Chapter 2 Andrew #2
“Well he’s made another one, and he needs some help. We think you can help.”
“Oh.” Andrew toys with the stem of his wine glass, suddenly understanding what direction this is going.
If her cousin comes from old money, and has made some costly decisions, he’s likely in financial trouble and needs a discreet clean up.
It’s not exactly Andrew’s area of expertise to deal with personal finances, but he’s damn good with numbers and problems, so he can probably help.
“Are you sure you want me?” He asks, wondering how deep it goes. Hopefully not deep enough to need someone in tax management. Andrew is great at large and small scale accounting and financial advising, but tax law is not his area of expertise.
“I never planned on actually calling in that favor you owed me for getting Emerson that suit,” Denise says, looking stricken. “But you said if I ever needed something—”
“You know I’ll always help you out, owed favor or not,” Andrew tells Denise. “Seriously, why didn’t you guys just say something beforehand? This is no big deal.”
“Oh thank god.” Amanda sinks into her seat, turning her smile on Denise. “I told you, baby. You were so worried for nothing.”
“Why were you worried about asking me for accounting help?” Andrew laughs. “It’s not a big deal at all. As long as he didn’t do anything illegal, but I doubt you’d ask me to help with that.”
Denise blinks while Amanda gulps down her wine.
“What?” Andrew asks, definitely missing something.
“It’s not—” Denise starts, cut off by the doorbell ringing.
“Fuck,” Amanda curses. “He has the worst timing.”
Slightly confused and definitely curious, Andrew watches Amanda rise from the table and walk to the front door.
From his specific seat he can’t see who it is, only hears the low rumble of a male voice followed by Amanda whispering.
Turning his eyes on Denise, he’s not at all surprised to find her also staring at the living room waiting for this mystery cousin to arrive.
He doesn’t have to wait long. After another minute of hushed voices, the sound of approaching feet lets Andrew know they’re coming.
Automatically, he rises to introduce himself, caught off guard when it’s not a stranger that trails behind Amanda but someone Andrew knows.
Someone he follows on social media.
Someone really fucking famous.
Someone Andrew never, ever expected to meet.
“Andrew, this is my cousin Nicholas.”
Nicholas grunts, hands shoved in his designer sweats.
His shoulders are hunched, but the bad posture does nothing to hide his impressive build—broad shoulders and muscles everywhere.
He’s got several inches of height on Andrew, but what really sets them apart are their body types.
Whereas Andrew’s body is all sharp angles and soft flesh, Nicholas’s body is one that looks carved out of ice.
A body built from hockey, for hockey. His long sleeve shirt clings to every single muscle in his massive body bringing up mental images of him without that shirt on, of his nearly naked form often splashed across the papers or in thirst traps on his social media.
The thirst traps themselves don’t appeal to Andrew, but something about Nicholas with his classically handsome face and tattoo covered body has long fascinated Andrew.
More than once Charlie has teased him about having a crush on Nicholas because of his past affinity for looking at his social media, but that isn’t true.
He just likes to look at him, likes the satisfying symmetry in his facial features and the way tattoos crawl up his neck and across his chest, curling around strong forearms and wrists.
Andrew would never get a tattoo himself, he’s terrified of needles and can’t handle seeing things on his body.
But on other people? He loves them. The craftsmanship in the line work is magnificent, and the sight of such exquisite art on the human body has always appealed to Andrew.
“You want an autograph?” Nicholas drawls, his heavy New York accent startling Andrew from his thoughts. Usually Andrew only notices when he starts dropping his r’s but it seems extra pronounced or, maybe Andrew is paying too much attention.
“Are you talking to me?” Andrew asks, unsure why he’d think Andrew wanted an autograph.
“You’re the only one here staring at me.”
“I wasn’t, um—” but Andrew stops, pretty sure he’s not a good enough liar to get out of this one but also refuses to admit that he was staring.
“I can see why you picked him.”
“Picked me for what?” Andrew asks.
Nicholas turns to Amanda, lifting his sunglasses to glare at her. Without his glasses on, there are dark circles under his red-rimmed eyes. He looks horrible, like maybe he was up all night—and maybe all day given that it’s dinner time—drinking.
“You didn’t tell him?” Nicholas drawls.
“I was trying to when you got here. Late, I might add.”
“I was busy,” Nicholas shrugs. “You got anything to drink?’
“You can have water to sober your ass up,” Amanda snaps.
“I’m sober, unfortunately.” He turns to look at Andrew, expression hard to parse. “Sure you don’t want that autograph?”
“I’m sure,” Andrew grumbles, crossing his arms.
He’s not sure he’s going to want to do Nicholas’s accounting if he’s always like this.
Andrew had wondered if the portrayal of him in the media was wrong.
Maybe everyone was too harsh on him, and he wasn’t just an asshole playboy with talent and money coming out of his ass.
So far though, it seems to be a fairly accurate representation of him.
