But they weren’t all bad.
Dad believed that no company could run without everyone being accountable, even him, which was why he had a board of trustees to make sure that happened. The only problem was that they were (mostly) a bunch of old white dudes that would be content going back to the 1950s to make sure women stayed in the kitchen and out of the boardroom. Ironic, considering they worked at a software company that was all about reaching for the future.
I took a cab back to my apartment, even though I could have taken the T. Dad had tried to make me use a driver, but I kept paying him off and then ditching him, so Dad had given up and compromised by buying me a car that I only used when I drove up to the summer house in Maine.
I’d grown up just outside Boston in a nice suburb, but had always longed for the noise and cacophony of living here. People said New York was the greatest city of all, but it was definitely Boston, hands down.
The other thing Dad had tried to insist on was a lavish apartment, on which I had relented, but only as long as my best friend from college, Sloane, could live with me. Dad adored Sloane, so it was easy to convince him.
“I’m home,” I called as I slipped out of my heels and set my bag down by the door. “You will never believe the kind of day I had,” I said, walking into the kitchen where Sloane was making . . . something.
“Rough day?” she said, handing me a glass of white wine. There were many reasons I loved Sloane, and this was one of them.
“Thank you. Um, you could say that.” I told her everything about the interviews and then started the story about meeting Lucas Blaine as she stirred steaming and bubbling pots and pans on our six burner stove, her dyed blacker-than-night ponytail bobbing around. She’d been on a floral kick lately, and was wearing an ankle-length halter dress with a huge tropical flower print on the front. She’d accented it with chunky gold jewelry and gladiator sandals. I wished I could pull off her outfits, but I just couldn’t.
Sloane was a fashion designer now, but when we’d met, she’d just been a girl from a bad family trying to get through college at an Ivy League university by the skin of her teeth. She’d made it and since then had been building a fashion empire, most of which had been spawned in this very apartment. She was brilliant, passionate and very persuasive, which is how she managed to fund everything. Even Dad wrote her a check. Anonymously, of course. She would never take money from me, and insisted on paying rent and utilities. And having the final say on all decorating decisions. Our place was cozy and cluttered, but everything fit together anyway. Bright and fun, we had lots of knickknacks and throw pillows and picture frames arranged to make the place feel welcoming.
Her blue eyes widened as I told her about Mr. Blaine. I was determined to call him that and not by his first name.
“So yeah. I am not hiring him. No way.” I sipped the last of the wine and poured myself another. I was a bit of a lightweight, but this was a two-glasses-of-wine kind of night.
“Why not? I would. Then you could stare at him all day and pretend it’s for work.”
But how would I get any actual work done?
I sighed and decided to change the subject.
“What are you making?”
“Truffle mac, garlic asparagus, and mango sticky rice for dessert.” In addition to being a fashion genius, Sloane was also an unbelievable cook. She was one of those people who was good at everything she tried. I always told her that she needed to open up her own restaurant, but she didn’t want to. Her heart and soul were in fashion. Cooking was just a hobby.
I used to try to help, but Sloane is a bit of a control freak, and I hadn’t been able to master her stirring technique, even after all the years I’d been trying. So I sat at the bar and rested my forehead against the cool of the granite countertop.
“So you want to go out on Friday? Open mic night at the bar.” She just calls it the bar, because it’s the one we frequent. Any other place is called by name.
“Listening to douches with guitars that think they can sing and girls with too many feelings trying to pour them into crappy lyrics? I am there,” I said, raising my head.
“Oh come on. You’re not still upset about King Douchebag, are you?” Sloane had started calling my ex that, because of the whole cheating thing. It made me laugh, and it was an accurate portrayal, so I called him that too.
“Not really. I just . . . I miss being in a relationship. I miss having something to look forward to. A reason to get pretty.”
“Babe, you don’t need to get pretty for anyone but yourself. How many times have I told you that?”
“Too many to count.” It was true that I could live very easily without a man, and had done so for nearly my entire college career. I’d been too focused on working my way up in the company and maintaining my GPA to deal with guys.
“So we’ll get pretty, you’ll borrow something from my new collection, and we’ll go out and have a girl’s night. Just us. Oh, and Marisol. And Chloe,” she said, taking one of the pots off the heat as she mentioned the other two girls in our little friend group. I’d always found it funny that girls seemed to hang out in groups of four, but it worked.
Through some strange coincidence, all four of us were currently single. That had never happened, and we were taking full advantage of it, having as much fun without worrying about men as possible. Or women, in Chloe’s case.
“I’m in,” I said, finally smiling as she held out a spoon for me to taste.
“That’s my girl. Now, back to this Lucas fellow. I want details, and I want them right now.”
This was going to be one of those nights.
After I told Sloane any and every detail of Mr. Lucas Blaine, down to this earring and chin dimple (mmm . . .), I made her let me off the hook by putting in a movie and volunteering to paint her toenails. And, of course, there was more wine involved.
“Have you ever, you know, thought about doing a no strings attached kind of thing? Just to scratch that itch?” she said as I added topcoat with precision.
“Not really. I don’t know if I could have sex with someone without getting my emotions into it. I have a tendency to bond with whoever I’m having sex with.”
Sloane raised her eyebrow, because we both knew that was an understatement.
“Okay, okay. I have issues where that’s concerned, but I don’t think a f**k buddy is going to help any.”
“No, but it would get you laid. I mean, can you imagine how many guys would want to rock your world? Enough to start a waiting list, that’s how many.”