“And what do you think that is?”
“I’m going to be honest with you. Keen is the male version of you. You are the female version of Keen. You clash because you’re so much alike. That’s why I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Besides, he’s a really great guy going through a hard time.”
Hard time?
“What kind of hard time?” I interrupt.
She shrugs. “I don’t know everything, but apparently he was fired from his job and kind of went off the deep end.”
My entire body starts to shake. His job was his life. “Why? When?”
“All I know is it happened just a couple of days after we left New York. No one realized it for weeks. Then late last week his mother got a call that he was in Vegas, and sent Brooklyn to get him. I told you that yesterday.”
“You did?”
She laughs. “Well, you were in your own world over the party details. Anyway, Cam truly respects and trusts Keen. I have no doubt that he will be professional, and that you will too. At the end of each day you can both go home to your own places and that will be that. Or maybe, just maybe, you’ll like each other enough to go for a drink and talk about all your conquests. Like I said, I just don’t see the problem.”
Reaching for a second wheatgrass shot, I don’t know what concerns me more: the fact that my best friend thinks Keen Masters and I come from the same mold, or that she doesn’t see Keen Masters as a problem . . .
Because honestly—both terrify the hell out of me.
Maggie
The clock ticks six fifty-five and there is no sign of Keen Masters.
Brooklyn took him out last night to the Underground and he isn’t home yet. Obviously Brooklyn scored at the dance club. And I’d bet every fish cracker in Laguna Beach that his brother did too. He’s probably in bed with some bimbo right now while I’m waiting for him in my grown-up clothes ready to do grown-up things.
Six fifty-six. I check the big silver zipper in the back of my black shift dress to make certain it is all the way up. This one I borrowed from Makayla last night once I knew the coast was clear at her house. For no reason, really, other than I was tired of skirts, and skirts and blouses are the only clothing pieces my mother owns.
Six fifty-seven. Sighing, I fiddle with the low bun I rolled my hair up in and stare out the window.
Six fifty-eight. I bet a cab pulls up within the minute and he gets out in those insanely sexy black jeans of his from Friday night, smelling like sex and asking me to wait while he takes a quick shower.
That is so not happening. He can get in my car smelling like sex or stay home on his first day on the job.
I really don’t care.
He can explain to Cam why. Or better yet, I can.
A quick glance at my watch alerts me it is six fifty-nine. Determined to not be late, I grab my purse, my keys, my bag with a change of clothes for the party tonight—oh, and my pride, you know, in case I need it.
Ready to go with or without Keen Masters, I swing my door wide open only to have my knees go completely weak.
Oh. My. God.
He can fuck me one more time right here, right now.
Okay, that is so not happening.
Blinking. Taking a deep breath. Finding my focus, it takes me a few seconds to gather my wits.
Just a momentary relapse.
It will pass quickly.
How had I not foreseen this?
The Porsche 911 that Keen drives is parked at the end of my walk, but the sexy car is not why my body is racing with an excitement I haven’t felt in weeks. It’s because Keen Masters is standing before me in a suit. A suit. My weakness. Not just any suit, either. A suit that would drop any girl’s panties.
Gray tailored-to-perfection pants and jacket.
Crisp white shirt.
Bold red tie.
And the body that fills it puts most men to shame. Long and lean. Broad shoulders. Ripped with strength.
My eyelids flutter as I try to calm my beating heart. Wait! I swear in one of my blinks I just caught something unfamiliar flash in his bright blue eyes. I have no idea what, but it looked an awful lot like a nervous twitch.
Could he be nervous?
Afraid of me?
No.
Still, it is possible. Now, I have to admit that I thought keeping it professional was going to be so hard when all I wanted to do was scratch his eyes out, yet his nervousness brings a whole new layer to the picture.
Ever hear of taunting?
Karma is a bitch with the name Maggie attached to it today.
Hmmm . . . I think I might be going in reverse across the healing stages of a breakup.
“Good morning,” he says, taking a step back. “I was just about to knock.”
That voice.
I relapse again.
Damn it.
“Good morning,” I respond, trying to maintain that professionalism I talked myself into all night, while at the same time trying to remember how to put one foot in front of the other as I step over the threshold.