be a problem—but
you’ve
got to find a way to get along with her for the next few weeks. We’re trying to impress the Quicks. I need them to feel great about what we’re getting into. Boomerang. The production company. Everything. You haven’t exactly gotten us off on the right foot with Alison.”

“No, you’re right. Maybe I should have
kissed
her.” She looks away from me, and stares at the view of West LA through the windows. “I’m sorry,” she says, the words clipped, like they hurt her. “I just like what we do here. I like working for you. I don’t want anything to change, Adam.”

I’ve only seen this earnest side of her a handful of times in four years. It’s the only time Cookie actually scares me, when she’s soft like this. Vulnerable. It means she’s really worried.

I want to keep talking to her. I want to find out what’s got her so
shaken up about the Quicks, and I want to assure her everything’s going to be fine, but it’s time for my lunch with Alison.

I stand, taking my jacket from the back of my chair. “We’re only going to change for the better. I promise you that. This money is going to bring us some amazing opportunities. Stay with me on this, Cookie. Okay?”

Her eyes don’t budge from the view as she says, “Okay.”

I swing by the cubicles outside to pick up Alison, who I find perched on the edge of the desk, looking more like a movie version of an executive, with her long legs and her stylish clothes. She stops talking to the accountant and lawyer on her team when I walk up.

“Adam,” she says, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say she starts to blush.

“Hey,” I say. “You’re all set up in my office.”

“
Our
office,” she says, smiling, and I can’t tell if she says it jokingly or not.

“You two okay if I steal Alison for lunch?” I ask Nancy and Simon.

Nancy giggles. “Oh, definitely! Steal away!” she squeals, but her smile drops when Simon glares at her.

My assistant, Jamie, made reservations at a restaurant in the mall across the street, so Alison and I head there on foot. Ali’s already met briefly with Rhett on some HR matters, and as we walk, she tells me she’s impressed with our benefits package, health insurance options, and our pledge to support the continuing education of our employees.

It’s obvious she’s studied up, and the girl is smart; her intelligence shines through when she speaks. Maybe she’s Quick’s daughter, but as far as I can tell she’s not here just because of her DNA. It’s a relief. I need this deal to go right. I couldn’t have worked with someone incompetent. No matter how hot she is. Hot and off limits, I remind myself.

We reach Houston’s, and the hostess takes us to a booth toward the back. Surrounded by dark cherry wood and black leather, and away from the windows up front, it almost feels like night back here. Which reminds me of being in the Murano with her. How her blue eyes had almost fluttered closed when I’d pulled her against me.

We’re quiet for a little while after we place our orders. Me, because I’m replaying that moment over and over again. Alison, I imagine, because I’m acting like she’s not right across the table from me. Because the version of her in my mind is impossible to ignore.

We both order the sea bass special and make a successful transition to business talk. I play the part of the interested company president, ready with an answer to her every question.

Last year’s numbers? Stellar.

This year’s projections? Even better. Our trade show in Vegas gave us a good spike in Boomerang memberships, and even with the investment we made in the new office space, it will be a banner year.

As the food arrives, I make a watertight case for Boomerang’s continued success. I find that as I talk, I can’t look at Alison directly for long periods. It’s a shitty consequence of Saturday night.

The stupid hang-up I have—thanks, Chloe—of letting girls look into my eyes hasn’t been a problem. Nothing’s personal at work, so there’s no danger there. Cookie’s not exactly going to gaze deeply into my eyes during our weekly marketing meetings. And when it comes to the girls I date, some notice it and don’t comment. Others comment on it, and I don’t answer. I’ve gotten by.

But Alison is different. Tougher. I told her things I’ve never told any girl. When she’s looking at me, I can’t place what it is I see in her eyes. Interest? Gentleness? Compassion? Some combination of the three that makes me want to get up and leave. Luckily, a solution presents itself before I suffer too long.

