The Virgin Society Collection

18. This Cordial Game

18

THIS CORDIAL GAME

Layla

The DM from Storm delights me.

It’s winking up at me as Jules, Camden, and I leave Krav Maga on Tuesday morning. Girl, you need to come by the store! I haven’t seen your face in two weeks. Plus, I have news!!!

As I walk up Amsterdam, I tap out a reply to my new favorite makeup store manager. We’ve become fast friends over the last few months since I met him at the start of the summer. Way to keep a girl waiting! Tell me now.

Storm’s quick on the draw with his reply: My lips are zipped. Come by! It’s good! The store isn’t open yet, but your BFF Storm will take care of you.

I show the message to my friends as we near a smoothie shop. “What do you think it is?”

“I don’t speak makeup, but it sounds cool. You better tell us everything,” Camden says. “And bring us some free swag.”

Jules taps her chin, contemplative. “Or maybe he has a new hot thing for you.” She knows what went down at the diner. I told the crew the whole sorry tale when I convened with the Virgin Society the morning after the diner shock.

“Yeah, that’s what I need. A new man,” I say dryly.

Jules arches a brow. “Did I say man? I meant makeup. Pretty sure makeup, chocolate, and face masks are excellent replacements for romance.”

Camden snorts. “Yeah, but they don’t have ten speeds like my favorite Just For Her vibe.”

“You both make good points. And on that note, I’m off.”

Ten minutes later, I’m standing outside Blush on Columbus, but it’s no longer Blush. It’s…Mia Jane, and it’s gorgeous. With an all-peach storefront, and the name in a huge block font, the store screams “take a picture in front of me for social media.”

Which is an excellent marketing strategy.

Storm’s inside, working on a laptop at the counter. When I rap gently on the glass, he lifts his head, smiles brightly, then scurries to the door to unlock it and let me in.

Storm spreads his arms out wide. “Is this good news or what? It’s all Mia now. I told you she was going to start opening shops, and yours truly is the new manager of the flagship New York store,” he says, clearly proud of his little corner of the makeup world. Perhaps of his relationship with her too, since he’s using just one name for her—Mia. They must be close, since Mia Jane is her public name.

I turn in a circle, effervescent as I’m surrounded by my darlings—gorgeous glosses, and fantastic liners, and terrific toners. I feel like I’m home. “I love it.”

He sets a hand on my arm, squeezing. “And that’s not all. I told Mia about you,” he whispers, even though we’re the only ones here.

“What did you tell her?” I ask, and I don’t bother to hide my hopeful smile.

“Showed her your vids. She loves them. She wants you to come by the store and do a training sesh with customers on your fabulous smoky eyes and winged liners. She’ll pay you, obvs, and promote it as an event with The Makeover,” he says, grinning from ear to ear. He’s suddenly stern. “You better say yes.”

“I’m saying yes, Storm!” I’m saying yes so hard.

“Excellent. Mia will reach out, and we’ll set it up. She’ll be here too.”

I need to catch my breath. “Pinch me.”

Instead, he blows me an air kiss.

I might have lost the guy, but I have a new friend, and a new business opportunity. Once I leave, I text Geeta, and she replies with dollar signs, then words. Market the hell out of The Makeover. We will sell the bajangajang out of it!

That’s the plan. Creating content and organizing those classes keeps me busy until the evening, when it’s time to see David, and his too-sexy-for words father.

Leaving my apartment, I draw a deep, cleansing breath, vowing to think clean thoughts about that dirty man.

I’ve seen a lot of swank buildings in Manhattan. But Nick Adams’ glittery high-rise is something else. It kisses the blue skies of New York City.

And yet it doesn’t need to be the tallest or the biggest building in the skyline. It’s simply content to be the most beautiful with its art deco style.

Ethan and I turn onto Nick’s block, and his Gramercy Park palace comes into view. My friend whistles as he stares. “Damn, girl.”

I gaze at the gorgeous structure too; its beauty is a wonderful distraction from the looming dread of going inside, up to the top floor, and planning an event with my friend and his father. If awkward had a headshot, it’d be me.

“This won’t be weird at all,” I say.

“You’ll be fine,” Ethan reassures me, squeezing my arm.

