Playing It Safe(5)

“What? Nothing’s wrong,” I say a tad too defensively, playing it off with a shrug of my shoulders. The last thing I need is for Lisette to drag out my daydreams of Alex in any way, shape, or form. “Just thinking about how crazy the schedule is for this week.”

“It’s not that bad. We’ve done three events in one week before. You can do this with your eyes closed and your hands tied behind your back.”

My mind goes straight to the gutter. Thoughts of being blindfolded and bound to a bed, at Alex’s hands and completely at his mercy, start whirling around in my head. God, it would be good … soooo good. Like earth-shattering good. Like speaking in tongues good. And I’m not even that into being tied up. But for Alex … damn, I’d haul my ass on over to Home Depot and buy the rope myself.


You know how I know he’d be amazing? Because there are some men—and when I say some, I mean a select few of the species—that the first thing you do when you meet them is picture how many sexual positions you can recreate from the Kama Sutra. Alex, without a doubt, is one of those men.

Okay, okay, so maybe I have a little crush on him. I don’t think I would act on it, though. The guy did boldly go where no man has gone before, or at least he tried to with my best friend. That would be like sloppy seconds, right? Maybe incestuous in Bizarro World since she’s like the sister I never had? Eww, so gross! I really need to come up with another way of looking at this whole situation. There are times, however, that it feels like he wants something to happen. Like he’s waiting for me to make a move. Goading me even. These instances are becoming more frequent to the point that I’m constantly questioning the parameters of our friendship. But the second I teeter on the brink of doing something about it, I reel myself back in.

“Earth to Julia! Come in, Julia!” Lisette’s hands are cupped around her mouth when her voice snaps me back to reality.

Shaking off the mental hopscotch I just played, I get back to the business at hand. “Sorry,” I quickly answer. “Was just thinking about all the redecorating I’m planning on doing this weekend. Where were we?”

Her cackle fills the room instantly. “?Por favor! You were not thinking about redecorating.”

“I was! I was thinking of color palettes.”

She narrows her eyes at me and says, “You forget how well I know you. If you don’t want to share, fine. But remember, I’ve got my eyes on you.” Then she lifts her two fingers and points them toward her eyes, then at me, and then back to herself again.

“Whatever.”

“Yeah right, whatever,” she says, mimicking my dismissive tone. “Fine, can we discuss the Grandersons’ party then?”

“Yup, hang on a second while I pull up their file.”

A few strokes of the keyboard later and the details of the party we’re planning at the Grandersons’ home in Key Biscayne this Wednesday night are up and ready for review. I do a quick scan of the particulars before turning my head to face Lisette again, but not before I take note of the time on the corner of my monitor: 1:12 p.m.

“Lisette, sweetie, can you move your seat over to the right just a hair, please? The glare coming from the window behind you is killing my eyes.”

She smiles and does as I ask before going into details about the party. Everything seems to be in order, and then like clockwork, my eyes feast upon a vision standing at the receptionist’s desk. There he is. Mr. UPS Guy in all his UPS uniformed glory.

Bow chicka bow wow …





CHAPTER THREE


It’s like Africa hot in this tent, or oven—whichever way you want to refer to this plastic, white-walled room of heat. Even though it’s mid-September in Miami, if you’re in a tent at any time of the year, it’s the equivalent of a sweat lodge. As for me, the secret to Secret deodorant is to not sweat like a pig. Which completely defeats the purpose since your secret is out of the bag, as evident by the giant rings of perspiration currently gracing my white pintuck blouse. It’s a classy look.

I tried to talk them out of using this thing, but there was no use. Mr. Granderson, my client, refused to hear anything to the contrary. His only requirement for me was to make his baby girl happy at her rehearsal dinner. And his baby girl wanted a tent, so whatever baby wants, baby gets.

Speaking of “baby,” the few times we spoke during the planning stages of her engagement party she’d sometimes get a dreamy, faraway look in her eye. As if the mere thought of her betrothed would incapacitate her ability to hold a conversation. I can’t lie. I’m jealous. I want that for myself. I want to meet someone who robs me of speech, makes my pulse race, and loves me beyond measure. It might be a pipe dream at this point in my life. I’m barely holding on to the hope of finding “him.” And as I stand to the far side of the sweat tent observing the guests congratulate “baby,” I picture myself in her shoes.

People raise their champagne-filled flute glasses until someone clinks theirs with a spoon to quiet the crowd. “Congratulations, and may you both live in the glow of love for years to come. To Julia and …”

Damn, even in my daydream I can’t muster up a make-believe name for the faceless man I’m supposed to be engaged to. If that’s not pathetic, I don’t know what it is.

A defeated sigh escapes me as I scan the crowd again, looking for the groom-to-be. I never got a chance to meet him since “baby” said he was out of town on business. I think I spot the back of his head finally just as I catch Lisette heading my way from the corner of my eye. By the determined look on her face, my first thought is something happened with the caterer, which always seems to be the case at these things. But I quickly realize it’s much worse than that by the one word that spills out of her mouth as soon as she reaches me.