Chapter 9
PIP
Iburst out the doors of Woodward & Co at six sharp, eager to meet Zaza for a well-deserved drink.
My thrifted faux-leopard coat—more shabby than chic by now—doesn’t do much against the February cold.
Still, I enjoy the way fellow pedestrians give me a second glance, taking in my black cloche hat and fishnet stockings. Hopefully, they appreciate the care I’ve taken to make myself a walking piece of vintage art.
“Hey, over here!”
I spot Zaza at the end of the long line outside our favorite Rockefeller Center margarita spot.
“So tell me all about your boss du jour,” says Zaza.
Teasing me about my ‘boss of the day’ has become a familiar routine. “Was he hot? Did he bend you backwards over his desk and?—”
“I’ll give you the down and dirty, but only after I get a drink—not before.”
“Jeez Louise,” Zaza says, looking back at the people lining up to get inside. “It’s five-dollar margarita night. It’ll be an hour before we get seated. I can’t wait that long.”
“All right. Remember that DJ? The one who brought me to his apartment in the Mandarin Oriental?”
“Yeah...”
“It turns out he’s the CEO of the company I’m working for today.”
“What? CEO by day, international DJ by night?”
“This is all new for him. Office gossip has it he was always the black sheep of the family, living in his brother’s shadow. But his brother died in an accident, and now he’s the only family member standing.”
“Why didn’t he just have the board hire a professional?”
I shrug. “Not sure. But I hear he’s not happy. Maybe he was forced into it.”
Zaza tugs on my coat as we move up a few steps in line.
“Was it weird seeing him again?”
“No. But it’s strange that he was such a gentleman the night we met, Today he stole my brownie, insulted my hairstyle, and called me a name.”
“What a jerk! What did he call you?”
“Pip,” I mumble under my breath.
“What? Can’t hear you.”
“Pip.”
“Love it! Describes you well. Did he ask you out? Or do you think he’s pissed that you ghosted him?”
“I did not ghost him. I just... left his apartment.”
“Without saying goodbye.”
I sigh. “I hate long, messy goodbyes. What’s the point? To be polite? He's this gorgeous, rich international DJ. Why would he bother calling me when he has model-types at his beck and call?"
Though Zaza and I share everything, I was too humiliated to tell her that I overheard Snickers tell his friend 'I didn't mean anything to him' and it was just a 'fun night.'
"Anyway, that’s the end of it. I’ll probably never see him again. That’s life in the temp world.”
“Ah, well, I got a juicy story out of it. Hey, look, do you hear that music? A band’s playing on the pop-up stage.”
I turn toward the sound. The musicians look like scruffy locals hired to energize potential shoppers for the Valentine’s Day holiday. Unfortunately, their attempt at Prince’s classic “Let’s Go Crazy” falls short of the artist’s flamboyant brilliance.
Zaza groans. “Can someone please put them out of their misery? What an affront to one of the world’s most talented performers.”
I nod, but my attention shifts to a tall man shouldering his way through the crowd.
Even at this distance, his imposing build fills out his expertly tailored silk suit too perfectly not to catch my attention.
He moves toward the stage with the swagger of someone who’s had too much to drink.
And he looks suspiciously like Snickers.
“Let’s see what this is all about,” I say, pulling Zaza toward the stage.
We arrive just in time to see the man vault onto the platform.
My heart skips when I realize the man isn’t someone who just looks like Snickers. It is Snickers.
“You can’t insult a legend with a lame cover song like that,” Snickers says, snatching the mic from the startled lead singer.
Then he turns to the confused audience.
“Okay, folks, let’s hear it for the Purple Prince himself. You ready to rock?”
The crowd, who had been inattentively milling around the plaza, perks up. A few cheers cut through the crisp air as all eyes turn to the stage.
Snickers expertly connects his phone to the stage’s sound system. A moment later, Prince’s unmistakable voice soars through the speakers.
Then Snickers lip-syncs to the beat with a perfectly fluid swagger, commanding the stage like it’s second nature.
“Hey, this guy is good,” Zaza says, shaking her hips to the music. “But who is he? And why is he unbuttoning his shirt…”
I shake my head, too stunned to speak. Zaza will recognize him eventually.
“That’s your ‘Snickers!’” Zaza clutches my arm and squeals. “He’s more gorgeous than I remember. Look at those abs!”
I look—just in time to see Snickers rip off his shirt with stripper-like flair, throwing it to the frenzied crowd.
A group of women scramble for it near the stage.
“What’s the story with him? Is he some sort of exhibitionist?” Zaza asks.
