The more pressing question, though, was whether she was having a good time with François. We’d arrived at the game to find her shoulders square. She’d looked tense and neglected without food or drink. This guy seemed more into the game than her, but some chicks dug that. They liked to work for the attention—I knew from firsthand experience dating an actress here, a model there. The less attention you showed, the harder they tried to get it.
“How long are we going to sit here?” Justin asked. “This is like watching sports in slow-motion.”
I rubbed my jaw, not even trying to hide the fact that this time, I was looking at Georgina. “We stay as long as they do,” I said. “You think it’s fun for me listening to everyone root for a rival team?”
“Fun? No. But clearly a price you’re willing to pay.”
I ignored him. I didn’t have the patience to try to throw him off the scent. “What were you saying to her when I went to get your beer?”
“Just commenting on how cozy you two were.”
“You nosy fuck.”
“You know, I don’t think I ever got a ‘thank you’ for the lengths I went to so you could sit here and stalk her.” He crossed an ankle over his knee. “My spies aren’t cheap.”
“Yeah? How much did you pay for this info?”
“It cost me three trips to the vending machine before my operative was able to get a clear view of Georgina’s phone screen while she was waiting for a bag of chips.”
I heaved a sigh. “Sometimes I can’t believe what I’ve been reduced to.”
“Man, don’t worry. The date obviously isn’t going well, and now you not only have something over Georgina, but you also get some peace of mind about her dating life.”
I craned my neck as François leaned over to say something near Georgina’s ear. “She made it seem like she was enjoying herself. You really think it’s not going well?”
“Can’t you read her body language? She’s stiff as a board. You should know what that looks like.”
“Fuck off,” I said, but I was secretly pleased. Because Justin was right, but not only about her body language. As if me braving a Yankees game hadn’t made my feelings clear enough, seeing Georgina with François did.
And I realized what it was that bothered me about him. I wanted to be sitting where he was.
14
Georgina
Justin reclined in his chair and crossed his ankles on Sebastian’s desk. “Destiny’s Child, ‘Bootylicious.’ Boom. I know all the words, and the dance too. This one time—”
“Get your shoes off my desk,” Sebastian said.
“Relax, I just took them from wardrobe,” Justin said but sat up immediately, removing his feet.
“It’s the fashion department, not wardrobe,” Sebastian said as he reviewed the next issue’s flat plan with a red marker. “This isn’t a movie set.”
“Whatever. What was I saying?” Justin asked.
“Your favorite song to sing in the shower,” Boris supplied.
“Yeah, but I had a story.” Justin scratched his temple. “Lost my train of thought.”
Sebastian sighed. “More like the conductor’s asleep at the wheel.”
I stifled a laugh—not my first of the morning. Sequestered at my small desk across the room, I’d been trying to answer e-mails for the last hour when I wasn’t distracted by the guys.
“How about you, boss?” Boris asked, unwrapping a stick of Trident.
Sebastian pointed a paperclip he’d bent between his thumb and index finger. “Easy,” he said. “‘American Woman.’ Guitar and all.”
Warmth crept up my chest as I pictured Sebastian, tall, trim, and unabashedly naked for his shower guitar solo. If I remembered correctly, the song had its fair share of grunting. When he caught me staring, I averted my eyes back to my computer screen.
“You wish you were Lenny Kravitz,” Justin said, working a toothpick through his teeth. “Last time we did karaoke, you were all about *NSYNC. You didn’t even need the prompter for ‘Tearin’ up My Heart.’”
“It’s a classic.” Sebastian brushed what I assumed were invisible crumbs off Justin’s side of the desk. He’d already thrown out all the wrappers from lunch, called janitorial to get the trash, and wiped down his desk. “How about you, Georgina?”
I didn’t miss the way Sebastian drew out my name, probably to remind me of my embarrassing admissions at the baseball game. I was pretty sure I’d hinted at having multiple personalities.
I tapped a fingertip on my upper lip as I waited for data from my office to load. “I always get Ace of Base stuck in my head.”
“Maybe it’s a sign,” Justin said.
“It’s definitely The Sign,” I said, humming a few bars. “Or that one from Fifth Harmony, ‘Work from Home.’ I catch myself singing it some mornings when I’m getting ready.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Sebastian said, glancing at Boris, who wiped sauce from his mustache with his sleeve. “Who wouldn’t want to come in to this dream team every day?”
“Actually, you guys have been making me laugh all afternoon.” I shut my laptop. “And I’ve decided Modern Man needs a podcast. You need a podcast.”
“Us?” Boris asked.
“Well, Justin, Sebastian . . . and friends,” I clarified. I wouldn’t listen to Boris for an hour unless I was getting paid. “You have a great rapport. Our readership needs to hear from you—and then tell their friends.”
“We already have Peterson’s team working on the webisodes we laid out last week,” Sebastian pointed out.
“Then they’ll have to work a little harder. What’re some reader questions you have left over from Badvice?” I asked.
“Oh, now you want to bring it back?” Sebastian asked.
“No, but this could be what Badvice should’ve been—readers getting thoughtful, humorous, legitimately good advice.”
“Goodvice?” Boris suggested.
Sebastian ignored him, opened his phone, and started to scroll. “Here’s one. ‘Do women ever shave each other?’”
“Shave?” I was afraid to even ask for clarification. “As in . . .”
Sebastian shrugged. “That’s the whole question.”
I put my face in my palm. I was discovering that men had many misconceptions when it came to women, particularly anything involving sleepovers or our bathroom buddy systems, but this was next level. “Who’s spreading this myth that we shower together?” I asked. “That’s the dumbest question I’ve ever heard. Next.”
“All right, geez,” he mumbled, flicking his thumb over the screen. “You’re going to hate all of these.”
“Try me,” I said.
He sighed. “Greg H. from Madison, Wisconsin says his ex would never let him touch her during her period, but his current girlfriend is begging for it. He wants to know if women like sex on the rag and how to do it.” Sebastian raised his eyebrows at me. “I’ve brought it up with the team, and . . . there seem to be conflicting schools of thought.”
All the guys turned to me. “That could work, actually,” I said. “It’s debatable from both sides and both genders. Use it for your debut podcast episode, but take out ‘on the rag.’ Nobody says that anymore.”
Boris cleared his throat. “But what’s the answer?”
Sebastian sat forward and put his chin in his hand. It was the most interested he’d looked since lunch had arrived. Suddenly, my throat was dry. As a talking piece, the question worked well; opinions generally landed on one side or the other. It would rile up listeners, but as long as we tackled the issue from both the male and female perspective, the discussion could be healthy and informative. We could even touch on biology, and maybe—just maybe—the listeners would learn something.
But that wasn’t what the guys were asking.
Sebastian, in particular, looked as if he wanted to know my response. And of course now, I couldn’t seem to speak. “It’s a . . . personal preference,” I said. “There’s no one right answer.”