Guy Hater: A Romantic Comedy Page 7

  Before I have the chance to duck into the stairwell and call Guy to chew his ear off, Andrea corners me in the hallway.

  “What the hell happened back there? You never showed up yesterday. You shouldn’t be rewarded for that. You should’ve been fired.”

  Harvey, one of our accountants, walks out of the break room about to bite into his donut when he notices Andrea berating me. His eyes bug out and he immediately circles right back around and into the break room.

  “Look, Andrea, I have no idea what Guy is thinking. Seriously. I’m just as surprised as you are.”

  She huffs, folding her arms across her chest. Two strands from her otherwise immaculately styled hair fall across either side of her face as she leans forward, her body vibrating with anger. I can’t blame her. I’d be pissed too.

  There are a few moments of silence. It's long enough that Harvey figures the coast is clear to come out. Unfortunately, just as he pops his head around the corner, Andrea lays into me again.

  “You’re sleeping with him, aren’t you?”

  Harvey pops his head back inside the break room.

  “Seriously, Andrea?”

  She snorts. “It all makes sense now. There’s no other way he’d let something like that go. I can’t believe it.”

  I’m pissed. Not only at Andrea for jumping to conclusions, but at Guy for feeding the conclusion. In this business, reputation is everything, and I’m not going to have mine tarnished for something that isn’t true—that would never be true.

  I raise my hands, palms up. “I’m done, Andrea.” Turning to the break room, I say, “Harvey, we’re done.”

  “Thank you!” I hear from down the hall.

  I walk by Andrea and open the door to the stairwell. “Well, I’m not,” she snaps just as I push through the door.

  I want to scream. Thankfully, I have the perfect outlet. I take my phone out of my purse and press Guy’s contact number. He picks up on the third ring.

  “Good morning, sunshine.”

  I’ll let that one go. Just this once.

  “You need to explain yourself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me, Guy. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  “Huh.” He makes a few clicking sounds with his tongue. “Nope, not sure what you’re talking about. But look, Charleigh, I’m at work now, so I can’t really talk. You know, that whole protecting and serving thing.”

  “Stop playing games,” I bite back. “You’re really screwing things up for me—”

  Click.

  “Hello?” I suck in a harsh breath, jerking my phone from my ear. He ended the call. Mothertrucker.

  A few seconds later he sends me a text.

  Guy: How’s it feel, Chucky?

  My skin tingles as I stare at the text. I’m going to get back at him one way or another.

  10

  Guy

  Do I feel bad? Mmm…a little.

  I knew my call would set a few things in motion. It would cause friction between Andrea and Charleigh, but most importantly, it would send a wakeup call to Charleigh: I’m here to stay whether she likes it or not. She either needs to step up and focus on this project, or she needs to leave. I’m not going to deal with her wishy-washy behavior anymore.

  Over the last few days, I've found my more direct approach to be more effective. Charleigh, after fuming at me for a few days, seemed to swallow her pride. We were able to make some headway with the project. We'll be meeting shortly so we can have the walk-through she missed. It will be the first time we've been alone together since the night at the bar, and I'm not exactly sure which Charleigh I'm going to get: Business Charleigh, Explosive Charleigh, or Charleigh-Charleigh (i.e., herself).

  I'm pleasantly surprised to see Charleigh's Forester turn onto the winding drive five minutes early. She parks her car but leaves it running. The headlights cast two cones of light across the graveled drive, speckled by the light mist that's falling. I'm watching her from an upstairs window. It's hard to tell what she's doing in her car but it looks like she's talking to herself. She flips down the visor in front of her and then flips it back up a few moments later. The headlights go out and Charleigh climbs out of the car.

  Her red hair contrasts starkly with her heather-gray peacoat. Instead of her usual pair of heels, she opts for a more practical pair of tennis shoes. No slipping today. She clutches her purse by the straps and lets it swing as she confidently plants one foot in front of the other. The small moment of hesitation she might have had in the car is gone.

  The doorbell rings just as I make it downstairs. I open the door and smile. “Glad you could make it this time, Charleigh." There's a flicker of annoyance on her face, but she masks it quickly.

  She’s wearing more makeup than usual, but it’s not overwhelming. Some mascara and eyeliner and then some gloss on her lips. My eyes pause on her lips for a bit longer than they should.

  “Good to see you, Guy.”

  Business Charleigh. Got it.

  I catch a faint smell of cinnamon as she passes by me. She pauses a few feet away from me, her back to me as she looks out into the great room. The door shuts with a heavy thud. I reach out to help remove her coat, but she stops me.

  “That’s okay. I won’t be here long.”

  Charleigh doesn’t skip a beat, pulling a yellow legal pad and blue pen from her purse. She walks methodically around the room, slowly turning her head as she surveys it. “It hasn’t changed much,” she says finally.

  I cross the gap between us and stand next to her. “That’s the problem.”

  Charleigh scribbles a few notes but doesn’t respond, and then after a few moments moves toward the large stone fireplace to our left.

  “Would you like the tour?”

  “No thanks,” she says. “I’ve been here enough times to know my way around.”

  Translation: You’ll just be in my way, so please leave me alone while I do my job.

