I mentally shake myself. “I don’t want it to get awkward.”
“Remy, the only one making this situation awkward is you. Have you seen him getting flustered whenever he looks at you?”
“Well, no. But that’s because it didn’t mean anything to him.”
“Girl, men who want to walk away and forget it ever happened do not use words like bewitched or speak in fucking fantasy language.”
I chuckle. “I wouldn’t know about that.”
“Course you wouldn’t. You wasted your youth on a self-appointed prince charming who wouldn’t know a Gaelic word if it bit him on the ass.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “Take my word for it. This Bash guy wants you.”
I want to believe her, I really do. But… “He has a funny way of showing it.”
“He could’ve sacked you though, right?”
“I guess.”
“It’s what any boss would do if they crossed a line and didn’t want to face the consequences. It’s what I would do if the roles were reversed.”
“That’s because you’re ruthless.” I laugh, but I feel the tension easing from my shoulders just a little.
“Which is exactly my point. The guy owns a casino for fuck’s sake. The stakes are a little higher for him than they are for the barista in the local coffee shop.”
She has a point. Why am I so bad at this?
“Do you think I should speak to him?”
“Too needy.”
“Find a way to bump into him on the casino floor?”
“Jeez, Remy, remind me to have a word with your mom when I see her. Didn’t she teach you anything about men?”
“No.”
Looking back, I think that my relationship with George let her off the hook. She was never the same after Danielle died, and she and my dad were already starting to drift apart like ships sailing to different destinations. Maybe she was too self-absorbed to consider that George might not be right for me. Or maybe she was relieved that she didn’t have to worry about me the way she worried about my sister.
“Help me out here, Ariel. I can’t even look at him without my knees wobbling. How am I supposed to have a meaningful conversation about what happened between us?”
“Who said anything about meaningful conversations?” I can’t see Ariel, but I know her well enough from rooming with her torecognize mischief when I hear it. “You say he hasn’t thought about you since he fu?—”
“Yeah, I’m in the middle of Central Park. I don’t want to think about it right now.”
Her low chuckle reaches me through the handset. “Worried about hard nipples and wet patches in your panties?”
My cheeks are suddenly hotter than they were a moment ago, and I peer around the park to see if anyone is staring at me like they heard every word.
No one is.
“Anyway, back to the advice you were about to offer me.”
Silence. Then, “Sorry, I was still picturing the naked adonis on the sheepskin rug with his ass in the air.”
“Ariel!” This is how a lot of our conversations go. I try to be serious, and my best friend follows her instincts in whichever tangent they take her. Sometimes, I wish I could channel my inner Ariel and go with the flow, but I guess I’m too highly strung.
“I thought it was obvious, my gorgeous naïve friend. You want him to notice you and whizz you back up to his swanky apartment, yeah?” She already knows the answer—I haven’t stopped talking about Bash Murray since the night I spent in his guest room. “So, make him notice you.”
“O-kay.”
