Just a Name Read online

  I glance over as Nathan looks my way and our eyes lock. Not in a romantic way. Just more of a what-the-hell-are-you-doing-here way. Or maybe that’s what I’m trying to convey. Nathan, in his causal business attire and disheveled dark curly hair, appears as if he’s both pleased and surprised to see me. Pleased because Nathan always carries a pleasant look on his face. He’s the picture of cool, calm, and collected. Always the salesman, since that’s what he does for the company he and Logan own. His look of surprise means he didn’t expect me to be out tonight. I’m suddenly glad I am. No, I’m not crying on my couch and watching sappy movies while I eat ice cream. None of that ever happened. Well, the ice cream did. And of course I cried. But there were no sappy movies.

  I see him whisper something to Logan, and then they both start walking toward our table. I could have sworn my face did not seem very welcoming, but Nathan was never good at reading my facial expressions.

  “Crap, you guys, I made eye contact,” I say in a stage whisper as Nathan and Logan navigate their way through the restaurant and toward the round table we’re occupying.

  “Why would you do that?” Quinn asks, her whole face scrunched up. She looks me up and down as if she’s wondering if she knows me at all—even though she knows me better than anyone else. Maybe even better than the man who’s walking toward us.

  “Hey,” Nathan says as he and Logan approach the table. Nathan rubs his hands together—something he’s always done. And it signifies nothing, I’ve realized. He does it when he’s happy, sad, anxious, or just whenever. Standing next to him, Logan pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts navigating around it one-handed with his thumb. I’m guessing he finds this awkward as well.

  “Hello,” I say, sounding ridiculously formal, like how you’d greet someone you don’t really know. Like your manicurist. Or your OB/GYN. I wish that were the case—I’d love to be visiting my gynecologist instead of being here in this moment. But this is not an acquaintance; this is Nathan, and I know Nathan. I know everything about him. I know he’s most ticklish on the back of his neck, just below his hairline. I know that, for breakfast, he likes his eggs over easy and his toast barely browned and slathered in butter. I know he has a constellation of moles on his back that look oddly like the Big Dipper. Besides his mom, I’m probably the only person in the world who could identify his body if ever there were a need. Which is mostly a morbid thought. Mostly.

  Too controlling. Is that what he sees when he looks at me? Does he feel anything? Does he miss me? Is he relieved that we’re no longer together? There’s no way to tell because he just looks like Nathan. Easygoing as ever.

  “Alex, Quinn, Bree,” Nathan says, his head doing a quick bob as he acknowledges my friends.

  They mutter replies back. I’m pretty sure Alex calls him a douchebag under his breath. Nathan doesn’t notice.

  “Holly,” Logan says, giving me a quick lift of the corner of his mouth—or, his signature smile. Which isn’t even a smile at all.

  “Logan,” I reply.

  We stare at each other for a weird moment.

  “Hi, Logan,” Quinn pipes in, breaking the stare, her long eyelashes bat a few extra times as she peers up at him.

  Once upon a time, Quinn had a thing for Logan. Maybe she still does. Logan’s a pretty good looking guy, when his personality doesn’t mess it up. Okay, fine. He’s a really good looking guy. I can acknowledge that, even though he has never been anything but cold and aloof around me. Except for earlier today when he was awkward and weird. Currently he’s all back into that smelling-a-fart expression he usually has around me and my friends.

  Nathan and I tried to set up Logan and Quinn once, but the chemistry just wasn’t there. At least on Logan’s part. Which is ridiculous, since Quinn is stunning. Soft curves and a face not easily forgotten. Of course, even Quinn doesn’t appreciate her own looks. She’s constantly complaining about being too fat, which she’s absolutely not. But she does work in an industry where she’s being unceasingly scrutinized. At least that’s one thing I can appreciate about my job at CT Anderson Bank. No one to scrutinize how I appear, because it’s not part of my job. My management skills, however . . .

  “What brings you to our corner of the world?” Bree asks, emphasizing the our in a very territorial way. I imagine the tables being pushed to the side as we do a dance off to see who this place really belongs to.

  “Just grabbing a bite,” Nathan says, rubbing his hands together again.