Alison wears earrings. Diamonds in the shape of the letter “A.” With her hair swept up, I can see them perfectly. If I focus on those,
it doesn’t feel as much like she’s trying to pop my soul open with a crowbar.

When we’re finished with our food, we both order coffees. Double espresso for me, cappuccino dusted with cinnamon for her.

This is going to work just fine, I tell myself. With the exception of the minutes I spent fantasizing about her when we sat down, and while we ate, and the fact that I can’t look into her eyes for long, we’re both being perfectly businesslike.

Which is good news. And also damn disappointing.

Where’s the girl who straddled me in the back of a car two nights ago?

Suddenly I feel the need to goad her. I want to know if Catwoman’s in there, beneath the pale pink blouse and the professional attitude.

“I think you’re going to enjoy the initiation dates,” I say.

Alison pauses, the coffee hovering at her lips.

“It’s something most of my team does to learn the business,” I explain. “Creating a profile and trying the service is a great way to learn the service we provide our clients first hand. It’s become a sort of rite of passage for new hires. You’re obviously not in that category, and there’s no obligation, but I thought they might be of benefit to the due diligence. And, who knows. You might end up meeting a good guy.”

As she looks at me, I can practically see her thoughts rewinding back to Saturday night. If her costume hadn’t stopped me, I would have taken her in the back of a car after knowing her for less than an hour. Not exactly a good guy.

Alison takes a sip and sets her cappuccino down. “Okay.” Her eyes sweep over me, probing me for something, though I’m not sure what. “Well, I’m one step ahead of you. I know about the dates. In fact, I’ve already gone on one of them.”

“Have you?” I’m relieved that I only sound mildly surprised. “How was it?”

“He was a nice guy, but . . . we weren’t a good match.”

There are half a dozen different emotions in her voice, and I can’t put my finger on a single one. I’m intrigued. More than intrigued. I want information—and I know where I can get it. If she went on a date, then she’s in our database.

“What about you, Adam?” Alison says. “Have you done the dates?”

Amazing. Four years of owning a business and this is the first time anyone’s asked me that. “No. Actually, I haven’t.”

She waits for me to explain. I can’t avoid it. It’s my business and I am trying to convince her of its appeal. Explaining why I don’t use it myself only seems fair.

“I don’t have any trouble getting dates.”

“Neither do I.” Alison’s gaze on me holds steady, a silent challenge.

“Are you saying I should do the three dates?” I ask.

“From what I’ve heard, they’re not mandatory. But they seem like a good way to learn, first hand, the service you provide your clients.”

I have to smile at that. “You raise a good point, Quick. All right. I started a profile years ago. I’ll fill out the rest this week.”

It’s the last thing I want to do. Our profile can get pretty personal, and I don’t want anyone nosing around into my past. Or my present. But I can handle adding a few superficial details about myself if it scores me points with the moneyman’s daughter.

“How about we take care of it right now?” Alison reaches into her purse and produces her iPad. “I’ll help.”

“Sure,” I say. “Great.”

Shit.

L
adies first,” Adam says. “Let’s see your profile.”

My throat tightens. I could kick myself for goading him to do this now, but I couldn’t resist throwing his challenge back at him. More than that, I can’t resist finding out his answers to the Boomerang questions. Even though I can’t
have
him, I want to
know
him.

Still, if I let him poke around in my account, he’ll come across Ethan. I can’t have that conversation, not on my first day at Boomerang. And not after the night Adam and I shared.

“Hold on,” I tell him, stalling. “Let me pull it up for you.”

He holds out a hand, grinning. “I’m pretty sure I can navigate the site myself.”

“I’m sure you can . . .” I pull up my account, scroll over to Matches, and with a quick swipe, delete all traces of Ethan. I feel a
pang, like I’m deleting the actual person, even though I know that’s silly. “Here you go.”

