Several loud chuckles resonated from the audience.
"But sometimes a man makes a mistake. And he has to make it up to a woman. What is this guy supposed to do when the woman is just not one of those gals who likes flowers?"
He stopped to scratch his head as if he was thoroughly flummoxed by the situation, and truth be told he actually was. Perhaps he could work out what to do next with Shannon in this routine.
"You see, I thought about a few options." Brent stopped talking and quickly backpedaled, as if he hadn't meant to indict himself, when he clearly had. "I mean, this guy," he said in an exaggerated tone. "Not me, 'cause I'm not talking about me. Because this is clearly not about me at all. But this guy, who is obviously not me, he's trying to figure out how to do something really fucking awesome for his woman. Something that proves he's the man she needs. Something big," he said, emphasizing that last word as his eyes drifted downward to his crotch, so the audience got his meaning. "So I thought: what does she want? What does a woman really want? And the conclusion is..." He stopped, paused, took a breath, because comedy was all in the delivery, then finished, "me."
A few more laughs.
"So I'm just going to dip myself in chocolate, head to toe, and give her me. Covered in chocolate. For her to lick off."
He held his breath as he tested out this new material for the first time. A ripple of laughter began, but there was still the punch line to deliver.
"But then I realized, that's not really a gift for her. That's a gift for me."
Laughter rang out across the club. There were few sounds better than this-better than the sweet laughter of a joke well told. It was the great exhalation-it was relief and buoyancy all at once.
But then, it wasn't a joke. He did need to prove himself to Shannon, and if she somehow happened to see this set, he was certain she'd know it was part of the big grovel, as Mindy had so aptly put it.
"So, yeah. Maybe not chocolate," he said, then continued on for another ten minutes, finishing up his set. When he was through, he joined his brother and his wife in the audience during a short break between acts. Julia clapped proudly as he walked over, then wrapped her arms around him in a big hug. "As always, you were magnificent," she said.
"I'm just sorry you didn't wind up with the funny brother," Brent said, adopting a frown.
"Shame she didn't get the funny-looking one, isn't it?" Clay said, deadpan.
Julia smiled and laughed. "You two are crazy. I know you were both lady-killers back in high school. All the Nichols men are fine-looking specimens," she said, then patted Clay's leg and wiggled her eyebrows at him.
Brent latched onto two words. He stared at her sharply. "High school? You think we stopped after high school?"
"Fine, fine. College, law school, and beyond," she added, then dropped her chin into her hands. "But seriously. What are we going to do about your little problem?"
He furrowed his brow. "What little problem?"
She gestured to the stage as an answer.
Clay chimed in. "Do you think you fooled us?"
///
Brent snapped his fingers. "Damn. You guessed it. I really am going to dip myself in chocolate. Should I do dark or milk chocolate, though? That's the million-dollar question."
Julia swatted him. "Brent! Seriously. Your lady problem."
"What lady problem?"
"You know you can't trick her, man. Might as well own up to it," Clay said, leaning back in his chair, parking his hands behind his head.
Brent laughed and held up his hands in surrender. "Fine, you got me. You saw straight through my routine."
"I know that, sweetie," Julia said, flashing a small smile. "But let me give you some advice. Whoever this woman is, she doesn't want you to solve the relationship problem by dipping yourself in chocolate, as cute as you may be."
Brent sighed, then laid out the story for his brother and his wife. "I've clearly got to big gesture the hell out of it. What do I do?"
Julia answered immediately. "The answer is simple. You need to focus on what matters to her. How can you show her how important she is to you? Where did you fail in the past in that regard?"
Brent scoffed. "That's gonna be a long list."
"Then take it item by item, step by step, and follow her cues."