“I’m starving, Gumby.”
“Call me Gumby again, and I’ll fire your fucking ass,” Amanda says. “No other agent will take you as it is.”
“You wouldn’t dare fire me.”
“Just watch me.”
“Wait, he’s your client?” Andrew blurts, connecting the pieces.
He knew Amanda had a hockey player client she took on a few months ago, but with her strict client confidentiality clauses along with her desire to keep her work and personal life separate, Andrew had never asked about it.
He’s always respected her work boundaries, but now that they’ve crossed over into his personal life it’s fair game.
“He’s the pain in the ass hockey player? ”
“Pain in the ass,” Nicholas echoes. “The fuck you telling people about me, Amanda?”
Amanda scoffs, seemingly unruffled by a six foot six hockey player the size of a Zamboni cursing at her.
“I don’t tell anyone anything about you because you didn’t want anyone to know we knew each other prior to our working relationship.” She glares at him, somehow managing to get him to tip his face down to meet her gaze. “You’re the one who asked me for help here, and Andrew is here to help.”
Nicholas’s features tighten as he turns his gaze on Andrew in a way that makes him feel like he’s being appraised. “Where the fuck did you find him, the Khaki Warehouse?”
Andrew’s fingers dig into his forearms, acutely aware of every place his clothing is touching his body.
“You’re always an asshole, Nicholas, but insult Andrew again, and I’ll throw you out of my house.” Denise says it sweetly, but the threat hangs in the air.
“I ain’t insulting him,” Nicholas protests. “I’m just saying he looks like an ad for—”
“Finish that sentence, and you can find a new agent,” Amanda interrupts.
“Testy lesbians,” Nicholas grumbles.
“Why don’t we all just sit down and have dinner,” Denise suggests while Amanda and Nicholas have some kind of staredown. “Give everyone a chance to relax and get to know each other.”
Andrew has no desire to get to know Nicholas. Between his previous preconceived notions about Nicholas and his new first impression, he’s learned everything he needs to know about him.
Whatever desire Andrew previously held to appreciate the works of art that adorn the majority of Nicholas’s body are gone.
He ignored the rumors, not wanting to judge someone he hadn’t met while also feeling confident he’d never meet him in person.
Sure, Andrew works for the same team, but he works in the accounting offices, not at the rink.
Their odds of meeting were slim to none, or so Andrew thought before tonight.
Nicholas is even more attractive in person, and he’s also even more of a dick.
Helping him with his financial issues is going to be a nightmare, but one Andrew will endure for Denise and Amanda because if they’re asking this of him they must really need the help.
He can suck up his own feelings long enough to get this asshole’s numbers running smoothly and get him back out of Andrew’s life.
“Please tell me you have a single malt scotch in the kitchen.”
“No.”
“Cognac?”
“No.”
Nicholas sighs. “A nice bourbon?”
“We have red wine.”
“Who the fuck drinks red wine?” Nicholas frowns.
“I do,” Andrew answers, lifting his glass and smiling at Nicholas before taking a sip.
“Should’ve guessed,” Nicholas grumbles.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Andrew questions, trying and failing not to get offended.
“You just seem the type, is all.”
“What type is that?” Andrew challenges, ignoring the way Amanda and Denise are frantically whispering.
Nicholas gives Andrew an appraising once over that has Andrew crossing his arms over his chest.
“Not the type I’d fuck or date.”
“Andrew,” Denise tries at the same time Amanda hisses, “Nicholas.”
“Lucky for me, I don’t want to fuck or date you.”
“Andrew.”
“Lucky me indeed,” Nicholas says with a roll of his eyes. “Why did you try to find someone as boring as possible for me to fake date, Gumby?”
“Andrew,” Denise and Amanda say at the time, but Andrew isn’t listening.
There’s a ringing in his ears, and the room is suddenly far too small. He needs to lay on the floor, or stand under the shower until he forgets he’s a person. He needs to not be here with Amanda and Denise and Nicholas fucking Whitmore staring at him.
Before tonight, Andrew didn’t think anything could be worse than being set up on a blind date, but he was wrong. Being set up for a fake blind date is worse because everyone in this room knows what Andrew has long worried—that no one really wants to date him.
Not only is Andrew someone’s last resort, he’s the last fake resort. It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, but Andrew is tired of cleaning up everyone else’s messes; he’s so tired of being the last choice over and over and over.
“It’s not what it sounds like,” Amanda tries. “Or I guess it kind of is, but—”
Andrew can’t hear the but.
“I need some air,” Andrew interrupts, stumbling backwards.
“Doll,” Denise tries, but Andrew shakes his head. He can’t be around people right now. He doesn’t even want to exist right now.
“Andrew, wait. Please,” Amanda tries, but Andrew is already moving towards the front door, gulping down huge lungs full of fresh air as the front door slams behind him.
Whatever he’d feared might happen tonight, the reality is worse.
So much fucking worse.