Page 26 of The Refusal

He shakes his head at me, like he’s heard it all before, like he knows how dreadful his hookups are, and my mind drifts to Janus and the picture of the girl he was with the other night. Was she his hookup, too? Does he spend time dealing with this kind of thing? I can’t believe it. And would I be that girl who expected more? Every sharp comeback sinks back down inside.

“So, fairly bad with the girl then?” I half-joke.

“Her best friend told me that she’s not pregnant.” He scuffs his foot against the floor, and the barista leans over the counter and asks for our order, all the while drawing an elaborate pattern in the coffee he’s making. I swing around, requesting two flat whites. When I turn back, Andy is staring over my shoulder. The normal grinning bonhomie has completely disappeared, and his eyes are turned down, deep grooves on either side of his mouth, so I reach out rubbing my hand up and down his forearm. What if hehasgot this girl pregnant?

He sighs, running his other hand through his messy blond hair, and I gesture to some stools. I need to stay and talk to him, despite all the work waiting for me at the office.

“I don’t know what to think,” he says, leaning into me on a half whisper.

“Surely taking someone else will make it worse?”

“I’m hoping to flush out the truth. She’s being all doe-eyed and tearful on me. Her friend told me she’d done it to another guy before.” He picks at a nail and sighs. “What a mess. I thought maybe if she saw me with someone else it would force her hand—I’m sorry, Jo, but some girls are just—”

I know what he’s trying to say. There’s a certain type of woman that likes to manipulate guys, and, despite being a sexist dog, Andy is upfront about the fact that he’s only interested in hooking up. We weave over to the stools at the bench by the window and hitch ourselves up. People are streaming along the street, headsets firmly in place, coffees clutched in their hands. I still have to pinch myself sometimes.Manhattan.I have a company here.So what if it’s touch and go?I escaped.

“You’re the only girl I know who’d have my back in something like this,” Andy says, pulling me back into the conversation, and something softens inside me.

“Everyone thinks I’m a player, but dammit, Jo, I’m straight with the girls I do all this stuff with. I’malwaysclear about it.”

I can’t find it in my heart to berate him. My gaze roams over the broad shoulders and smart suit, a patch of blond stubble on his chin. Not for the first time I wonder what his deal is and why such a good-looking guy goes through women like water. But he’s been a good friend to me in the past. He helped me out with a persistent client we had once who seemed to want more than his software worked on. I lean over and ruffle his hair, and he smiles a sad and crooked grin at me.

“Okay.”

“You’ll do it?” he breathes, and as I nod he leaps up, dragging me off my chair into a hug.

“I’ll need a full briefing,” I mumble into the shoulder of his suit where he’s suffocating me, and he pulls back, nodding enthusiastically.

“I owe you huge, Jo.” He takes his face in my hands. “I can’t thank you enough.”

He plants a soft kiss on my cheek, and I grunt, embarrassed, placing a hand on his mile-wide chest. “Okay, okay. Enough.”

What have I just agreed to?

16

Janus

Jo Williams is being pulled into a bear hug by some good-looking blond guy the size of a linebacker. As he kisses her, she puts her hand on his chest in a way that is so familiar that red-hot pokers push through my stomach. Why didn’t she tell me she was seeing someone? But, frankly, I’m an idiot for never considering that question. I hunch my shoulders. No wonder she’s been so careful with me: I’m a client and I’ve been coming on to her. I sink back behind a pillar and out of the line. Coffee will have to wait.

Sweat trickles down my spine. Seeing him come up behind her and kissing her neck—where the freckles form a swirling pattern that disappears into her hairline—it’s branded on my eyeballs. Jo Williams had started to feel like she belonged to me. But this explains all the friend-zoning, all her reluctance. I watch them with their heads close together a bit longer, and she smiles at him as he gives her a knowing grin.

“Two mocha lattes!” the barista suddenly shouts over the hiss and bang of the machine, and I start, looking around wildly. I can’t stay here. I skirt backward, nearly sending someone flying, and apologize profusely as I shoot out of the door like I’ve been stewing in the steam of a thousand coffees. I roll my lips together as my head pounds. The traffic swooshes past, horns blaring, a couple argue on the sidewalk right next to me: thousands of people carving out their lives in frustrated hopes.

By the time I reach the office, my head is hot enough to explode. Well, fuck it all to hell—if I’m in a shit mood, then I’m going to make use of it. Some things that have been bugging me at work are going to be sorted today. I need something to make me feel fucking better. I snap my fingers at Maddie, my PA, and she startles, eyebrows shooting up into her hairline—I never do that kind of shit—but she gamely grabs her pad and follows me into my office like her feet are on fire.

When lunchtime rolls around, I’ve bawled out so many people about the network and our clients that people are hiding from me. Maddie has sat through the whole thing, frantically making notes as I’ve hauled every team over the coals about the issues that aren’t getting sorted anywhere near fast enough for my liking.

“Shall I order in some lunch?” she says quietly.

I sigh, stare at the glass wall of my office and the sea of desks outside—a few hardy souls are still there braving the onslaught of the tornado. Some of the fight seeps out of me. “Sorry, Maddie.”

She grins at me. “No worries, I like seeing you on a tear. I don’t know what’s got into you today, but sometimes things need shaking up.”

She’s a great assistant, the best. I want to explain, but I can’t do that; it wouldn’t be professional. I turn to look out of the window at the view. The sun is bouncing off the office buildings, and the water under the Brooklyn Bridge shimmers like a mirage.Brooklyn. Fabian.Bingo.

I wave her away. “If you could make some notes on everything that was agreed this morning, I’m going to head out and get myself something to eat.”

The phone picks up after twenty rings—and I know this because I’m counting them, willing him to not be passed out in some drug den in Harlem.

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