Dedication

To the women determined to upend the patriarchy.

And the men who stand by their side and hand them the match, happy to watch it burn.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

While there are no specific trigger warnings associated with this novel (besides being an explicit, open-door romance book with some vulgarities), there is a brief scene where a male colleague speaks inappropriately about Emma, the female main character. I went back and forth about including it, as it contains language I don’t use in my daily life, but it felt pertinent to keep, especially in the climate of today’s world.

As women, we’re often told we need to be quiet. We need to stop dreaming such lofty dreams. We do too much or too little. We can’t make everyone happy. We’re supposed to act a specific way inside and outside the workplace.

There’s an obvious double standard when it comes to how men and women are perceived in certain industries. And in life.

When women kick ass or advance in their roles, people ask who we must know to have that position. Who we slept with. What we did to be ranked above other people. No one bats an eye when a man does the same thing.

And honestly, that’s kind of bullshit, isn’t it? We’re just as capable—if not more so—of accomplishing things in our professional and personal lives as men. We shouldn’t have to clamp down on our dreams and ambitions just because someone else thinks they’re too big or too grand. We shouldn’t silence ourselves because we’re afraid of overstepping or offending someone with our achievements. We should be LOUD and PROUD about all our successes, surrounding ourselves with like-minded people.

Don’t stop chasing those glass ceilings, ladies. The sky is the freaking limit.

ONE

HENRY

I have a one-way ticket to hell.

Satan and Hades will shake their heads in disgust when I descend the steps into the fiery Underworld, flames and heat licking my skin, marking my transgressions with permanent, well-deserved burns. They might as well push me headfirst into the waiting pit of lava. I deserve it for what I’m about to do.

“Henry? Did you hear me? You aren’t avoiding my question, are you? Kathleen’s daughter is so excited you’re going to be at the party. We’ve been trying for years to coordinate you two spending time together.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mom. I have a date,” I say through gritted teeth, pacing the carpeted floor in my large office, wishing the ground would swallow me up and teleport me far away.

The second the words leave my mouth, I regret saying them. The lie I’ve told my poor, unsuspecting mother slips out too easily, leaving behind a bitter residue. Her relieved sigh dances into my ear, a weight lifting off her aging and generously patient shoulders.

What I really want to do is chuck my brand new iPhone out the tenth-story window and jump out after it. A perfectly logical thing to do in a crisis of this magnitude.

“Finally,” she replies, not bothering to mask her excitement. “Why didn’t you mention her sooner? I’m so happy to hear things are going well enough with a partner for you to bring her! You’re such a good man, Henry. It’s time you get serious about your personal life.”

It’s half praise, half scolding, and I’m slightly offended by her implication that I might be alone forever, as true as it might be.

“I’m happy, too.” My throat is constricting, closing up and making it difficult to breathe. I yank on my collar, trying to relieve some of the suffocating tension. “Mom, I have to run. I have a meeting this afternoon, and there’s some work I need to finish up.”

I’m a terrible liar, and the longer I talk to her, the more obvious it’s going to be that I’m the worst son in the history of humanity. I can’t have her calling my bluff before I figure out the shitstorm I threw myself into without thinking about the consequences.

“Okay, sweetie. Love you. Call us later this week. I’ll send you the email with all the information. What’s her name?”

“Will do. Love you, too.” I deliberately ignore her parting question and hang up the phone, groaning loudly to my empty office. The four walls offer me no sympathy.

Of course I don’t have a date for my parents’ 40th anniversary party I’ve known about for months. That would be too easy. Too simple. Too logical.

I’ve never introduced a woman to my family. Up until this very moment, I never planned to. I’m content on dying alone; an old, wrinkly bachelor with an extreme disdain for relationships. My parents retired a few years ago—my father from the Massachusetts Supreme Court and my mother as a state representative—and it seems like all of Mom’s attention has now been diverted to finding me a life partner. Gone are the days of filibusters and budget presentations, replaced with bi-weekly calls hounding me about my love life.

My purposely non-existent love life, mind you. A girlfriend and committed partnership are the last things I want.

With their questions about attending the party alone and repeated attempts to set me up with the daughter of a family friend, I panicked and said something stupid. So incredibly fucking stupid.

A curt knock interrupts my woeful, self-deprecating thoughts. Noah, one of my best friends, pushes my office door open and stares at me.

