Frenemies by Megan Crane
They’d been doing a round of very unpleasant depositions out in Seattle. Georgia only got two days to go back home to her family, which was tense because, as I could imagine all too well, her mother was unimpressed with any career that had so far left Georgia single, without prospects, and unable to spend a longer Christmas with her family as a loving daughter should.
She’d had to leave her mother’s house to return to Seattle, where Chris Starling continued to behave as if he were a run-of-the-mill corporate attorney. It was like out of the frying pan, into the fire. Although significantly chillier.
“You know what his eyes are like,” Georgia said. “Now imagine them completely blank and without that . . . Chris Starling spark. It was like he suddenly had zombie eyes.”
“Oh my God,” I whispered, delighted. “I know you finally woke up and realized he was a cutie, but is that what I think it is? Because from over here it sounds like the short, fat, balding guy managed to get to you!”
Georgia actually blushed, which was all the confirmation I needed, because I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen that before.
“He is not short and fat, or even balding,” she said. “Maybe he has a receding hairline.”
“You’re preaching to the choir, Georgia.”
“I don’t know what I feel,” she said. “It’s way too soon to be throwing big, scary words around and you have to let me finish the story, okay?”
“Please,” I said, gesturing for her to continue.
It was in rainy, dark Seattle, outside a hotel near the Pike Place Market, that Georgia finally lost it. They were returning from another round of depositions, and were both quite obviously chilled to the bone. Georgia—very naturally—suggested they grab some of Seattle’s famous coffee. The original Starbucks was within walking distance of the hotel lobby. She figured they could ease the chill between them as well as the outside chill from the Seattle winter.
I wouldn’t want there to be any further misunderstandings, Chris Starling said in that monotone he’d been using, with a cold sort of glare to match.
Which had infuriated Georgia so much that she’d lost it right there, standing outside in the endless rain.
“What do you mean, you lost it?” I asked. Because it was hard to picture.
“I mean I completely lost it,” Georgia said. “Flipped my wig. Went nuts. Whatever you want to call it.”
“You screamed at him?”
“Mostly,” she said, “I burst into tears.”
Had she known that tears were the secret to cracking Chris’s disinterested exterior, Georgia might have tried it earlier. Because the moment she broke down, his whole Mr. Distant Boss thing crumbled. Oh no, he said, horrified, please don’t, Georgia. He kissed her, and so suddenly they were kissing while Georgia was still sort of crying, and it was raining, so then it was funny, too, and they couldn’t seem to stop kissing, and when they ended up in a hotel room this time, they stayed there all night.
“So . . . ?” I asked, after a long beat.
“So . . . wow,” she said, and flashed me a wicked sort of grin.
“Wow,” I echoed, happily.
They had done a lot of talking, in between more exciting things, and it turned out that Chris had had a thing for Georgia for a long time.
“Which, now that I think about it,” I said, “duh.”
“I know!” Georgia cried. “I’m such an idiot.”
Chris was older, at forty-two, and knew exactly what he wanted from life—he had the impending divorce to show him the folly of hanging on to the things he didn’t want. He told Georgia very frankly that he and his ex had been the perfect corporate couple. She was a consultant and more cutthroat than he was. They’d planned a perfect life: no kids, nice cars, sleek condos and a weekend house in Vermont. The only trouble was, Chris hated it. He wanted a different life from the one he’d trained for, he discovered. He was tired of being married to his job, with a wife married to hers. He wanted to take it easier. Maybe see the person he was supposed to be living with. Maybe quit Waterbury and work somewhere with better hours. Maybe see about the kids it turned out he wanted after all. He wasn’t sure about any of those details, he just knew he wanted out of the rat race.
Only trouble was, he had this thing about hard-as-nails career women. Particularly mouthy ones with wild, unprofessional hair and Amazonian bodies.
“So?” I demanded when she lapsed off into reverent silence yet again. “What happened? Are you going to live happily ever after the way I predicted or what?”
“Well,” Georgia said, straightening slightly in her seat. “That’s the thing.”
It turned out that Chris Starling was the cautious type.
This is great, he had told her just last night, but what happens between us on the road is completely outside reality. It’s wonderful, but I think you need to think about what it would mean for it to be a part of your reality here in Boston. I’m not exactly your type.
So they agreed that Georgia would go off to the big New Year’s party, where she would be forced to contend with Jared—the last of his type, we could all only hope. Chris didn’t want to hear from her until she’d looked around her real life and imagined him in it. If she thought he might fit, despite the fact he was about as removed from her normal sort of boyfriend as could be, well, she could call him and they’d talk about it. But no need to rush into anything. If she was confused, that was fine. He wasn’t any twenty-five-year-old jackass, filled with ultimatums and drama. She could take her time.
“That’s almost cruel,” I said then. “Doesn’t that make you want to call him right now?”
“You don’t even know.”
“I like him!”
“So do I,” Georgia breathed. “I just want to get to this stupid party, see dumbass Jared, kick myself, and call the man I think I should have been into about a year ago. Then, if there’s time, I want to drink a lot of champagne.”