  “You couldn’t find another place in all Orlando?” Bree asks, her fingers daintily holding her martini glass even though it’s now empty.

  Nathan squints. “I didn’t really think about it,” he says and then gestures with his head toward Logan. “Logan planned it.”

  Of course this was Logan’s idea. Of course. That makes me feel better, knowing it wasn’t Nathan’s idea to come here.

  “We can go somewhere else if it bothers you,” Nathan says, his sincere eyes focusing on me.

  “No,” I say as my friends reply with okays and yeses.

  “You guys,” I say, in a very chastising tone as I look around at my friends. My eyes move to the man standing in front of us. The man I was supposed to marry. “Nathan, it’s fine,” I tell him.

  I’m totally being the bigger person here. Go, me.

  The hostess calls out Nathan’s name, notifying him that there’s a table ready for him, the timing perfect. I had a feeling, as I watched Alex’s face, that he was considering a throw-down right here in the middle of Hester’s. He’s quite protective of me . . . of all of us, really.

  “Well, it was good to see you all,” Nathan says. Logan grunts a goodbye.

  “Don’t they make a lovely couple?” Alex asks after they walk away, and Bree snickers.

  I watch as they walk over to their table and sit down and then stand back up only seconds later as Logan waves over at the entrance to the busy restaurant. My eyes travel to where he’s waving and I see a tall brunette and a shorter blonde wave back and then saunter over to the table. The tall brunette with bright red lipstick and a slinky tank that’s tucked into a very skin-tight pencil skirt takes the seat next to Logan and the blonde, who’s wearing a very short red sleeveless sheath dress, sits by Nathan. I can’t hear what they’re saying, the restaurant is much too loud, but their gestures convey that there are introductions happening as they all shake hands and nod at one another.

  “Holy S,” Quinn says, “is Nathan on a date?”

  I had, of course, just thought those same words in my head, however I didn’t use any initials in my thoughts. Only full curse words for me. Because this does seem like some sort of date. I had expected Nathan to move on fairly quickly; he was never one to be alone—a bit of a serial monogamist—but it had only been three weeks. Three freaking weeks.

  It appears to be a blind date since it seems like they’re all meeting for the first time. But for Nathan to even agree to any kind of date now . . . did I mean anything to him? At all? I should have told him yes when he offered to leave.

  “Hols, don’t jump to conclusions,” Quinn says, probably in response to the look on my face. “It could be a business meeting.”

  “Yeah,” Bree says. “A business meeting in the evening, with Sluts-R-Us. Makes perfect sense.” Sarcasm duly noted.

  “I never liked him,” Alex says, leaning back in his chair, his head shaking. This is the lie all my friends have told me, even though up until less than a month ago that was definitely not the case.

  Well, this has been fun.

  “What are you doing?” Quinn asks as she sees me trying to get the attention of our server.

  “I’m leaving,” I say, waving my hand around.

  “You can’t leave, Hols,” Bree says. “If you do, he wins.”

  “This isn’t a game,” I say.

  “What did I miss?” Thomas asks, slightly breathless as he takes a seat. Everyone says their hellos, except for me, of course. I’m still trying to leave.

 
“Nathan and Logan showed up,” Quinn says to Thomas, and then does a little head bob over toward where they’re sitting.

  “Well, would you look at that,” Thomas says not even discreetly gawking. He takes in a quick breath. “OMG, is Nathan on a date?”

  Subtlety is not Thomas’s strong suit. Maybe it’s the lawyer in him. Or the a-hole. I love Thomas but I can only take him in small doses, and I’ve had a lot of those small doses recently since our parents are dating each other. That’s right, my dad is dating Thomas’s mom. There are many reasons why this is not awesome.

  “We don’t know that it’s a date,” Quinn snaps, with a quick eyebrow raise, trying to nonverbally get Thomas to shut it. They have a way of talking in only facial expressions, those two.

  “Well, it sure looks like it,” Thomas says, not even noticing Quinn’s facial clues. His tie is askew and the top of his shirt unbuttoned, but his blondish hair is gelled into place so well not even a hurricane could budge it.

  “And I’m leaving,” I say, still trying to get the attention of the server.

