Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Wes
Things had gotten decidedly chilly between him and Mo, just as he hoped they might get warmer.
He had brought up Gary and Estelle as a point of common knowledge—seeing two people in the act of something seemingly illicit.
He’d always found that a little shared gossip was the fastest way to create a friendship, much like social grooming with other primates.
Not that he and Maureen would be friends, but he didn’t want her to hate him.
It would be easier if she weren’t, well, cool.
Wes wasn’t jealous of her talent. Her authorial voice was so different from his that it couldn’t be that.
His novel was about being a man, wanting.
Being destroyed by wanting. Besides the adaptation being told from Clive’s perspective and remaining in the time period, Wes’s Clive was explicitly bisexual.
In the original novel, Wes couldn’t help but see Clive as bi coded.
Wes’s own sexuality aside, he didn’t assume anything of the people around him or most of the characters he read.
But there was a latent, charged maleness in Clive, and desire was an undercurrent in his relationships with his compatriots.
In the dinner party scene with his old war buddy Perkins and his wife, their exchange about “modern games” read as flirting.
Wes didn’t know what Estelle would say after hearing his book.
It wasn’t as if he’d set out with the premise “I took your mom’s character and made him have gay feelings,” because he didn’t think he’d really made Clive do anything.
The characters’ choices naturally flowed from themselves, sparks catching line to line as Wes wrote the book.
Clive didn’t end up doing much more beyond just longing, but this longing created a negligent tyranny over Eliza.
But Mo’s first chapter had caught fire in his brain.
He couldn’t stop thinking about how the rest would go.
It was maddening not knowing how she’d approach the wedding, for instance, something that would come early in the manuscript before the halfway point they would read over lunch.
So yes, Wes had moved his coffee date with Ulla downtown to a public location to make excuses to spend more time with Maureen.
Mo slid into the passenger seat with the same pink jacket from last night wrapped around her.
She’d obviously tried to scrub off some of the dirt from the cuffs and collar.
Wes wasn’t going to mention to her that those spots reminded him of the feel of her in his arms. How different would this morning have been if he hadn’t tucked her responsibly into bed last night, if he’d let her kiss him like she’d wanted to?
He would have felt horrible about it, but maybe the sexual tension would have broken, because that’s what it was.
Stop thinking about her, he scolded himself as he pulled out of the estate .
He had to acknowledge the unbearable singing tension of someone who was undoubtedly attractive—her hair was lightly curling in the morning’s humidity—and whose brain you wanted to open and examine for all its weirdness.
Instead of last night bonding them, it was clear that she regretted everything about it, and her icy attitude was jarring.
They passed the gates, which latched closed behind them.
Veering down the familiar streets, he tried not to notice her blank expression as she stared out the window.
He wasn’t used to people saying no to him or turning down attempts at friendship.
He was a well-connected, well-liked person with a famous mother and money besides.
He was so used to having to push people away, or freezing them out if they got too close, too fast, that he couldn’t imagine someone doing the same right back to him.
Well, fine, he thought. But he didn’t feel fine, and he couldn’t leave it at that.
They’d driven much farther yesterday, but it hadn’t felt awkward.
Now, even with the music as a buffer between them and only a few miles to travel, it did.
He had to say something or it would needle him the whole day.
“I don’t know why you’re frustrated with me,” he said. “But I hope you can clue me in.”
“No idea at all?”
“It’s got to be about a butter cow.”
She laughed, as he’d guessed she would. “Clearly,” she said.
That laugh buoyed him, made him want to push harder. “Or besides the obvious fact that I’m beating you in a literary competition.”
That earned a narrowed glare from the passenger sea. “You wish.”
He continued. “But besides that?”
“I don’t think you really want to know.”
“I do or I wouldn’t ask.”
“Fine.” She turned toward him and huffed a breath. “If I’m being honest, you have this whole entitlement thing going on, and it’s getting to me.”
“Is this about the … server?”
“You don’t even remember her name.”
Damn. He coughed to buy himself time, then swallowed. “Angela.”
“Angie, but no, that’s not it. It’s Gary.”
He nearly slammed the Civic into a mailbox. “What? Gary? I love Gary. I’ve worked with Gary for years longer than you. That’s why I was so surprised.”
She paused. “Surprised about—”
He laughed, making a right turn onto Greenwich Avenue. “Gary and Estelle are obviously doing it.” Luckily, they were stopped at a stoplight so he could catch her expression.
It was worth it. Her lips fell open in shock. “I guess I really don’t remember a lot about last night.”
He explained what they had walked into—not exactly walked in on , since everyone had met in the hallway like some No e l Coward production.
The story expelled some of the tension between them, thank whatever deity was responsible for such things.
By the time they parked in front of a brick-front caf é downtown, Mo was rooting for the relationship that might or might not have been completely imaginary.
“I love stories when someone finds love late in life,” Mo said.
“Or lust.”
“I think lust finds you. I don’t think that’s something you look for,” she said, then glanced away. The sun must have been in her eyes.
“What makes it lust, then?” he asked, wanting to press the issue. What would make her turn and look at him in that less careful way she had last night?
“Oh, pheromones and hormones, probably,” she said, taking the question academically. “I could ask my sister.”
“What?”
“My sister. She breeds dogs, so she thinks a lot about mating, compatibility—”
He stepped faster to catch up to her. How she could walk so quickly was a testament to her having become a real New Yorker. “But humans aren’t dogs ,” he said.
“Most aren’t, but I’ve met some exceptions.” She stared at him with an eyebrow raised.
“That’s a rough assessment.”
It was her turn to stop on the sidewalk, and he was gentleman enough to stop next to her. “That was a bad pun.” She elbowed him. It was a light jab, but her elbows were ridiculously pointy.
“Ow. You got a permit for those elbows, Ms. Denton?”
“No, but I am always armed.”
“Terrible,” he said, but grinned. He wanted her to like him, he realized. He wanted to claw his way into her good graces to see what it looked like to earn a real smile from her.
The caf é bell dinged as they entered. This place was one of his favorites and baked the best lemon poppy seed muffins he had ever eaten.
Wes took in a deep, fresh-roasted sniff and glanced to see if his mother had taken a table yet.
Ulla was, as usual, precisely one minute ahead of whatever internal schedule he was running.
She had a tablet in front of her and was delicately scrolling through some proposal or another for a product that she would find a way to sell to the masses.
He stopped by the table before ordering, leaving a kiss on her delicately powdered cheek.
He asked after his father.
“Well.” Ulla gestured with her eyes over Wes’s shoulder.
Maureen stood, wearing the familiar fish-out-of-water look he had observed more times in the past twenty-four hours than her smile. “Hi,” Mo said. She introduced herself, and Ulla reciprocated.
As the two women fell into stilted small talk, Wes excused himself to get a coffee.
Standing in line, he felt the guilt roil in his stomach.
He and Mo had been so busy talking about the October/December romance unfolding in the bedroom down the hall that he hadn’t warned her that Ulla would have coffee with them.
Ulla never expected much from Wes and wasn’t the type to meddle, but if he was back in town, a coffee date was an expectation.
He’d forgotten to share that plan with Maureen—or his mother, for that matter.
He ordered a latte—oat milk and an extra shot—and stood at the end of the mahogany bar. The frother hissed and the door tinkled again as a huddle of women entered, gabbing gleefully. They passed the table with Mo and Ulla, who seemed to be deep in conversation now.