“It appears so. I guess you can take the DJ out of Ibiza, but you can’t take the Ibiza out of the DJ,” I say, struggling to look away from his abs.
Zaza laughs.
Then I notice Snickers’ fingers tugging at his gold belt buckle. Heat rushes to my cheeks.
“Oh no,” I say, already anticipating his next move.
“Oh yes!” Zaza rubs her hands together in glee.
“Clare’s going to have a meltdown when she sees this,” I murmur, noticing that almost everyone has raised their phones to record his striptease. “This will be headline news by morning.”
At that moment, two NYPD officers push through the crowd, their walkie-talkies crackling.
For an instant, I’m fine just watching Snickers’ downfall. Serves him right for mocking my vintage vibe at lunch.
So what if he’s busted? He brought this on himself.
But then my conscience kicks in.
I think about his brother’s recent death and the impossible CEO role he’s been forced into.
I remember that delicious night we spent together.
Zaza’s right. I ghosted him. It really wasn’t fair to leave without saying goodbye.
Beneath that shirtless bravado… well, I don’t know.
“I better stop him,” I tell Zaza. “Before he decides to show everyone the Full Monty.”
“Go, Tiny Hero!” she laughs as I slip through the crowd, ducking raised phones and dodging elbows.
Being small has its perks—I slide between gaps like nobody’s business. The cold, metallic air bites my cheeks as I reach the stage.
Snickers looks down and grins. “Come to join me on stage, Pipsqueak?”
“Come down! Now!”
He laughs and unfastens the gold buckle with a dramatic flourish.
“That’s it,” I mutter. With a burst of determination, I scramble onto the stage, nearly face-planting in the process.
The crowd roars, thinking I’m part of the act.
Snickers raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you were this eager. Or do you want a private show? That can be arranged.”
Without responding, I grab the narrow end of his belt and yank.
Hard.
He stumbles forward, arms pinwheeling to keep his balance. The gold belt snags on his jeans, and I use it to haul him off the stage—and back from the edge of a full-blown scandal.
“What the hell, Pip?” he splutters.
“Cops,” I hiss, jerking my head toward the approaching officers. “Let’s go. Unless you want tomorrow’s headline to read: CEO Shows More Than Company Assets.”
Something flickers in his piercing blue eyes—a moment of clarity through the booze. Without a word, he lets me lead him into an alley between storefronts.
The darkness muffles the noise. But when we emerge, the cops are waiting.
“Okay, mister. You’re coming with us,” one officer says, producing handcuffs.
“No!” I blurt. “This is all my fault. I was supposed to pick him up at his bachelor party, but I ran late. And, well, you see what happened as a result.”
“And you are?”
Snickers’ shirtless form leans toward me as I stammer: “Pollyanna... I mean, Pip Fletcher. His fiancée.”
Snickers looks at me in surprise as I speak the name he gave me.
I wrap my arm around his sweaty torso.
“We’re engaged to be married. On Valentine’s Day. His company is making a big deal out of it. They manufacture greeting cards, you know.”
“His company?”
“Woodward & Co. This is Sheldon Woodward III. Will you release him to my custody, gentlemen? I’ll make sure he gets home safe.”
”Come on, give the guy a break,” the cop’s partner says. “We have more important things to do.”
Once the cops leave, so does the phone-wielding crowd, seeing that the big action is over.
“Let me find my friend and we’ll see you home,” I tell Snickers, feeling a little awkward now that we’re alone.
“No need.”
”You’re still a little tipsy. Why did you get drunk like that so early in the evening?”
Snickers’ laugh sounds bitter. “Cocktail hour with a friend got a little out of hand. This corporate life... it’s stressing me out.”
“Booze isn’t the answer,” I say, sounding preachy even to my own ears.
“Hey! Here you are!” says Zaza, joining us.
“We’re taking Mr. Woodward III home,” I tell her. “Flag down a cab—we’ll put it on his credit card.”
“I’m perfectly capable of calling my driver,” Snickers tells us, speaking into his phone as he steps away.
“Wait! Your shirt!” Zaza says, handing it to him. “I had to wrestle it from the hands of your crazed fans.”
“What, the Snickerdoodles are here?” he says.
"Leave already,” I tell him, as a limousine rolls up. A uniformed driver steps out to open the door for Snickers, and he gets inside.
“What’s a Snickerdoodle?” Zaza asks as the car slinks away.
"They're his fan club," I say with a shrug. "From what I understand, they promote him on social media and in return, they get free tickets and merch. Let's not worry about it now. Our five-buck margaritas are waiting."