  “You can’t leave. I just got here,” Thomas pouts. “Besides, I owe you a drink,” he says with a double eyebrow raise.

  “You do?” I question him dubiously. This wreaks of something stinky. Thomas never buys drinks for anyone. Even when we’re taking turns buying rounds, he never offers or he waits until the end of the night when everyone is leaving and says how drinks are on him next time since he never got around to it this time. Bit of an evil genius, that one.

  “Yes, I owe you a drink because you guessed correctly on Mugshot Monday,” he says, a large grin on his face.

  “I did?” I ask, my brows pulled downward.

  Every Monday, for probably the last five years, Thomas sends an e-mail to a handful of us with three mugshots he finds online, and we’re to guess the crime. Aptly titled: Mugshot Mondays. I haven’t played for a while because I’d started to feel bad for people who were being unknowingly subjected to our fun, even though real names were never revealed (nothing a Google search couldn’t remedy, though). Especially since there’s a mugshot of my own mother floating around out there. Not that any of my friends know anything about that.

  But today, I felt like playing. Maybe because I wanted to see that there are other people out there having just as crappy a time as I am. Or worse.

  And I won. Even before when I played it religiously, I never ever won. Somehow this feels like a silver lining to my drab evening. The tiniest, teeniest, silver lining known to man, but I’ll take it.

  “Hey,” Bree says, her upper lip curling up on one side, very Elvis-like. “Since when have you been buying drinks for the winners? I got it right last week and all I got from you was an e-mail with a picture of a cat that said ‘you done good, beeeeeyotch.’”

  “Yes, well, I changed the rules, just today. From now on, anyone that gets Mugshot Mondays correct gets a drink on me.” He slaps his hands on his thighs and I have a sinking suspicion this rule will change next week.

  “Well, I’ve already had my two drinks for the night,” I say with a nod to the empty wine glass in front of me. “So I’ll have to take a rain check.”

  “Hols, look around you,” Thomas says. “Your ex-fiancé has shown up tonight and is now sitting at another table on what appears to be a date—ouch!” he says, reaching down to rub the leg that I’m quite sure Quinn just kicked. He recovers quickly. “You deserve a drink. You need to get that stick out of your butt and live a little—ouch! Stop that!” He reaches down to rub his leg again. Quinn has very long legs. Quite useful in situations such as this.

  “I have a stick up my butt,” I say, my tone even.

  “Well, sure,” Thomas says, scooting his chair back a bit so Quinn can’t reach him. “With all the planning, and the rules, and everything having to be in the right place,” he says, motioning toward my wine glass and then to the fact that I’m currently aligning my fork and knife together.

  “So I’m controlling, then,” I say, abandoning the utensils.

  “Yes—ouch!—I mean, no,” he says, rubbing his leg again. He underestimated the length of Quinn’s legs and scoots his chair away even farther.

  I sigh, slumping down in my chair. “I’m boring,” I say.

  “No,” Thomas scoffs, and the others join in, chorusing no’s around me. “You need to lighten up a bit. Live a little,” he says.

  “Oh yeah, Hols,” Bree says. “That’s a good idea. Go to work hungover. Maybe your team will like you more.”

  “What?” I scrunch my face up at her.

  “What team? What did I miss?” Thomas asks, his eyes darting around the table as he searches for answers.

  “Holly is having trouble with her team at work. They don’t . . . love her,” Quinn says gingerly.

  “They hate me,” I say. Although I’m hopeful my less hovering approach from today is making them have second thoughts about me.

  “Oh,” Thomas scoffs. “Boring.”

  “That’s not helpful,” Quinn says.

  “You want helpful? Then here’s my advice. Hols—”

  “Don’t even say she should sleep with them,” Quinn cuts him off.

  “I wasn’t going to say that,” Thomas protests, looking appalled. “I was going to say that Holly here just needs to start passing out the compliments.”

  “Huh?” I ask, not following.

  “It’s easy to get people to like you, just compliment them,” he says, peering at me as if I’ve got no brain. “Everyone loves to be praised. They’ll eat that crap up and they’ll all be your lackeys in no time. Like, take Alex here.” Thomas gestures at Alex, who’s sitting across the table from him. “I like the shirt you’re wearing today, Alex,” he says.

