“This feels like an invasion of privacy, Sam. And aggressive in maybe not a great way,” I finally say, tugging at the mock turtleneck on my dress, wishing I’d gone with a t-shirt and jeans.
Yes, it’s a party, but I always think more clearly in comfortable clothes. If I had my boyfriend-cut baby blues and vintage Evian t-shirt on right now, I would have already pinpointed the source of the fishy smell lingering around this situation.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “That’s my fault. I encouraged Doug to do whatever it took to put together a compelling packet for the board. I just wanted to get you the best offer possible and…I guess I thought you wouldn’t mind. Since it was me and you know I have your best interests at heart.”
I flap my arms at my sides. “Must I remind you again that I haven’t seen you in six years? And that you ghosted me? And that I have no idea who you are anymore?”
“Yes, you do,” he says, his dark eyes boring into mine with an intensity that makes my skin hot all over again. “I’m still the same person I was when we were best friends. I’m just less afraid to go after what I want than I was back then. And what I want is you, Jess.”
My stomach plummets like an elevator with the cables cut and a dizzying mixture of joy and terror swarms through my blood like nanobots on a mission to colonize my internal organs. Visions of Sam and me playing video games in our underwear in bed and making out fill my head, making longing twist in my chest.
I’ve never been the type to fantasize about having a serious boyfriend—I’m not great at imagining things I’ve never experienced firsthand—but suddenly I want to start. And I want to start with fantasies featuring this man in front of me, the one who knows me better than almost anyone and still seems to think I’m worth fighting for.
Thankfully, before I can say something catastrophically embarrassing like, “Yes, Sam, I will spend the next two weeks in bed with you and see if this grand-romantic-gesture thing is as amazing as the rom-com movies make it seem,” Sam adds, “Want you on the team for the new division, I mean. As soon as I heard about it, I knew you belonged there, and that it would be a win-win situation for everyone involved. I’m sorry if I overstepped while I was trying to make that happen, but I don’t regret it. The way women are treated in the gaming industry is repulsive. I want to right that wrong for as many women as possible, starting with my best friend.”
I bite my lip, torn between relief that he’s explained things in a way that banishes most of the icky feeling and tumbling into the deep, dark cavern of disappointment that’s opened in my solar plexus. Ten minutes ago, I would have said kissing Sam was great, but “video games in bed” fantasies were nowhere on my radar.
Now, with just a few misunderstood words, Sam has my usually logical brain tied in knots.
And there’s only one antidote to a knotted brain.
“All right,” I say with a nod. “Then I’ll take a meeting with your team. You can fill me in on the details tomorrow. Right now, I have to dance.”
He smiles. “Sounds amazing. Can I join you?”
“Only if you understand that I’m a free agent on the dance floor, Burgos. I don’t dance with other people. Mostly, for their own safety, but also because I’m into thrashing and random karate kicks. That’s why I wore shorts under my dress.”
“Yeah, I know this about you. I was at your senior prom, remember?” His eyes soften in a fond, affectionate sort of way that my befuddled skull melon wants to dissect under a microscope for signs that maybe he thinks bed video games would be fun, too, but I tell it to shut up.
There will be time to ponder this in the morning, when I’m sober, sugar-detoxed, and the delicious stud muffin Sam has become is nowhere in my immediate vicinity.
By then, I’ll be able to see all this in a logical, not-at-all-befuddled light.
Right?
Fuck if I know. All I know for sure is that a part of me is relieved when Sam decides to skip dancing and head back to his hotel and another part of me is already counting down the minutes until I get to see him again.
CHAPTER FOUR
From the texts of Sam Burgos
and Jack Holt
Jack: Missed you at the client cocktail party last night, but thanks for the game codes for the swag bags. My Ice Possums clients were so grateful that they set everyone up with season passes for next year. I snagged one for you, too, even though you’re too cool for group gatherings and live in a godforsaken country with sub-par professional hockey.
Sam: UK hockey is having a moment right now, man. Mark my words, give it five years and the NHL will be recruiting from UK teams.
Jack: And I’ll be recruiting wealthy British hockey players who want to invest in the US market. Thanks for the tip.
Sam: My pleasure. Gotta keep you happy, so you’ll keep managing my portfolio even though I’m not a famous professional athlete.
Jack: We at Seyfried & Holt happily make exceptions for eccentric billionaires. How’s the jet lag? Some of the guys from work and I are meeting up for a touch football game in Central Park later. You’re welcome to join us, and we could grab a beer or something after.
Sam: Can I take a rain check?
Jack: Sure. We still have the new-client recruiting picnic on Friday afternoon. You have to come to that. We’ll have those fancy Coney Island hot dogs you love, carnival games, clowns doing creepy clown shit, a petting zoo for the kids, and our secretary who is obsessed with alpacas is bringing her herd, the whole works.
Sam: Sounds fun, and yeah, I’ll be there for sure. I’d love to hang out today, too, but I have plans with an old friend this afternoon.