“Don’t kick yourself too hard,” I said, moving my suddenly overheated feet away from the Matchbox vent. “It’s not like it would have done you any good a year ago because there was a whole wife issue.”
“Well, there isn’t one now,” Georgia said. “And not to get all defensive here, since Amy Lee isn’t even in the car to make fun of me for feeling too much too soon, but I have no idea what I feel for him. It’s weird and big and messy, but I’ve never been so excited about someone before. Not someone I could actually talk to, who made me laugh and cared about me. So this is all new.”
“You have to call him as soon as possible!” I squealed a little bit in vicarious excitement.
“Oh hell yes,” Georgia said, her smile taking over her face. “Why do you think I’m driving so fast?”
She wasn’t messing around. But there was only so much even Georgia could do about the holiday traffic that inched across the Cape Cod Canal. To say nothing of the glut of cars that moved like molasses up the Mid-Cape Highway toward Provincetown. It was afternoon by the time we made it to our destination: a pretty seaside village stretched along the elbow portion of the flexed arm that was the Cape Cod peninsula.
We were still of one mind—locate Jared, note the many differences between Jared and Chris Starling, bask in Georgia’s awakening to the wonderfulness of Chris Starling, call him as planned and in so doing sort out Georgia’s heretofore painful love life.
If there was time, I might even deal with some issues of my own, but I was putting all that on the back burner. Duty to friendship called. Also, I was repressing.
First, though, we had to check into the hotel. And, not inconsiderably, sneak Linus inside.
To give our friend Lorraine credit, the place was as beautiful as she’d claimed. Pictures of the main building in the height of summer graced the walls—blue hydrangeas and holly bushes beneath the Cape Cod bright blue skies. It was all much starker this time of year, of course. The winds howled in from the bay and stalked around the corners of the house, but inside the fires were lit and the rooms were
“We’re totally getting booted out of here,” Georgia hissed out of the side of her mouth. “Have you looked at that concierge?”
She marched across the lobby to the reception desk, leaving me to stand by a collection of evergreen branches while she sorted out our reservations. I looked at the concierge in question—he looked as if maybe he performed in a bouncer capacity as well. He had arms like whole meat lockers. There was no way we would be sneaking Linus past a bruiser like him. I swallowed.
Then I reminded myself that Georgia was a top attorney, and dealt with the criminal element every day—or anyway, while deposing them all over the country—and therefore probably had a wily criminal mind of her own. Just to keep up. At which point I was forced to remind myself that Georgia was the woman who once forgot the entire concept of caller ID, called a guy she was dating one hundred and fifty seven times in one day (which was not as much of an exaggeration as you might imagine), and was then surprised when he ordered her never to call him again. Before he picked up and moved to Jacksonville, Florida.
Put Georgia’s idiocy together with my klutziness and the very fact of Linus—and, oh yeah, we’d be sleeping in the car.
“All right,” Georgia said, walking back over to me. “Our room is on the fourth floor. Tragically, it’s still next door to certain dentists the way we requested back when we still liked her, but that’s going to be the least of our problems. Let’s go check it out.”
“What about . . . ?” I indicated the outside with my eyebrows, where, if I looked closely, I could just see the outline of Linus’s shaggy head smashed against the front window of the car. Then I looked back at Georgia and tried to indicate Linus with my eyes.
“I think we should check out the room and then look for alternate entrances,” Georgia said. She looked around. “There’s no way we’re getting anything past the front desk.”
So we hoisted up our bags and smiled widely at the woman behind the reception desk—perhaps too widely, judging from the confusion on her face—and trudged up the staircase. Old stately manors, apparently, were big on elegance and bay views, but short on elevators.
By the time we reached the fourth floor, I was winded and Georgia was gasping for air. We stopped at the top and sucked in oxygen.
“This is what happens when you work ninety hours a week and have no life because you sold your soul to a corporate law firm,” Georgia said, and then had to pause to breathe deep. She eyed me. “Looks like the much-ballyhooed life of the mind isn’t doing a whole lot for you, either.”
“You’re fat, greedy, and soulless,” I threw back at her. “I’m just fat.”
“I’m ready to take my fat, greedy, and soulless ass to bed,” Georgia retorted, wiping stray red tendrils back from her face. “Can we find this room?”
It was done up in blues and creams, and it was lovely. We threw our bags onto the two full-size beds and then headed straight back out. As Georgia had suspected, there was another entrance around the side of the big house. Once we got Linus inside, we could just whisk him up the stairs and into the room with no one the wiser.
Linus, all kinds of grumpy after being cooped up in the car, expressed his ire by dawdling across the lawn as I tugged on his leash and hissed at him to hurry. He didn’t even deign to look up at me, he just continued to sniff the bare earth and placidly cock a leg every few feet.
“Hurry up!” Georgia whispered—loudly—from the door she was propping open.
I shivered, shooting nervous glances toward the front entrance through which, at any moment, I expected to see the muscle-man concierge come running with assorted other staff members to apprehend me.
