style="font-size:15px;"> I couldn’t help laughing. If someone as dynamic as Maggie believed in me, who was I to argue?
“If I’m Dorothy, who are you? The Wizard of Oz?”
“I’m about to be the bad witch if you don’t do what I say,” she said, shaking her finger at me. “And believe me, those flying monkeys fall into line or suffer for it.”
I took a slug of my coffee, then stood up. “OK, you win.”
“I always do,” she said. “So it’s pointless to sass me when I tell you to sit still while I blow-dry your hair and pluck your eyebrows. And you’re going to shave your legs if I have to stand outside the shower and watch you. My way or the highway!”
I gave her a quick squeeze. “Hey, Mags… you’re better than a sister. Just, thanks.”
“Come on, Sappy,” she said, shaking it off and bounding toward her bedroom. “Let’s get you into costume.”
Heading out of the wind and down the icy steps to the supper club, I was grateful that Maggie had let me off the hook and allowed me to wear her wedge-heeled boots instead of the ones with the skinny heels. The place was all leather and wood, and scarlet tapestry. I was glad the club was warm and not one of those sterile chrome-and-glass affairs.
I pulled off my hat and tried to fluff my crushed, damp hair. Scanning the bar for Jordan, I panicked, realizing I didn’t know what he looked like. There was a blonde guy walking out of the restroom. I raised my eyebrows and smiled. He put his arm around a thin brunette in a leather jacket and gave me a stern look. This was a stupid idea. I pulled my hat back on, ready to leave.
I felt a pair of hands on my shoulders, and I spun around, ready to snap. I recognized the green-eyed man as Jordan. Wow. He was actually a man. I didn’t remember him as being so filled out.
“Hi, Shayla? Are you all right? You look, uh, upset.”
“No! Not at all. Hey…you!” Brimming with nervous energy, I went in to kiss his cheek, to seem like a smooth player. When I lunged in, I caught my toe on his heavy boot. I fell forward, and he grabbed me hard by both elbows. Whipping his head around to keep his balance, he cracked me in the bridge of the nose with his jawbone.
“Motherfuh … uh…uh…oh, man,” I stopped myself from swearing even though I saw stars. The pain was so sharp, I didn’t even worry that blood was dripping onto my (Maggie’s) silk turtleneck. At least it was black.
“Hang on,” I heard Jordan say. I couldn’t see him with my eyes squenched shut. In a flash he was back, shoving a handful of bar naps into my hand. I pressed them to my bleeding nose and managed to open my eyes. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and on his lips sat the threat of a smile. “Why don’t we sit down?”
“OK,” I said through my napkins, “but not at the bar.”
Taking my arm, Jordan led me to a cozy leather banquette. “Two Maker’s Mark Manhattans,” he said to a passing waitress. I wanted a vodka and soda with lemon, but I let it go. “Why not at the bar?”
“I swore off perching on bar stools on my 21st birthday. Friends took me out to celebrate and I woke up so sore the next day I felt like I needed traction. I like to be comfortable.”
“Are you comfortable now?” He asked, smiling. “Because I am. It’s nice to relax with a gorgeous woman.”
My hand flew to my nose to make sure it was clean. “Ha ha, yes, this place is great. Small warm rooms feel kind of like a hug.”
He cocked his head and smiled. “I just have a thing about… I don’t know… not being cold. I positively will not go into a cold Lucite and metal bar. At least not in winter. It’s one of my rules.”
“You have a lot of rules.”
“No I don’t,” I said automatically. “They’re not rules, per se. Just ways that make sense to live.
“Umm hmm. You were saying you haven’t sat at the bar since age 21. How many years ago was that?”
I hesitated. He was asking my age.
“Five. Why?” I examined his face. What was he getting at? “How old are you?” I countered. I didn’t like being on my guard.
“Twenty-three, but a very mature twenty-three. Graduated Yale at twenty-one, because I skipped a year of high school. I interned at a couple of small newspapers while I was there — did some beat reporting — and got hired by Cooper-Prentiss when I graduated. As an associate editor. I skipped doing the whole assistant thang.”
“I’m doing the assistant ‘thang’ now.” I watched in horror as my hands made air quotes. “But not for long, you know.” I took a big slug out of my drink. The whiskey burned the back of my throat but my mouth was full. I coughed through my nose, sending tiny droplets of blood onto his pant leg. Struggling to stifle my sputtering, I barked out “I…am…so sorry.”
“Not a problem.” He picked out some of the cleaner napkins from the table, and dabbed at his knee. Embarrassed, I swept the rest of the bloodied pile into my bag.
“Sorry,” I said.
“You apologize a lot.”
That shut my mouth. He was right. I didn’t feel sorry about anything. But I had gotten sucked in by his image, and I was playing a game falling all over myself trying to impress him. Sure, he was some kind of publishing wunderkind. Sure, he had a real tan, earned on an adventure trip to someplace like Costa Rica or maybe Australia. But like Maggie pointed out, I wasn’t so bad myself. Relax, Shayla, I coached myself. Just be yourself. It’s good enough. Attractive as Jordan was, I wasn’t dying to touch him or kiss him, though. That was kind of weird. But it was also good. Realizing that gave me back some of my power.
“Shayla?”
“Anyway,” I snapped back to the conversation, “I was telling you that I’m a writer.” I said this with confidence. “So, I won’t be doing the assistant, uh, I won’t be an assistant for long.”
He looked at me with interest. “Really? I feel like I should know that, Shayla Sheridan.”
The way he said my name uncurled something inside me. His voice was strong and clear, hinting more at a man’s than a boy’s. As a little test, I smiled. He smiled too, and draped his arm over the back of the banquette, looking like he had all the time in the world. Hmm, perhaps there’s more to him than I thought. I did like it when a man pulled off being smooth. Maybe I could have a one-night stand. I hadn’t done that in ages, since well before Noah, and before Noah, I’d gone out with Josh for a long time. It’s not fair to compare Josh, though. With Josh, we’d been more like best friends than the last of the red-hot lovers.
“Tell, me, Shayla, what have you written?”
I hated this question. It’s the American way to define people by their jobs and to make them prove that they’re contenders. The next questions were invariably A) What have you written that I’ve heard of? And B) So you’re following in your father’s footsteps?
After suffering scrutiny at countless weddings and cocktail parties, I’d gone back to calling myself an administrative