  “Why are you always so combative with me? If you want to make this project more difficult for both of us, then by all means continue. But I just want you to know I’m not the bad guy, and to be honest, I’m probably not even close to as awful as some of the clients you’ll be forced to work with.”

  Charleigh spins around, her hair fanning out behind her. She draws in a deep breath as though she's winding herself up for a long, drawn-out verbal assault, but she stops herself. The long breath comes out as a sigh instead. "Look. I'm trying to be practical here. You and I," she motions in between us, "we don't work well together."

  “You’re acting as though you’ve tried to work with me.”

  “I don’t need to. I know from experience and that’s all I need.”

  I scoff. “What a wonderful outlook. Ignore the present and fixate on the past. Let me know how that works out for you.” There’s no getting through to her. She doesn’t want to listen. I’m done trying. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Come find me when you want to act like an adult.”

  There are two cups on the island filled with hot chocolate. I’d picked them up from Common Grounds on the way here as a peace offering, but that’s clearly not going to work. Nothing is going to work unless Charleigh lets go of this stupid feud.

  I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting at the island, but by the time Charleigh finally appears, my hot chocolate is cold. She sits down in front of me but doesn’t speak. I grab the other cup and take it to the microwave. I can feel her eyes on my back as I wait for the microwave to finish heating up the hot chocolate.

  I place the cup in front of her. “I thought you might like something to drink.”

  She picks up the cup, glancing at the Common Grounds logo for a moment before popping off the lid and inspecting the contents.

  I stare blankly at her as she sniffs the drink. “It’s not poisoned.” She glances up at me, still uncertain. I fold my arms, a little annoyed. “I could taste it first if you’d like, princess.”

  She fl
ushes as she sets the cup back down and replaces the lid. When she finally takes a sip, her eyes light up.

  “Good?”

  “Better than expected,” she says, taking another sip.

  I shake my head, sighing.

  Charleigh sets the cup down and grabs her notebook. “I wanted to go over some of my ideas and get your feedback.” She spreads out a few pieces of paper in front of me. They’re rough sketches of various rooms throughout the house. I’m actually impressed at how good they are, much more detailed than anything Andrea showed me during her walk-through. But I’m more impressed that she actually wants my input.

  She spends the next ten minutes or so discussing each of her sketches, describing the changes she’d like to implement. “My main priority with this design is to keep the rustic charm of your house intact,” she says, finishing up her miniature presentation.

  I’m still leafing through her sketches, awed by her vision for the project. It’s more than I ever expected. My parents would be proud.

  “It’s wonderful.”

  “Great,” Charleigh says. She grabs the papers from my hand. “We’ll be in touch.”

  “That’s it?”

  Charleigh looks at me, confused. “Yes?”

  “Okay,” is all I can think of saying to that.

  Charleigh stands up and heads out of the kitchen. She can see herself out. If she’s not willing to put forth the effort to be somewhat friendly, then neither am I. If all she wants is a business transaction, then that’s what she’ll get. A few minutes later the door slams shut.

  I reach into my pocket, grab my phone, and find a text from Deanna.

  Deanna: Are you ready for our HGTV marathon tonight? Deanna

  Guy: How could I forget?

  I did forget, actually. This whole Charleigh situation has done a number on my head.

  Deanna: I bought everything you need to make your famous tacos again. They were so good last time! Deanna

  Guy: Great, I’ll see you soon.

  I’m not going to let Charleigh dampen my mood.

  “You’ve outdone yourself again, Guy.” Deanna leans back into her recliner.

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying them, Deanna.”

  “Enjoying them? Dear, these are heavenly.”

  I laugh, polishing off my last taco a few moments later. This was exactly what I needed after that terrible walkthrough with Charleigh. I talked to Deanna about it, but she didn’t offer any suggestions because it all comes down to Charleigh. She’s hardheaded and won’t back down when she thinks she’s right.

  “You should make these for Charleigh. She’d have to come around.”

  “I don’t think it’s so easy. She’s still hung up on what happened between us when we were younger.”

  Deanna waves her hand like she’s batting off a fly. “That nonsense? Both of you were at each other’s throat for a time. You were kids.”

  “I know, but that doesn’t mean it was right.”

  Deanna nods. “Of course not.” She rocks back in her chair for a moment, contemplating something. A few minutes later she speaks again. “It was a tough time for you. You weren’t in the right mind for a while. She shouldn’t blame you for that.”

  She might be right, but it doesn’t matter. I can’t take back the things I said, just like I can’t fault Charleigh for taking them as harshly as she did. But just because I’m granting her that, doesn’t mean it’s okay for her to act so ridiculously now. If she doesn’t want anything to do with me, then she needs to drop out and hand the reins over to Andrea.

  “Well, like I’ve told you. She’ll come around. I know her, and I know you. Now let’s get this show on the road. Maybe you’ll learn a thing or two—something to impress Charleigh.” She waves a finger at the screen.

  I laugh. “I don’t think Charleigh thinks there’s a single impressive thing about me.” I reach for the remote and restart the episode of Fixer Upper we’d paused. Chip’s in the middle of swinging a sledgehammer into the wall, and it looks like a hell of a lotta fun. I can’t wait to get this reno underway. Charleigh would let me swing a hammer, right?

