Chapter 6 #2
Instead she’s crying over a boy. Well, not over a boy exactly, but . . . close enough.
And that feels unacceptable.
She’s never allowed herself to do that before and she’s not going to start now.
Taking the tissues Miranda offers her from the box on her desk, she wipes at her eyes, thankful she didn’t bother with makeup before leaving the house, and then softly blows her nose.
“Feel better?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. I feel . . . less burdened, maybe?”
“I’ll take it. Now, get yourself together or it’ll be all over the department that you came out of my office with puffy eyes and a red nose.”
“Maybe I was crying from happiness. I successfully defended my dissertation and, most importantly, I’m getting married, remember?”
Miranda snorts. “You might just pull this off. Not that I’m agreeing it’s a good idea.”
“It’s a terrible idea. We both know that.”
“It is, but you gotta do what you gotta do. Honestly, I was pretty upset at them for not showing up and I’m glad you’re at least doing something about it.
Friends and family are wonderful and I know how close you are with yours, but I don’t think they appreciate you the way you deserve.
It’ll be a hard lesson to learn, but they’re gonna learn it. ”
“All the best lessons are hard.”
“Wow, who taught you that?”
“I don’t know, some lady with impeccable style said it to me one time and it stuck.”
“She sounds very wise.”
“She is.”
“She also has a bunch of dissertation panels to prepare for, so shoo.”
“I’m going, I’m going.”
“Good luck, you’re going to be great.”
But even as she shuts Miranda’s door behind her, the gnawing doubt starts to creep in, twisting her stomach into knots, her breath catching and releasing in her lungs as her heart rate ticks up.
The nerves. They’re back.
Trying to ignore the way her stomach is apparently trying to eat itself, she makes her way to her office, a large room shared by most of the doctoral students in her program.
Her desk is by the window with a decent view – perks of being in her final year, grass and trees and blue skies almost every day, thanks to the gift that is Southern California weather.
There are a few things she wants to pack away, but most of it is just junk that’s accumulated in the last five years, things that seemed important at the time, but now are really just taking up space.
That’s another day’s problem though – right now she needs to get the area behind her clear so it won’t look cluttered in the background of her call.
Once that’s done, she opens the blinds of the window behind her to get some decent lighting so she can do her makeup.
Light foundation, just so she doesn’t wash out on camera, neutral eyeshadow, a little bit of eyeliner and a nude lipstick, hair straightened into a dark curtain at her shoulders.
Her stomach though? Still twisting itself into a Gordian knot. She checks her phone. Still another fifteen minutes until the interview.
She needs a distraction. Maybe she could start cleaning off her desk? She glances around for a garbage can, but then her phone buzzes in her back pocket and then again.
It’s him.
—I was thinking about this morning.
—You looked so good I wanted to just pull you right back into bed.
Bianca bites her lip, starting to fight down a grin, but there’s no one around to see it, so she lets it form as she stares down at the screen.
So he had been looking as she got ready.
She’d almost forgotten about their plan, but there’s something liberating about it, especially now that she’s talked to Miranda and there’s at least one person in her life she’s not lying to.
Okay, it’s time to play.
—Yeah? An extra hour of sleep would have been great.
There’s a pause, but not for long.
—We would not have been sleeping.
—Well, if we’re not sleeping, then . . . what would you have done with me?
—I would start at your neck, that spot where that one curl always falls out when you put your hair up.
She reaches up and brushes her fingertips against the spot.
She tries to focus, wracking her brain for a response.
The only stupid thing she can come up with is something about them not kissing because of morning breath, but first, gross, and second, that’s what she would say as Bianca, friend and colleague.
What would Bianca the fiancée say back? Bianca the fiancée would know what that feels like. She’d like it, obviously. Who wouldn’t?
—I love when you do that.
Yeah, that’s good. Simple, to the point, and it would be nice to feel his mouth against her neck, open and hot and . . . her phone buzzes again.
—And then I’d make a path, from there down to your collarbone, to that little freckle just below it.
A quick glance in the shadowed glass of the sleeping computer monitor next to her reminds her of exactly where that freckle is, just above the neckline of her blouse, a little more obvious than usual because of the light green material below it.