We took a bus together—I don’t like subways—since Ethan’s meeting Martina for ping-pong tonight at a nearby bar. Of course he remained friends with the sexy redheaded bartender from Gin Joint after dating her and then breaking it off. Same for the guy at The Lucky Spot, the one who recognized him and came to his show then talked him up afterward. They went out a few times too, and still work out together, even though they don’t date anymore.

Ethan just has this way about him with people. Which is why I asked him to walk me here. I didn’t want to face this alone. “How am I even supposed to act with the two of them?”

We stop several feet from the building’s entrance, and the look in his eyes says he’s about to dole out some tough love. “Like you haven’t seen both of them naked.”

I groan from the depths of my embarrassed soul.

“I’m right though,” he adds.

“I know,” I say, stepping closer so I can drop my face against his sturdy chest. “Trust me, I know.”

He strokes my hair. “I mean it, Layla. Just focus on the planning. The charity. The reason you wanted to do this with David. He’s a cool dude. We all like him. Everyone likes him. He’s like a good dog.”

David’s not quite a part of the crew, but we’ve gone out a few times as a group. He joined us for karaoke shortly after he graduated.

I raise my head and concur. “He’s a Golden Retriever.”

Ethan smiles slyly. “You do know a Golden Retriever boyfriend is a good thing.”

I laugh. “And yet neither one of us has one,” I say.

“Maybe I’m waiting for the same kind of man you are,” he whispers as if he’s sharing a tawdry secret. But he’s telling me something we both know. We have similar taste in men. A little edgy, a little dirty. He gestures to the building. “Because obviously you fucked a sex prince.”

I laugh. “Yes, a rich sex prince, with a fantastic dick, a to-die-for beard, a dirty mind, and oh, one more thing,” I say, then lower my voice since you never know who’s listening. “I can’t ever see him again, since his son is my ex and my friend, and also his son is the sweetest Golden Retriever ever.”

Ethan gazes skyward, shaking his head wistfully. “I really shouldn’t say this, but I bet the sex in that penthouse with Hot Daddy would have been torrid.”

“You’re not helping. Do you want me to torture you with stories of forbidden affairs? Someday, you’re going to meet a hottie and then you’re going to discover they’re your new bandmate.”

“Don’t curse me,” he says.

“Maybe it’s a blessing.”

“Only if it ends in a blow job.”

I bump my shoulder to his. “You pig. Is that all you care about?”

“Have you ever had a blow job?”

“Shockingly, no,” I deadpan as we walk the remaining feet to the building.

“I rest my case,” he says. We reach the entrance, where a doorman in a burgundy suit stands dignified. The place is so classy the doormen don’t even need to dress in livery costumes. Tailored suits will do, thank you very much.

But now that I’m about to go into the Lair of Awkward, my stomach dips with nerves again. Setting a hand on my stomach, I strip away the banter, going straight for the bare truth. “Ethan, I feel like such a little…”

I hate the word liar .

The man who killed my father accused him of being a liar. My father wasn’t. I knew he wasn’t. My father knew he wasn’t. We all knew that his business partner was the liar.

But I feel maybe I am. So I say the word, no matter how much it hurts. “I feel like a liar.”

Ethan rubs my shoulder with a sympathetic hand. “What were you supposed to do though? You weren’t going to ’fess up over fries that you already knew his dad. That you’d spent time with him in Miami. That you had a date with him. That would have been unnecessary. Just try to leave it all behind you,” he says, and the thought of leaving Nick in the past makes my chest ache. But I know it’s for the best.

I know, too, I’ll have to do a better job than I did the other night when I texted Nick that photo of my corset in a moment of weakness. I can’t keep teasing him with the possibility of an us. I can’t keep toying.

He didn’t even respond. Let that be my lesson to shut up.

“I’ll try,” I say, chin up, resolute.

Ethan wraps an inked arm around me and kisses my cheek. “Let me know how it goes, babe.”

I smile, grateful for the pep talk. When we let go, I pat his strong chest. “Have fun with Martina and the crew. And I hope your next blow job is…well, a revelation.”

“Let us pray.”

Once he’s off, I go inside, saying hello to the doorman, then I head to the concierge and give him my name.

“Excellent. Mr. Adams is expecting you, Layla,” the man says politely in an Australian accent.