  Alex looks down at the light blue button-up and rubs a hand down the front of it. “Thanks,” he says. His lips pull up into a pleasant smile.

  “See?” Thomas says turning to me, a smug smile on his face. “It works. And like with this example, you don’t even have to be honest, either.”

  “Hey,” Alex protests.

  I squint at Thomas, not sure I’m buying any of this. “And this works,” I say, skepticism in my tone. It all seems a bit patronizing.

  “Of course it does,” he says. Then he raises his eyebrows and points a finger at me. “But if it doesn’t, then you should most definitely sleep with them.”

  “You’re disgusting,” Quinn says, and we all nod our head in agreement.

  Chapter 4

  I wake up early the next morning, too many thoughts swirling around in my brain. My job, the promotion, my team, my boss, vacations I don’t want to take, and then there was last night.

  I had tried so hard to keep my eyes only on my friends as we chatted at Hester’s, and not on whatever was happening at Logan and Nathan’s table. But they couldn’t be stopped—like they were moving on their own accord and my brain wasn’t even involved. Almost like a car wreck you can’t look away from. But it wasn’t a car wreck—not at all. And gauging by the blond woman’s hand as it crept up Nathan’s arm throughout the night and the almost hypnotic way he was staring at her, it was the very opposite of a car wreck. It looked a lot like a beginning. Like a brand new shiny car. And I was the old dumpy used car sitting in the corner with my friends.

  But the sad truth is, I gave Nathan two years—two years of my life—and it only took him three weeks to move on. I told Quinn this last night and she said I was jumping to conclusions too fast and also that I sounded like I was writing lyrics to a country song. I tend to wax poetic when I’m tipsy.

  I decide since I’m awake, I might as well start my morning and get into work early. I do all my normal morning things—go for a quick run, shower, get ready, and then find myself on my way to work an hour before my normal start time. This feels good—there’s a gentle breeze, the downtown Orlando streets are quieter, and I feel kind of like I have the world to myself. But then I quickly realize I’m not quite so alone when I’m propositioned by a hom
eless guy as I pass the train tracks.

  Another perk of being this early is I can grab a cup of coffee at the Lava Java and Logan won’t be there yet. Maybe I’ll do this more often. I feel like I’m already off to a better start today.

  Nope. I spoke to soon. My happy balloon pops as I enter the small coffee shop and see the booth where Logan normally sits, and there he is in jeans and a navy blue T-shirt.

  S-word.

  And to make matters worse, he sees me. We make eye contact. My stupid, stupid eyes lock with his, and now I can’t even turn around and leave. Because that would be weird, and I can’t have anything getting back to Nathan like that. Not that I’m even sure it would. I can’t see Logan telling Nathan he saw me at the coffee shop today and I was acting weird. In my experience, men don’t talk about that stuff. Well, Thomas might. But he’s a beast of his own.

  Even so, I need to play it cool. I’ll just nod my head at Logan, acknowledge that I see him, grab my coffee, and go. Easy peasy. Only not so easy, because Logan stands up and walks toward me. Well, that plan’s foiled.

  “Holly,” Logan says as he approaches me. His hands are doing that twitchy thing again, and as if he realizes this, he puts them in his pockets and then takes a stance that seems a tad forced.

  “Logan,” I say, only this is the first word I’ve spoken since I woke up this morning and it comes out scratchy and sultry sounding. I clear my throat and say his name again in my normal voice.

  “Holly,” he says back.

  “Logan,” I say again.

  “Holly.”

  Do I say his name again? Why are we even saying each other’s names?

  I don’t say anything, so we stand there in what seems like a face-off. Only Logan’s lips are pulled up ever so slightly so I don’t think he thinks we’re in a face-off. And really, what would we be facing off about? Is this about last night?

  “Why were you at Hester’s last night?” my mouth asks before I can stop it. I feel my eyes go wide with shock. Why would I even ask that? I don’t want to talk about it, not with Logan. And what about my whole inner monologue about not wanting anything to get back to Nathan? Surely this will get back to him.