Is that where his eyes went this morning?
Is he . . . is he texting her what had actually gone through his head in that moment?
Because it was a moment, there’s no denying that. It was charged and heady and if they had actually been engaged, one thing would have led to another and she’d probably be sitting here looking way less camera ready, but way more relaxed.
But they aren’t engaged.
Even if this is what he thought about, even if his mind wandered there, like hers has occasionally, it doesn’t matter because, like she told Miranda, none of this is real. There’s no future with Xavier Byrne.
Despite it being her idea, that’s what makes her lock her phone and put it face down on her desk. Her interview is in ten minutes. She shakes her mouse and the screen brightens before she logs on and pulls up the meeting link they sent her.
And there’s nothing to do except wait . . . or she could check her phone.
—I’d just stay there until you gasp my name, all impatient.
—I love when you say my name like that.
And before she can even think about it, she types out the obvious response.
—Like what?
His answer is instant, like he’s scripted this out. Maybe he has. Maybe he gave up on his presentation and decided to write some soft-core porn instead.
—Like you want my mouth somewhere else, somewhere better.
—Where do you want my mouth, boss?
Fuck. There’s only one answer to that question. One answer and it’ll give her the absolute perfect text convo for – what did Lexi call them? B’s Bridal Bitches – to lose their minds over tonight and that’s why she types out.
—Between my legs.
There’s a longer pause now, like maybe . . . maybe he didn’t think she’d have the guts to go there, but now she did, and swallowing back the panic, she waits. The three little dots pop up. Then disappear. Then reappear again. And then finally . . .
—Exactly where I belong.
Bianca pulls in a sharp breath and stifles the soft groan that she’s desperate to release. Holy shit. But then there’s another message.
—I could lose myself there for hours.
—I could die a happy man between those thighs.
She has no idea what to say to that and shit, maybe he knows it, because his next text gives her an out.
—You’re going to blow them out of the water. Nail down that job and then have fun with the girls tonight. X
And that’s that. Her phone doesn’t buzz again and thank God, because if it did, she was going to have to lock herself in the bathroom to take care of the absolutely blistering heat firing through her body.
Holy shit.
That was . . . a lot, but okay, she needs to calm down. It wasn’t real. It was just what she asked him to do, nothing more, nothing less, and he more than fulfilled his end of the bargain.
In fact, yeah, she should let him know how perfect that was. She doesn’t want to blow their cover, so she just sends back a little heart. He’ll get the idea.
Finally, the clock ticks over and it’s time. And her nerves?
Completely gone.
Yeah, she’s gonna fucking nail this job down right now.
“And then what happened?” Frankie asks from her spot at the bar cart in the corner of her living room.
Bianca shrugs, curled up in the corner of the black leather couch, one of the few pieces of furniture in the living room. “And then he smiled and said I should be hearing from them soon.”
Frankie lives in a little bungalow in Echo Park.
She bought it – when she was named the Dodgers’ head of analytics and got a hefty signing bonus – mostly for its close proximity to the stadium, though its small size and charm are completely antithetical to everything about Bianca’s childhood best friend.
Bianca’s always loved it because it somehow feels cozy in the vast urban sprawl that is Los Angeles.
Or it would, if Frankie hadn’t had the whole thing painted stark white, with muted accents and barely any furniture in case another team came calling with a better offer and she has to sell it fast.
Bianca would buy it off her in a second if she could afford it.
“Oh, you got the job. You so got the job,” Erik chimes in.
They’re all more than a couple of drinks in and hanging on her every word.
“We’ll see. There are a lot of good candidates.”
Frankie rolls her eyes, while pouring another gin and tonic. “Yeah, but you’re a great candidate.”
‘The best candidate,” Chloe chimes in from her perch on one of Frankie’s stools, imported to the living room from the never used kitchen. “The job is literally what you’ve been ranting at us about for almost a decade.”
Bianca smiles. Well, at least they’ve been listening when she talks about it. Though it’s possible some of it only sank in through sheer exposure.
“I think it’s smart,” Isobel says, taking a slow sip from her seltzer and cranberry juice before continuing. “It’s never a good idea to count your chickens. Besides, if you don’t get the job, then you can focus your energy on wedding planning.”