“Thank you,” I say, then head to the elevator. Once inside, I hit the button for the thirty-second floor, just as a voice brushes down my spine like a lover’s touch.

“Hold the door, please.”

Please let him be alone .

I can’t face Nick and David in an elevator.

I turn around, pressing the hold button. I get my wish—one terribly handsome man in a tailored charcoal suit strides across the polished hardwood floors of the lobby.

How is it possible to walk sexily?

I don’t know, but Nick Adams has mastered it.

But the closer he comes, the more I can see his mask. His face is impassive. Unreadable. He’s like any powerful man in any big, tall building in Manhattan as he enters the elevator.

There’s no spark, no wink, no secret little exchange.

“Hi, Layla,” he says, and his eyes don’t linger on me as the doors shut.

He simply faces the front a few feet away from me, the gleaming brass reflecting us back—a man in a suit, and a woman in a red blouse and designer jeans, second-hand, thank you very much.

Well, that’s clear .

The past is the past. This is the present, and we are definitely pretending Miami never happened.

My jaw tightens with annoyance as I look away from our uncomfortable reflection.

But what did I expect would happen? We agreed to move on.

I’m the one who sent that photo. Not him. Of course he didn’t respond.

I’ll have to do a better job pretending Miami never happened.

“Hi…” I begin, but what does he want me to call him in this post-Miami world? Nick feels too familiar. “Mr. Adams.”

“How are you today, Layla?” He sounds so cool, so removed.

“Great. And you?”

“Excellent.” He looks at his watch. “David’s checking out a sublet after work. But he should be here in five minutes.”

“Thanks for letting me know,” I say.

“You’re welcome,” he says, just as stiffly.

I get why he’s acting this way, but I don’t intend to lose this battle. Wait till he sees how well I can play this cordial game. “How is everything going with your new firm in New York? Are you enjoying working with your brother?” I ask, both because it’s a necessary diversion tactic, and because I’m legitimately interested.

“I am,” he says as the lift rises. He sounds more energetic now, less distant. “We each have different areas of focus but they go well together. I think we can grow this into something strong and meaningful.”

That last word catches my attention. “Meaningful? In what way?”

“I try to work with companies that don’t just have innovative tech, but that truly support their employees, use sustainable business models, and give back,” he says.

Oh.

Damn him.

I wish I didn’t like that so much. I wish we didn’t share the same values. It’d be easier.

“I’m glad to hear that,” I say, but he doesn’t seem to want to talk much about his work.

“How’s everything going with The Makeover?” He seems legitimately interested. “I’ve been hoping you’re enjoying working with Farm to Phone. Are you?”

When he was in London, I told him we’d inked a deal with the marketing firm I met at the conference. “It’s going great,” I say, sliding into business talk with ease, like we did in Miami. “We’ve landed some press coverage and grown our user base. And Mia Jane’s just asked me to do an event at her new store in New York.”

Ha. I’m a lady boss. Take that, world.

And maybe I like showing off for Nick. He’s so successful, so Mister Midas Touch. I want him to know this gal can hold her own without any help from her mom, thank you very much.

“That’s terrific,” he says.

The elevator stops on the thirty-second floor. Our destination. The doors whoosh open, and we turn down the wide hallway, heading to Nick’s penthouse. “It should be good marketing for The Makeover. It’ll help with our goals,” I say, staying as professional as can be.

“Absolutely. Especially since you’ve got a natural enthusiasm for her products. And your videos using them have been terrific,” he says as we near his apartment.

“You’ve been watching still?” I’m not sure why this surprises me. Maybe because I thought he’d tune them out since we can’t be a thing.

“You’re passionate,” he says, matter-of-factly. Then his mask disappears and in a heartbeat the Nick from Miami is back. There’s fire in his eyes but also, honesty. This is how he talked to me when we met, how he talked to me while he was in London, how he spoke at the diner. “I’ve become a little addicted to them,” he says as we reach the door. Then, as he turns his back to me to unlock it, he adds, quietly, “It’s something I have to watch out for. A tendency.” There’s a pause. “Do you know what I mean?”

His tone is a warning, but his words are an admission.