“What the hell happened to you? Are you okay?” he asks in lieu of a greeting, assessing my disheveled appearance. I’ve been running my hands nervously through my hair for the better part of thirty minutes. I can feel how askew it has become, hanging limply off to one side rather than settling into the neat style he’s accustomed to seeing. I’m normally calm, cool, collected, and dressed to the nines. A perfect picture of a male in corporate, blood-sucking America.

Right now, however, I’m a complete and total mess on the precipice of a very real, very scary breakdown. It’s an odd sensation, and I’m unexpectedly self-conscious anyone is seeing me like this. Even my best friend.

Noah and I have a standing lunch date for Wednesday afternoons, and it slipped my mind—again—that the week is halfway over. The forgetfulness happens far too often when I immerse myself in work; the days pass in the blink of an eye, blurring together, and I’m left wondering where all the time has gone and why my best friend is barging into my office like he owns the place.

I’ve known Noah for two decades. We played club basketball together growing up, becoming fast cohorts as lanky teenagers while we drank yellow Gatorade on the court sidelines. We parted ways after high school; he went to Harvard, and I went to Yale. We never lost touch over the years, both eventually moving back home to the city and picking up where we left off.

A successful, Black entrepreneur, he created a money transfer app a couple of years ago that became the most downloaded app in history for a week straight. After a feature on a national morning show and a commercial airing during the Super Bowl, his name exploded. Forbes Magazine recently named him one of the 40 Under 40 People to Watch in their latest issue.

To me, he’s still the goofy, happy-go-lucky dude from when we were younger. Money and wealth haven’t changed him. He also puts up with my shit remarkably well, while only tossing in a handful of sarcastic remarks at my expense. That’s practically a second job.

“No, I’m not okay,” I snarl, walking to my expensive desk chair and collapsing into it. I tilt my head back and stare at the ceiling, willing it to cave in and fall, crushing me in the rubble of decades-old popcorn material. “I’m fucked.”

“Like, a good fucked? Or bad fucked?”

“Do you think I’d be this grouchy if it was a good fucked?” I ask flatly, bringing my chin down to give him a withering glare. He snickers, not even trying to hide his obvious amusement, and I throw a vulgar gesture his way.

“Point taken,” he concedes, laughing. “You’re more subdued and benevolent after you get laid, not a raging asshole who looks like he’s about to chuck a stapler at my head.”

“I am about to chuck a stapler at your head.”

“Do you want to talk about this now or at the restaurant?”

“Restaurant, please.” A change of scenery might help defog my brain and give me a clear idea of what to do. Or, at the very least, point me in the general direction of how to not fuck this up.

Spoiler alert: I’m going to fuck this up.

Majorly and epically.

There’s no way this ends in anything other than an utter catastrophe. I just hope there aren’t too many casualties.

Begrudgingly, I lean over the overpriced chair—that doesn’t really help to relieve back pain despite boasting that it does—grab my charcoal gray suit jacket, and slip it over my tense shoulders.

“The nice receptionist brought me to your office, so you’re going to have to get us out of here,” Noah says breezily, stepping aside so I can lead the way down the hall.

“You’ve been here hundreds of times and you still don’t know where my office is? Her name is Lisa, by the way. If you tried to call her that instead of her demeaning title, you might have more success. It’s 2022. Why can’t we use terms like office administrator instead?”

“Wow. You’re trying to give me advice on how to interact with women? Bold move.”

I ignore his jab, fastening the top two buttons of my blazer. “What should we get today? Pizza? Sandwiches? Ramen?”

“Ramen sounds amazing,” Noah agrees, and we walk out to the main area of the office.

My company is the largest law firm in the city, so it’s always bustling with people. You could come in on a Sunday afternoon and there will be someone working, clicking away methodically on their keyboard, trying to meet a deadline. The phone is constantly ringing, and the printer shoots off pages of documents one right after the other, paper littering the floor like confetti in Times Square on New Year’s Eve.

If you’re here at the right time, you might run into an up-and-coming athlete. Those are my clients. My specialty is Sports Law, focusing on contracts and helping to make sure rookies don’t sign away their entire career because someone with no financial experience is giving them stupid advice. I also assure them they don’t need four Lamborghinis on a starting salary, no matter what their friends they haven’t spoken to in eight years might think.

“Hi, Noah.” A feminine voice causes my head to jerk to the left, mimicking a neck spasm.

