Лорен Блэйкли - Big Rock

“No. He usually plans his apology ambushes for the daylight hours. Yesterday, he sent me a three-foot-tall teddy bear holding a red satin heart that said, Please forgive me . What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

“Send it back to him. At his office. With red lipstick on the heart spelling out N.O.” Charlotte’s ex-boyfriend is a grade A, top-choice douchenozzle, and the bastard will never get her back. I hold up a hand. “Wait. Is there any chance this teddy bear has a middle finger on his paw?”

She laughs. “Now that’s a good idea. I just wish the whole building didn’t know my business.”

“I know. I wish you didn’t have to run into him ever again in the whole history of time.”

I hail her a cab, give her a peck on the cheek, and send her home. After I close up, I head to my pad in the West Village—the sixth floor of a kickass brownstone with a terrace that has a view of all lower Manhattan. Perfect on a June night like this.

I toss my keys on the entryway table as I scroll through my recent messages on my phone. I laugh when my sister Harper texts me a photo from a gossip mag, one from a few weeks ago, of me out with the hot woman from the gym. Turns out she’s a celebrity trainer from some reality TV show. And I’m the “ noted New York City playboy ”—same thing the magazine called me when I was seen with a hot new chef at a restaurant opening in Miami last month.

Tonight, I’m a good boy though.

I make no promises for tomorrow.

CHAPTER TWO

Button-down shirt. Tie. Charcoal-gray pants. Dark brown hair, green eyes, chiseled jaw.

Yep, it’s all working.

I fully approve of myself this Friday morning, and if I were a dude in a cheesy movie, I’d give myself two thumbs up.

But honestly, I’m not that kind of guy. I mean, who does that?

Instead, I turn to my cat, Fido, and ask him what he thinks. His response is simple—he struts off in the other direction, his tail high in the air.

Fido and I have an understanding: I feed him, and he doesn’t cock-block me. He’d appeared on my balcony a year ago, meowing at the sliding glass door, wearing a tag that said “Princess Poppy.” I checked his collar, and found he belonged to this sweet little old lady in the building who’d just moved on to the Great Beyond. That sweet little old lady had, evidently, confused him for a girl. She’d left no relatives, nor any forwarding instructions for the cat. I took him in, ditched his pink sparkly collar, and gave him a name befitting his manhood.

It’s a win-win relationship.

Like tomorrow night. Fido won’t bitch and moan when I come home late. Because I fully expect to be stumbling through the door in the wee hours. I’m working tonight, but Jenny’s back on shift tomorrow, and I need to take my man Nick out to celebrate. His hit TV show was just re-upped for another season on Comedy Nation, and we plan to toast many times over at a watering hole in Gramercy Park. Besides, there’s a hot bartender there I’ve talked to a few times. Her name is Lena, and she makes a mean Harvey Wallbanger, so she put her name in my contacts as the drink itself. Well, part of the drink. Bang Her.

Sounds promising enough, and by promising I mean, a sure thing.

I take off and make my way uptown on the subway to the Upper East Side, my parents’ stomping ground. Yeah, they’re well off, but they’re also—shocker—not assholes. That’s right. This isn’t the story of a guy with a rich, shithead dad and a cold, bitchy mom. This is the tale of a guy who likes his parents and whose parents like him. Guess what else? My parents like each other, too.

How do I know this?

Because I’m not fucking deaf. No, I didn’t hear that when I was a kid . Instead, I heard my mom whistling a happy tune every morning when she woke up. I learned some good lessons from them. Happy wife = happy life, and one way to make a woman happy is in the bedroom.

Today though, my job is to make Dad happy, and Dad wants his offspring with him at this breakfast meeting, including my little sister, Harper. She walks toward me on Eighty-Second Street, her red hair like a sheet of flame. When she reaches me, she pretends she’s about to take a quarter from behind my ear.

“Look what I found. Wait. What’s that here?” She waves her hand behind my other ear and produces a tampon.

Her mouth falls into a shocked O . “Spencer Holiday. You’re carrying tampons now? When did you start getting your period?”

I crack up.

She reaches behind my other ear, and brandishes a small pill. “Oh look, here’s some Advil for when you get cramps.”

“Good one.” I smile. “Do you perform that one at all the children’s parties?”

“No.” Harper winks. “But it’s tricks like that that keep the moms booking me six months out.”

She joins me as we walk toward the restaurant on Third Avenue, wandering along one of those perfect New York blocks—the kind with wide stoops, and red brick brownstones, and trees with lush branches every ten feet. It looks like the set of a rom-com.

“How’s the city’s noted playboy? I heard Cassidy Winters said you were the best time she’s had in ages.”

I furrow my brow. “Who’s that?”

She rolls her eyes. “The hot trainer you were in the papers with. I sent you the picture last night. Didn’t you read the caption?”

I shake my head. “Nah. Besides, she was ages ago.” That’s what a few weeks feels like in the dating world.

“Guess she’s still singing your praises.”

“Looks like I’ll be erasing her number.” Flapping your gums will get you blackballed.

“Well, you better watch it with Mr. Offerman. Dad’s buyer,” she says, as a blue-haired lady walking a Pomeranian heads in our direction.

“You mean I shouldn’t hit on him?” I ask, deadpan. I stop in the middle of the block. Gyrate my hips. Give my best stripper stare. “Do a little dance.” I smack my own ass. “Back it up.”

Harper’s face goes beet red. She shifts her eyes in the direction of the lady. “Oh my god. Stop it.”

“So, don’t do my usual Chippendales’ routine, then?”

She grabs my arm, and pulls me along as we pass the dog owner. The woman waggles her eyebrows at me, and mouths, “Nice moves.”

See? Chicks dig me.

“Anyway, what I mean is, he’s very conservative. Family values and all. Which is why we’re here.”

“Of course. Act as if we’re a happy family and like each other. Right? Is that what I should do?” I say and give her a huge noogie. Because she deserves it.

“Ouch. Don’t mess up my hair.”

“Fine, fine. I get it. You want me to pretend I’m a choirboy and you’re an angel.”

She places her palms together in prayer. “I am an angel.”

We enter the restaurant, and my dad greets us in the lobby. Harper excuses herself for the ladies’ room, and my dad claps me on the back. “Thank you for joining me. You got the memo, right?”

“Of course. Don’t I look the part of the successful, blue-blooded son?” I slide my hand along my tie, courtesy of Barneys, thank you very much.

He gives me a mock punch on the jaw. “You always do.” Then he drapes an arm over my shoulders. “Ah, I’m so glad you’re here. And listen,” he says, lowering his voice, “you know I don’t care what you do after hours. But Mr. Offerman has four daughters, ages seventeen down to eleven. So he prefers a bit more of a—”

“Goody Two-shoes image?” I say, flashing my best good-boy grin.

My dad snaps his fingers and nods.

“Are they here at breakfast? His daughters?”

He shakes his head. “Just you and your sister, him and me. He wanted to meet the two of you. And all I mean is the less your status as the ‘ noted New York City playboy ’ comes up, the happier he will be, and the happier he is, the happier I am. Can you do that?”