Clay pointed his thumb at his wife. "She knows what she's talking about. Listen to the one and only Mrs. Nichols," he said, and those words dug into Brent's chest like a rusty shovel. He was thrilled that Julia and Clay were so happy together, but Shannon was supposed to have been the first Mrs. Nichols. She was supposed to have been his wife ten years ago. Now, she was simply a woman he'd had one dirty encounter with in his nightclub. He was at square one with her for all intents and purposes. Saying he was sorry yesterday was the barest beginning of trying to win her heart, and now he had to move past apologies and show her why she should want him.
After Clay and Julia went home, Brent made his way to the bar to catch up with Bob, who was pouring from the tap for another customer. "What does it take to get a beer around here?"
The man looked up and said dryly, "Evidently, it takes a chain restaurant."
"No shit. But hey, you'll be handling cosmos and top-shelf liquor in no time."
Bob gave him a quick salute, then handed out the drink. When he returned, he poured him a beer, then clinked an imaginary glass to Brent's. "Here's to the next phase-cosmos and fancy-ass drinks at your new club."
"And to landlords who aren't assholes," Brent said, raising his glass.
"Amen." Bob rapped his knuckles on the counter. "I'll miss this place."
"Yeah, me too."
Later, Brent hailed a cab and headed to his midtown hotel. As the cab ambled through traffic, he unlocked the screen on his phone, and opened up a new text message to Shannon. Keep it simple-keep it direct. That was what he'd do.
I'm in New York... thinking of you... can I see you when I return this weekend?
In seconds she replied.
I don't know. Can you?
Oh, she was feisty tonight, toying with word choice. He responded with a:
May I?
As the cab rolled past the Port Authority and the neon lights and tourist traps on 42nd Street, her reply arrived.
What will you be wearing?
Okay, he was getting somewhere, if they were talking about clothes. Brent grinned to himself as the cab lurched to a stop at a red light. Maybe he wasn't entirely at square one. Because he knew this woman. Knew how she liked to flirt. How she liked to play. How she liked to keep him on his toes.
What do you want me to wear?
As the cab started up again, he clutched the phone and peered out the window, forcing himself not to simply stare at the screen and wait for a reply. As he scanned the billboards and neon signs, he spotted one up ahead with a body in motion. A dancer leaping through the air. He read the details on the sign, and something clicked. "Yes," he said triumphantly out loud, and he had the answer to the question Julia had posed to him-what matters most to Shannon. He was about to begin a quick Google search when she replied.
Honestly, you're pretty hot in nothing. But I don't think you should parade around naked at dinner, and I keep hearing the new restaurant in the Cromwell is fantastic. There's a four-month wait, though. And I know you hate waiting. But maybe you can get us in...
Like there was a chance in hell he wouldn't.
Consider it done.
The cab arrived at his hotel, and several phone calls later, he'd pulled it off. He knew enough people in Vegas, so he'd called in some favors and secured the reservation for the woman he wanted most in the world. He also had something else for her, thanks to a couple of extra minutes spent Googling and ordering, but he'd wait until dinner to give her that gift. As he got into bed, he wrote to her, letting her know he'd pick her up at seven-thirty on Saturday. Her response was swift.
///
Impressed. Also, no need to pick me up. I'll meet you at the restaurant.
Damn. She hadn't given up her address yet. But that was okay. He had a way to earn it when he saw her that weekend. He laughed to himself at the realization that he was thirty-one years old and excited as hell about a dinner date.
But then, the dinner date was with her.
* * *
Tanner Davies snapped his fingers to get the waitress's attention. The woman with the bouncy ponytail doubled back to their table. "Yes?"
"I said I wanted sweetened iced tea. Take it back," he barked, making a get this out of my face gesture with his fingers. "This is unsweetened."
"Right away, sir," she said, with a deferential nod.
Tanner, the landlord, turned to Brent, and shook his head. "Fucking waiters. Anyway. Like I was saying, the neighbors are worried about you, man. They think you won't address their concerns properly."
Brent nodded at the owner of the building he'd already leased space from in Tribeca. They were at McCoy's in midtown, rolling up their sleeves to discuss the latest two-steps-forward-three-steps-back routine that New York was pulling.