There’s Emma Burns, a fellow attorney, sauntering over in a sleeved black dress, pantyhose, and pointed heels that barely bring her up to my chest. Her petite frame is accompanied by medium-length blonde hair, and the biggest, bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re the hue of ocean water; sparkling deep azure with a hint of faded green that sneaks through in the right lighting.

Noah stops walking and I have no choice but to halt next to him, nearly stumbling at the change in direction.

“Emma,” he answers, flashing her a grin. We’re going to be here for a minute. “How are you?”

She returns the smile eagerly, a full beam that stretches from ear to ear. The single gesture makes the whole space around us warmer and brighter. Emma is the office sweetheart, and rightfully so. She’s smart, thoughtful, caring, and respectful, always jumping in to assist others in a time of crisis. She forms a close bond with everyone she interacts with.

We went to the same high school and never spoke over the course of four years, passing in the hallways like drifting ghosts haunting an abandoned mansion. I edged her out to be valedictorian our senior year, and that offense severed any ties of a potential friendship with her down the road. We coexist in the office professionally and amicably, indulging in a rare sarcastic comment when the feeling strikes. And that's it.

There was never a great rift or apocalyptic fight. No one had a falling out. We aren’t enemies or rivals. We’re just not friends and haven’t tried to remedy the awkwardness that’s followed us to adulthood.

Despite being acquaintances for over a decade and a half, I know scant details about her. There’s a small collection of facts I’ve learned and pieced together, however, forming little snapshots of enlightenment into figuring out who Emma Burns really is.

I’ve discovered she’s right-handed. She likes to be at work early, often arriving just past 7 a.m. She drinks two coffees a day—one in the morning, then a second midafternoon, after lunch. On Fridays, she brings in her own cup of caffeine, indulging in some concoction that’s piled high with whipped cream instead of the communal brew in the break room.

Her favorite colors are purple and pink. She always wears the latter in some form on Wednesdays. Today, the choice is a headband, and the pastel cotton candy shade is vibrant against her signature blonde. When I asked her about the color choice a year ago, she rolled her eyes and told me I wouldn’t get the reference. An outlandish statement, since it’s blatantly obvious I’ve seen Mean Girls like everyone else on this planet. I don’t live under a damn rock.

I can’t explain why I notice these things about her. They’re fairly unimportant observations. In the grand scheme of life, knowing my coworker’s coffee order is filed under Things I Shouldn’t Care About. But somehow, with her, I do.

It’s fucking puzzling.

“I’m great, thank you. How are you?” The authenticity behind the question make me want to melt into a puddle. She’s just so nice, probably moonlighting as a theme park princess in her off-time as another outlet for her kindness.

I forget Emma and Noah know each other outside of these brief run-ins. She practices Civil Rights law, and the two have worked together on a few cases in the past. For a split second, I wonder if they’ve ever been romantically involved, sharing a more intimate relationship that goes beyond casual conversation, spilling over to cozy nights in restaurants and early morning coffee dates, holding hands as they walk down the sidewalk.

I subtly try to observe their body language. Did she lean in closer to hear him speak? Is he smiling brighter now that she’s here? Do her eyes sparkle like this all the time or only for certain people?

And what do I have to do to be one of them?

It’s also not my place to care, not my place to be emotionally invested in what these two might do after hours, not my place to give a single flying fuck, yet something twinges in my stomach, while my hand flexes with unwarranted vexation.

“A little tired with work stuff, but still awesome. Would you like to join us for lunch?” Noah asks, even though the question is futile. I already know her answer. Emma’s eyes go between the two of us in rapid succession, ping-ponging back and forth. She has yet to acknowledge me, and the glance is her first recognition I’m even standing here, taking up space as dutifully as a useless garden gnome.

“I appreciate the offer, but I have a salad in the fridge. You two have fun.” She waves, not giving me a second look, and heads for her office on the opposite side from mine.

“I wish I knew why she likes you but couldn’t care less about me,” I mumble, jabbing the button for the elevator, needing to get out of this building. I’m close to exploding. My chest hurts, and fresh sweat blooms under my shirt, moisture causing the fabric to cling to my skin.

“Because I’m not weird and obnoxious around her,” Noah replies brightly. He’s enjoying this, reveling in my misery. “I didn’t beat her out to be valedictorian. I also don’t visit her office specifically to annoy her. Oh! I d—”

“Okay, I get it!” I interrupt, shaking my head and stepping into the blessedly empty elevator. “Thank you for providing the evidence that I’m a colossal jerk. It was more of a philosophical thought.”