Handing over the iPad, I feel unaccountably nervous and exposed. Right away, I want to snatch back the tablet and make sure I like the photos I used, that my answers to the hundred or so questions are good ones.

As he scans the page, his lips quirk into an amused curve. “Great Kierkegaard quote.”

I groan. “That was Philippe’s way of making me look deep.”

Adam glances up, his keen gray eyes locking onto me for just a second and then darting away. “I think you’re plenty deep,” he says. “So you don’t think there are two ways to be fooled?”

I read upside down: “There are two ways to be fooled. One is to believe what isn’t true; the other is to refuse to believe what is true.”

The quote started out as space filler, nothing more. But now it seems loaded with a meaning that eludes me.

Shrugging, I say, “I imagine there are more than two ways to be fooled, but it’s a great quote.”

He grins at the image of me astride Zenith, pounding through the Santa Barbara surf after one of our last competitions. Seeing my horse, the best I ever had, makes me want to rehabilitate another one, to try to re-create our almost magical connection. I love Persephone, my current rescue, but she won’t let me ride her, and I miss that feeling of being so in sync with another living thing.

I try not to squirm as Adam takes in the rest of my profile, but finally I reach for the iPad. “As you can see, Mr. Blackwood, I’ve already fulfilled my professional obligations and filled in a profile. Let’s do you.”

He arches an eyebrow. “By all means,” he says, grinning. “Let’s do me.”

I feel myself blush. “Well, at least you let me go first,” I say, thrilling a little at the feeling of walking up to some line. Flirting.
It feels safe, because I know it can’t go anywhere, and dangerous, because I so wish it could.

“I like to think I’m a gentleman.” Again, his gaze falls on me, giving me a little jolt, and then it moves away to focus on the iPad. He swipes around a bit and then slides the tablet over to me.

His profile’s up, but he hasn’t added photographs. It’s just his name, the default image of a blue boomerang to denote his gender, and a dozen generic details on the page.

“Well, you certainly didn’t apply the famous Adam Blackwood determination to this profile,” I tell him. “Why not?”

“Like I said, I don’t have trouble getting dates.”

“So I’ve read. But still, as president of the company and the creator of the Boomerang brand, I’m surprised that you haven’t filled out a full profile. Not even a photograph.”

He grins. “People know what I look like.”

For some reason, he’s avoiding the issue, like he’s avoided filling in the profile. And like he’s been avoiding a direct look into my eyes. Why?

Something tells me now’s not the time to probe, so I launch into the Boomerang questions. The profile already tells me he was raised in Newport, Rhode Island, to entrepreneurial parents, that he loves to surf, and that he’s got one brother, Grey.

I scan through the questions until I find a juicy one, and then I take the plunge. “How many sexual partners have you had?”

Again, he gives me that amazing half-smile, and his eyes light with amusement. “Today, you mean?”

“Funny. But I think it means lifetime record.”

He shrugs. “Pass.”

“Pass?”

“Yes, let’s go to the next question.”

“Because it’s so many, or because you don’t kiss and tell?”

He grins. “Yes.”

He answers the questions about his favorite book—a tie between
Good to Great
and all the books in The Belgariad series. Then I learn that he loves The White Stripes, French cuisine, and, of course, surfing. The most exotic place he’s traveled is Tangier, and his favorite time of year is winter.

“I would have thought summer for the surfing,” I say.

“I like to ski, too.”

I nod. These bits and pieces are interesting, but they’re leaving me hungry for more.

“Speed round,” I tell him, thinking maybe I can dazzle him into giving me something substantive.

“Fire away.”

“Frugal or spendy?”

He smiles. “Neither.”

“Lefty or right-handed.” I can’t believe I haven’t noticed. But then he seemed to have very proficient use of both hands during our last encounter.

“Southpaw, all the way.”

“Chocolate or vanilla.”

“Mint.”

I smile. “Me too.” I scroll through the questions, looking for something with a bit more depth. Finally, I find something. “‘Heaven is for real,’ or ‘that’s all, folks?’”