Finally, Linus let me haul him indoors, and Georgia eased the door closed behind us. We grinned at each other as if we’d just completed a covert operation to save the world rather than sneak a mutt into a hotel, and then we started up the stairs in a rush.
“See?” I was definitely feeling smug. “You should have more faith in us. We rule!”
“Hey,” she protested from the step behind me, “in case you haven’t noticed, we have a history of making bad situations terribly and horrifically worse.”
“We’re all grown up now,” I said, even more smug. “You should give us a little more credit.”
Which, naturally, is when it happened.
Georgia, too busy laughing to watch where she was going, tripped over her own feet and crashed into me.
“Ouch!” I cried, and threw my hands out to catch the banister.
But to do that, I had to drop Linus’s leash.
Linus trotted up another step or two, and then paused. He turned.
Our eyes met.
He noticed that no one was holding his leash. He cocked his head to the side.
For the space of one heartbeat, and then another, I stared at my dog. He stared back.
“Good boy,” I murmured, pulling myself upright, never breaking eye contact. “Good, sweet boy. Stay, Linus!”
I swear to God, he smirked at me.
And then he bolted.
“Shit!” I yelped, and threw myself after him.
Everything sped up.
“Linus!” I hissed, tearing after him. He ignored me completely. He galloped up to the third-floor landing and then took off along the hall. I could tell that he was having a merry old time—his tail was waving happily in the air and every now and again he would toss a coy little glance behind him to make sure I stayed close—and out of reach. I was sucking in gulps of air and cursing under my breath.
“I knew I should have gotten a gerbil,” I snarled.
We skidded after him into a small sitting room, tastefully done up in cranberry hues. Georgia crashed into me from behind, tossing me forward into the room.
“Ow!” she cried, grabbing her elbow.
“Block the doorway!” I commanded, righting myself and crouching low. “Whatever you do, don’t let him get past you!”
“What if someone comes?” she hissed.
I couldn’t answer her because all of my attention was focused on Linus. It had obviously just occurred to him that he might be trapped.
He turned to face me, and assumed what I called his vulture position. His body tensed, and his head lowered, as he watched me approach with his canny eyes.
“Sit down,” I told him.
Yeah, right.
“The next time you get a dog,” Georgia complained behind me, “you might consider actually training the damn thing.”
For a moment, I thought Linus might back down. His ears flicked from front to back, and his head cocked just slightly to the right.
“Good boy,” I crooned approvingly. “Sit down, Linus.”
I eased a little bit closer, reached out and down with my hand—
And he took off.
Georgia squealed and jumped at him, smacking into the doorjamb while Linus zoomed through her legs.
“You suck!” I threw at her as she collapsed into a heap in the doorway. I vaulted over her crumpled body and hurled myself down the hall after my dog.
This was the end of the line, I knew.
He was headed straight for the main staircase, which would deliver him directly into the main lobby and deliver us directly out on our collective ear. If I was going to save this situation—and I had to—it had to happen then.
I pumped my arms and legs like some kind of marathon runner and then, just as Linus turned the corner toward the top stair, I dived.
I lunged forward in an all-out dive. My fingers stretched wide—I felt the canvas leash with the tips of them—but Linus danced just out of reach—
SMACK!
I hit the ground in a belly flop and skidded a few feet. I slid directly into what took me a moment to recognize as someone’s feet. I blinked. Familiar-looking black boots with a four-inch heel, polished to gleam. And under the right foot—pinned and immovab
I thanked the powers that be, and then looked up, ready to kiss the feet in front of me. I was already lying there in position, prostrate and everything.
“Hello, Gus.” Amy Lee peered down at me, and let out a little sigh. “I thought that was you.”
chapter twenty-one
“Oh, terrific!” Georgia said from behind me. Her sarcasm preceded her by about three feet, like a kind of bad smell. It made Amy Lee recoil in the same way. “Look, Gus! Amy Lee is here to judge us!”
She came to a stop next to me, which meant her sharp-toed boots were mere centimeters from my face. That made two sets of dangerous heels within easy stomping distance. I decided it would probably behoove me to get up.
“Was I interrupting something?” Amy Lee asked in her snottiest voice. “Because it just looked like the usual immature crap to me.”
“Merry Christmas and a happy new year to you!” I singsonged, grabbing Linus’s leash from under Amy Lee’s foot and restraining myself from trying to fling her down the stairs. Because violence was better imagined than actual, I reminded myself. Actual violence led to prison terms.
For his part, Linus seemed completely unaffected by his dash across the hotel. In fact, he—oblivious to the group dynamics—was delighted to see Amy Lee and kept trying to lick her hands.
“Forced holiday cheer will definitely divert everyone’s attention,” Georgia snapped at me. “Good call.”
And then the three of us just . . . stood there on the landing, not quite looking at each other. I had a dramatic moment wherein I imagined our history hung there in the air between us, but I suspected it was just the pine smell from the evergreens downstairs in the lobby.
“I think things kick off around 4 p.m.,” Amy Lee said eventually, still not looking anywhere in particular. “Lorraine insists on black tie. I have to get changed.”