  I think about it for a moment. It’s my house. Why would I need her approval? It’s not like she wants or is actively seeking my approval either. I sit back and let the thought formulate in my head.

  We’re a few episodes deep into our marathon when the front door opens. Immediately my instincts kick into high gear and I jump to my feet. But then I hear a voice.

  “Oh my God, where are those brownies? You would not believe the day I had.”

  Charleigh.

  I glance at Deanna and she shrugs, offering a sheepish grin.

  Damn it, Deanna…is all I can think. I knew she was up to something when she started texting during the last episode. I could count the number of people she has available to text on one hand: me, Charleigh, Jamie, and Marissa. I knew Jamie and Marissa were out tonight, so that left Charleigh. I should’ve known.

  “Aside from nuts in baked goods, I don’t think there’s anything I despise more in this world than people who think—” Charleigh turns the corner and her eyes bug out when she spots me.

  “What were you going to say?”

  She stares at me for a few moments and then looks to her mother. “Why didn’t you tell me he was going to be here?”

  Deanna shrugs. “I didn’t think it would matter.”

  Both of us look at Deanna. She clearly knows the issues of putting Charleigh and me in the same room—I just spent half an hour talking about it—but she believes herself a master at feigning ignorance. "I just thought you'd like to have some of the freshly baked brownies Guy made."

  “They’re not poisoned either,” I say, glancing at Charleigh over my shoulder. “You dropped in before I had the chance.”

  It almost draws out a smile. Almost.

  “Why don’t you take some for the road? You wouldn’t want to leave on an empty stomach.”

  Deanna gets up, grabs Charleigh by the shoulders, and leads her back into the living room and onto the opposite end of the couch from me. Charleigh is rigid, refusing to lean back or even move her head. She's statuesque as she faces forward, doing her best to avoid contact or even acknowledge me.

  Deanna retreats into the kitchen. “I’ll be right back.”

  When Deanna’s out of earshot, Charleigh whips her head toward me. “What are you doing here?”

  I nod to the TV. “It’s HGTV night.”

  “You watch HGTV? With my mom?”

  I keep my eyes trained on Charleigh. After a few moments of silence, she scratches her neck and then turns her attention to the TV.

  “Do you think I should be embarrassed?” I ask.

  Charleigh draws her gaze slowly toward me. “Well…”

  I snort. “Where else could I research about renovations? My interior designer hates me.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Good one. Why don’t you fire her, then?”

  “Because she’s rather talented.” I take a sip of my water, watching Charleigh out of my periphery. Some of the tension in her posture begins to loosen. “And I have no problem working with disagreeable people.”

  "I'm not disagreeable," she retorts.

  “Okay.” I grab the remote and press play again.

  “Guy. I’m the least disagreeable person in the world.”

  “Sure sounds like something a disagreeable person would say.”

  She huffs and falls back into the couch. We sit in awkward silence for another ten minutes before Deanna finally appears. "Sorry that took so long. I couldn't find the right container."

  “Second shelf on the right next to the sink,” I say without skipping a beat.

  Charleigh gapes at me. “How would you even know that?” she whispers.

  I lean into Charleigh and whisper, "I visit Deanna more often than once every other month."

  Charleigh’s face blanches and I immediately feel bad. I didn’t mean to be nasty, but it’s hard not to meet nastiness
with nastiness, especially when niceness fails. She stands up a few seconds later and walks toward the front door with her mother.

  Not much later I hear a low but heated argument between Charleigh and her mother. I turn the volume up because I don’t really care to listen in. The front door slams shut and Deanna returns, dropping into her seat with a sigh.

  “Charleigh says ‘Good night.’”

  I snort. “I’m sure she did.”

  11

  Charleigh

  I’m officially screwed.

  There's an email sitting in my inbox from Christiana with the subject line "Proposal Update?" I first noticed it this morning but have yet to open it because I know I won't have an answer that she'll like. It's not that I haven't finished my proposal—it's done. I wish it were something like that. I could fix that with an all-nighter. My problem is out of my control. My problem is that Guy has dropped off the face of the earth, and as much as I hate to say it, I need Guy.

  If I don’t have his approval, then Christiana won’t even look at my proposal, which will mean she’ll go with Andrea’s and more than likely let her take the lead. I cannot let that happen. Andrea as my superior? I’d take being waterboarded while listening to “My Heart Will Go On” on repeat over that.

  I check my sent folder just to make sure I didn’t imagine sending those dozen emails. They’ve been sent. Next I scan my call log and my text messages, and sure enough, I wasn’t dreaming about sending those either.

  I glance at my monitor and then shut my eyes, silently praying that he’ll respond. Come on. Give me something. Just one word. My email chirps and I raise my arms to the sky as I mouth “Thank you.” Unfortunately, I wasn’t specific enough. I got an email, just not from Guy. It was another email from Christiana, resending her original email.

  I smack my palm on my keyboard. A few people around me pop their heads out of their cubicles and glare at me. I raise my hands. "Sorry! Fly. Missed it, though."