He’s given me a piece of himself, something I suspect he keeps close to the vest. “I do, Nick,” I say softly. “I do.”

When he looks back at me, our gazes lock for a few, heady seconds. I can sense the fight in him. The resistance. The war.

It excites me more than it should.

And I hope I don’t become a little addicted to him.

Or more addicted than I already am.

David should be here any minute, so I use the time to admire the view out the floor-to-ceiling living room windows. “I never tire of the views of New York. This is stunning,” I say as I drink in the vista of my favorite city. New York stretches as far as I can see.

I catch Nick’s gaze and something dirty flashes in his eyes. A sexy gleam maybe. It sends a hot shiver down my spine. But then that after-dark look vanishes, replaced by a smile.

“Thanks,” he says, with obvious gratitude and a touch of humility too. “It’s a little different than what I grew up seeing.”

That’s an opening if I ever heard one, but before I can ask more, his phone buzzes from the living room table. After he grabs it, he says, “David’s in the elevator now.”

There’s no time to linger on growing up questions so I zero in on a practical matter. “What do you want me to call you? When we’re all here together?”

“Don’t call me Mr. Adams,” he says, bossy again.

Don’t ask. Just say thank you for the info. “Why?” I blurt out, as he heads to the door.

“I’d rather be Nick,” he says, his gaze lingering on me for another few seconds, before he says, “with you.”

Tingles rush down my spine, but I have to ignore them since it’s showtime.

Nick opens the door for David, who sputters in. His banker’s hair is a mess. His messenger bag is sliding off his shoulder. “I’m so freaking stressed! I just realized we have less than three weeks to get this all done,” he says, bug-eyed and frazzled.

David beelines for the couch, slumps down and blows out a long breath. It’s like he can’t even move.

With a practiced familiarity, Nick joins him and clasps a hand on his shoulder, a warm, reassuring parental move. “We’ll get it done.”

What would it be like to feel that from a father? I can’t quite remember anymore, and that’s part of the empty ache in my heart.

I look away. It hurts too much to witness.

I miss having that anchor in my life.

Fifteen minutes later, Nick has taken over with a kind of efficiency that I never knew was a turn-on till now.

Thanks, Nick, for being a sexy…doer. Damn you.

We’re seated at the kitchen island, huddled around David’s laptop. Nick types something into a spreadsheet. “There. Everything is set with the hotel,” he says, and it turns out Nick was the one who arranged to rent the ballroom at a boutique hotel. Funny, how I knew the fundraiser was being held at the Fox Walk Inn but didn’t know Nick had hooked up his son. But that’s only the tip of the iceberg of the things I didn’t know. “That should help, if we divide and conquer like this,” Nick says, then he looks up. “I’ll work on the guest list. And I’ll make some calls to my contacts and make sure they show up too.”

David relaxes. “Thank you. Mom has a few she’s talking to. I marked them off.”

“Of course,” Nick says, clearly diplomatic, like he doesn’t want to say something cutting about Rose.

He looks to me, running a hand along his stubbled jaw, as if the motion helps him sort through the freeways in his mind. “Layla, can you coordinate all the auction items?”

“Absolutely, Nick,” I say.

His lips twitch almost imperceptibly, then he turns to David once more. “You should do the shelter outreach since that’s your thing.”

“Perfect,” David says, then like a Golden Retriever who’s found a tennis ball, he pops up. “I’m going to start now. Little Friends is nearby, and I can take pictures that we can show during the auction. The director’s there in the evening. We’ll meet back here later?”

Which means Nick and I will be alone.

“Sure,” Nick says, tentative, perhaps caught off guard by David’s disappearing act.

Same here, but I push back. “If I’m making calls and your dad is too, why do we need to meet? We can just group chat later.”

Not that I don’t want to be alone with Nick. I definitely do, which is why I need to get the hell out of here.

David ruffles my hair, laughing. “Duh. To make sure it all worked out. Plus, you two should work together. Some of the peeps on the guest list are also donating items, so it just makes sense the two of you coordinate,” he says, then laughs. “Sheesh. Do I have to do everything?”

I laugh uncomfortably, even though I’m glad David’s mood is better. He looks relieved as he takes off, the door snapping shut with a be careful what you wish for finality.

I’m alone with his father, once again.