Accidental Tryst (Charleston #1)(23)

"I can't eat gluten, so sandwiches are out I'm afraid."

I make a dramatic shocked sound. "No sandwiches? Bloody hell. What about a hamburger? You can't eat a hamburger? Stop. What is this horror?"

She laughs, a trickle of honey over the phone. "Well, some places do very good gluten-free buns, so I still get to enjoy them. And I eat my weight in fries." She groans. "Oh man. Now I'm starving. I'd kill for a burger."

"I'm guessing that's your favorite meal?"

"Hmm," she hums. "I don't have a favorite. That just happens to be what I'm craving."

"Everyone has a favorite."

"Not me. So tell me how a Suit Monkey living in New York with family slash not-friends in Charleston has some vague British accent going on?"

Her question stops me mid type in my search for burger places with gluten-free options that deliver in Far Rockaway, New York. "That's a little personal, don't you think?"

She snorts. "I told you about my gluten-free buns, that's pretty personal."

I laugh, and I hear her inhale lightly.

Pursing my lips, I continue my search, zeroing in on a place that looks perfect.

"True." I stall as I pick the toppings I think she'll like but request them on the side just in case. "So my mother fell in love with an Englishman who was in Charleston on business. He was in shipping or something. She got knocked up, and in true uptight Southern tradition was cast out. Followed him home."

"Wait, your family kicked her out?" Her voice lowers. "How old was she?"

I type in Emmy's address and pay for the burger plus gratuity. I tell myself it's simply an act of charity for someone who won't eat otherwise. I have the means, so why not? What's she asking? Oh, my mother. "She was nineteen, I think."

"Wow, I'm so sorry."

"Old enough to know better."

"Young enough to be taken advantage of by some British guy who should have kept his raincoat on, you mean?" She volleys the question back to me, and it occurs to me I might have been harboring some anger at my mother all this time, when it was my father who should have known better.

"I guess." I frown. "Kept his raincoat on?"

"Suited up? Used a pro . . . phyl . . . actic?" she enunciates. "A condom."

My mouth twists in amusement. "Yes, he should have. Must keep the general in combat uniform at all times."

"You call him the general?"

"God, stop it. It's fine for you to joke, but not me?"

"So you don't call him the general? That's a shame."

"What is it about you? We've discussed my mother and my penis, topics I don't believe there is a person alive with whom I would have this discussion."

There's a pause where I imagine her shrugging. "Maybe because we're strangers forced together under strange circumstances which gives us a level of intimacy but who have no judgments or preconceived notions about each other?"

"Ding, ding, ding, I beg to differ on the judgments. I believe you called me a . . . wait, let me find the exact wording, you put it in writing, ahh, here it is: a spoiled, suit-wearing monkey."

"Ah yes, I guess that's true. Well, you called me a mess. And a hippie chick. Why was that by the way?"

"The hot mess part?”

“You didn’t say hot mess, you just said mess. Totally different connotation.”

“I meant to say hot mess,” I admit. Why not? “Case in point, thousands of unread emails, picking up the wrong phone etc. etc."

"You—"

"I know, I know. Apparently that was my fault. The hippie part? The long hair and long flowy skirt, I guess. I don't really know."

"I always like to be comfortable when I travel."

"So you don't normally wear long flowy clothes?" I ask and then think of the fitted black top that could have been the top of a cocktail dress in her dating profile.

"Depends on my mood. I have to wear skirt suits at work, so I like to be in anything but when I get off."

My mind immediately goes where it shouldn't, and I press my lips tight to keep from reacting.

"Work, I mean," she adds, only confirming she went there too. "When I get off work. God."

"Of course," I deadpan, though it almost kills me. "I normally like to get out of my suit when I get off too."

"Stop it," she growls, and my smile spreads wider.

I cough. "So, what do you do that puts you in suits every day?"

"I work for an agency that does restaurant marketing. I could probably work from home, and work in jeans, but my boss is a sexist pig who likes the women at the office to show their legs and thinks sending us out to restaurants with our legs and figures on display will win us all the business."

She sounds sincere, and resigned. "Does it?" I ask because I'm curious, and she makes a sound of disgust like I should have sympathized with her and called her boss an asshole. He is, but I'm curious about her tone.

"Honestly, while there are some real assholes, most of my clients are female, gay, happily married, or all three. I could walk into a pitch in a bustier and high heels and we wouldn't win more work. I win because I'm really good at what I do."