“God, you lawyers and your Descartes and Machiavellian bullshit.”

“I don’t think that’s right. Descartes was in mathematics. Wrong field, my friend.”

Ignoring me, he presses on. “You could try being nice to her. You know, asking how her day is? Making fun of her less? That shouldn't be challenging, even for a man with as little experience getting to know women as yourself.”

“I don’t make fun of her,” I protest. “And trust me, I have no problem getting to know women.”

“Banging them in the back of your truck doesn’t count, H. Nice try. I seem to recall you making fun of Emma’s reading glasses once upon a time. In fact, you called them the ‘old librarian kind, and not the hot style.’ You said that to her face, man. It’s not your business what she wears. Women are free to express themselves without listening to the opinions of men.”

I’m sure he’s right. He’s the expert at understanding women. I, however, prefer physical interaction and fucking over talking and thinking about the unknowable future. At the end of the night after a casual hook-up, the woman and I go our separate ways, parting on cordial terms, a pleased smile on their faces. I set boundaries early and communicate with them up front that I won’t be falling in love with them or becoming their Romeo.

That’s reserved for other guys. Guys like Noah.

Guys who will buy them flowers and sweep them off their feet. Guys who will remember favorite pizza toppings and colors, anxiously asking when they can meet the family or exchange apartment keys.

Not me. I want nothing to do with that shit.

The doors chime open and we exit onto the lobby floor, my muscles relaxing as we step away from the scene of my crime. We walk two blocks to the best Ramen restaurant in town, the light breeze filtering through the air calming me down, nerves unspooling like thread. On a typical day, my only glimpse of the sunshine is out of my large window when I’m pacing on the phone with a client. I make it to the office just as the sun is rising, and I rarely leave until after sunset.

These brief moments outside the box of gloom and despair become some of the best; a blessed reprieve from the monotony of a desk job. Moments like vitamin D slowly infiltrating my chilled blood. The sound of laughter and happiness. Smells other than whiteout and hours-old coffee beans.

It’s cathartic.

Entering the restaurant, we take our usual booth in the back. We give our orders to the waitress and I lean back, grateful for the ice water she delivers seconds later. I gulp half of it down in one sip.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Noah asks. “I haven’t seen you this distraught since you were waiting for your bar results. It’s freaking me out. This isn’t like you. Is everything okay?”

The sincerity causes my lip to twitch. Compassion and loyalty are two of Noah’s best qualities.

My finger traces the condensation of the sweaty glass up and down. “My parents’ wedding anniversary is in two months. They’re throwing a big party for all their friends and the extended family. It’s four days of celebration.”

“That sounds awesome. Remember the New Year’s Eve party of 2018?”

The party? Not so much. I distinctly remember the aftermath, thanks to the alarming amount of tequila I consumed. I woke up under a pile of coats, my head throbbing for days. Noah, the bastard, was as spry as a spring chicken the next morning, telling me I missed out on the karaoke competition and my father attempting to do a keg stand. I’ve avoided tequila ever since; the smell alone makes me want to bury my head in the dirt.

“Awesome is not quite the adjective I’d use. You know how my parents have been hounding me for years about dating?”

“Yes…”

Every time I talk to my parents, the conversation inevitably circles back to my personal life. It doesn’t help that my two siblings are happily married and steadily advancing down the path of life. Houses. Dogs. Children. I’m the lackluster loner rebelling against monogamy, trudging miles behind at a sloth’s pace.

I’m 99% certain my mother asked Neil, one of my other best friends, and Noah, to set up an online dating account on my behalf a couple of years back. That got shut down real quick when I found out, appalled by the words they used to describe me. I am many things in life, but sensitive and emotional I am not.

“I might have mentioned to Mom I have a date for their party.”

“Let me guess. You don’t have a date,” he draws out, not a hint of surprise at my fib.

“Correct. She’s been trying to set me up with her friend’s daughter for years. The girl thinks she can get me to sleep with her, knock her up, and take a check to the bank. She’s only interested in four things: my money, my last name, my dick, and never having to work again in her life.”

“You must be fucking fantastic in bed.”

The Story Continues on BooksBarbecue!

Enjoyed this preview? ❤️ Do not stop here!

Read the complete book free online → 🔗

Continue reading now on BooksBarbecue and discover every page!

Love reading? Bookmark BooksBarbecue.com for more amazing books!

Happy Reading!