His expression clouds. “No clue.”

“Come on; what do you think? You must have some opinion, even if it’s a third option.”

“Why don’t we save the rest of this for another time,” he says, in a brittle tone. “I want to take you by the new Blackwood Entertainment complex. I think you’re going to be impressed.”

I miss the Adam who talked about the noise in his head, the way
that surfing brought him peace. I want to talk to that person again, the one I couldn’t help putting my arms around. Not this one, with the canned responses that aren’t responses at all.

I save Adam’s profile, still mostly empty, turn off my iPad, and slide it into my purse. “Okay,” I tell him. “Blackwood Entertainment. Let’s go.”

We enjoy a half hour of prickly silence as he drives us to an office compound a little north of downtown. Construction vehicles line the gravel drive, and a couple of men in hard hats sit on the gate of a pickup truck, eating sandwiches.

“Hey, big man,” one of them calls.

Adam gets out of the car and comes around to my side to help me out of the low passenger seat. I take his hand, and there’s that warmth, that tingle. Not fireworks, like the other night. But a spark, at least, which comforts me after the chill of our exchange at the restaurant.

He holds onto me, directing me around a swirling eddy of dust, cigarette butts, and fast-food wrappers. And even though we’re awkward together now, I’d gladly step into a puddle of quicksand to keep his hand in mine just a bit longer. A completely unproductive thought, I know, but a girl’s allowed the contents of her own mind, isn’t she?

“This place could use a clean-up,” he tells the men, and there’s something perfect in the way he says it. Confident. Assured of results. But respectful too. I don’t know any other twenty-three-year-old with that kind of ease and authority. Sure, I can fake it—sometimes—but it seems like he sprang from the womb with a briefcase and a business plan.

“We’re on it,” the man says.

“Appreciate it,” Adam replies, and gives a brief nod in my direction. “I’ve got a VIP with me today. Need to impress.”

Fishing a couple of hard hats out of the bed of the truck, Adam hands one to me and says, “Come on. I want to give you the tour.”

Sunlight glints on the tempered glass window as we approach the building—which is vast and made of two cubelike buildings joined by a short open breezeway. In the foreground stretches a long courtyard, with benches and a small reflecting pool in the middle. Grass stirs in the breeze, and the scent of smoke blows in from the city.

“Is this all yours?” I ask, following him along a path to a set of glass double doors.

“We’re on a five-year lease,” Adam says. “But I’m hoping to buy outright at that point. I think we’ll easily make use of this space. Wait until you see what we have planned.”

He picks up his pace, and I have to dash along behind him. It’s clear he’s not being rude. He’s excited, and that excitement is propelling him toward his imagined future. A future that my father and I can help make happen for him.

Reaching the door, he turns and waits for me to catch up. He doesn’t look at me exactly, and I find myself wanting to take his face in my hands to look right into his gray eyes, which look light in the sunshine, like the color of water rushing over rocks.

I don’t want there to be tension between us. We have to work together. It has to be okay. And I know it can be.

“Hold on a second,” I say, as he pulls the door open. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Am I?” he asks, giving me a puzzled look.

“Um . . . yeah,” I say. “You’re supposed to carry me over the threshold. My father arranged it.”

Adam throws back his head and laughs. And just like that, the tension drops away—or at least recedes. When he looks at me again, his eyes sparkle with appreciation, and I know this is another moment I’m going to miss someday.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and his voice is warmer than it’s been all day. “Total oversight on my part.”

He hesitates a moment, body swaying just a fraction toward mine. For a moment my heart stops, thinking he might try to scoop me into his arms the way he did at the party. But then he steps aside and gestures for me to pass in front of him. “I’ll do better next time,” he says.

Inside, we find a frenzy of activity. Workers haul around buckets of paint, shuffle along on drywall stilts. The space is a mess. Half the walls look like they’re in the process of coming down. Dust stirs in shafts of sunlight, and tarps cover mysterious lumps around the space. Still, the bones are there—bright and modern.

“Behold the seat of the empire,” Adam says, grinning. He plants the hard hat on my head and gives me an appraising look. “Fetching,” he proclaims.

I can’t help myself. “Who says ‘fetching’?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. My mom?” Putting on his own hat, he asks, “What do you prefer?”

“I don’t know,” I tease. “Maybe something more in a ‘dazzling’ or ‘perfect.’”

“I’m going to stick with ‘fetching,’” he says.

“Can you use that in a sentence?”

“Yes,” he says, and a mischievous grin lights up his face. “Someday your father will be
fetching
my coffee.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. “That’s . . . not likely.”

“It never is,” he says. “Until it is. I’ve banked on that my whole life.”

I believe him. And his confidence makes me want so much more of him. “Speaking of my father,” I say, “he asked me to remind you about coming sailing this Sunday. He thinks it’ll be a nice opportunity to socialize.”

Adam gives me a shrewd look. “To socialize or talk shop? Your father doesn’t strike me as the relaxed type.”

“True. But he did say socialize.”

“And you’ll be there too?”

I nod.

“Are you bringing someone with you—a date?”

His question makes me feel pinned, tested somehow. Obviously, if I had someone in my life, I wouldn’t have been all over him in the back of a car the other night. But, it feels pathetic to say the thought never crossed my mind. I decide to split the difference. “I don’t know. I might. You’re . . . free to bring someone too, if you want to.”

But please don’t want to,
I think. Though I know it shouldn’t matter.

He nods. “Okay, I’ll be there. Or we will. I might bring . . . someone. Julia.”

I keep my face neutral and tell him that will be fine, but I’m dying to know who she is, what she means to him, whether she’s just a friend to serve as a social buffer or . . . something more.

He walks me through the space, and we enter the temporary construction office, little more than a couple of tables, a few chairs, and a mini-fridge plugged into the wall.

There, Adam rolls out a blueprint for me, and with his help I get a glimpse of what the space will become. “Here’s the reception area,” he says, pointing with a ballpoint pen. “Leather couches, plasma screen looping our reel, and a wall of built-in display shelves to house our awards. Clients eat that kind of thing for dinner.”

“That’s a lot of space for awards,” I say, fighting away a host of noisy questions in my mind.

Again, he grins. “We’ll need it.”

He takes me through the rest of the plan, and it’s an ambitious one. All the most modern technology. Full-service production and post-production studios. He points out where the edit bay will be. Client lounges. Dressing rooms for the talent. A giant back deck is planned for staff to blow off steam and as a space to host the kinds
of extravagant parties that put you on the map in this town. Words like “cyc wall” and “extendable light grid” come up, and though I only half-understand what he’s talking about, I just listen, swept up again by the excitement in his voice.

“And this is the coolest thing,” he tells me. “Most of the interior walls of the studio building will be movable and made of this special liquid crystal glass to allow them to block out light in any section, as needed. It’s going to be something.”

“That’s amazing.”

But really, I think,
he’s
amazing. He’s so natural in this setting. So in his element. It reminds me of Ethan out on the soccer field, charging down the field like he’d break through concrete to get possession of the ball.

And then I remember Ethan standing in the doorway of our bedroom. See the shock and hurt on his face. He had flowers for me—white tulips with just a blush of pink at their edges. I found them later in our kitchen trash.

The memory sobers me, and I feel myself draw away. I’m listening, but on the outside of the bubble of warmth created by his enthusiasm. Maybe it’s for the best that there’s a Julia. Not that I needed another reason to keep a distance between us, but I’m grateful to have one. I can be cordial; we can do the work we need to do together. But that has to be it. That’s my purpose here. My only purpose. Anything else would be a mistake, and I absolutely refuse to make another one of those.