Spin Control (11 page)

More laughter from Michael. And a quick brush of
his hand on my arm. He awkwardly and hastily retracted his hand. "Woops," was all he could muster.

I pushed my stool back. "I should check on the lovebirds before they start making a nest"

"Miranda isn't the one you have to worry about
here" Michael said confidently. "She has no interest in
Devin whatsoever."

I eyed Michael suspiciously. "How do you know?"

"I just do" He zoned out while I tried to define
his relationship with Miranda. College roommates, maybe? Old family friends? Of course, I could always
just ask. But that was not my concern now. I needed to
keep my eyes on the prize-if that was what you could
even call Devin. Michael walked a few paces ahead of
me back to the table, where we saw Miranda and Anna
laughing heartily and Devin sitting at the edge of the
table with his back turned slightly toward them. He was
noticeably pouting.

"Uh, oh, are the popular kids ignoring you?" I slid in
the chair next to him.

"I haven't gotten a word in edgewise. It's like I'm
not even here"

"Watch out when the girls get together. You'll be sitting there by yourself for a long time."

"Where were you, making out with Michael?"

I looked down at myself mockingly. "Oops, my
shirt's on backwards!"

Devin nodded toward Michael, who had moved in
closely toward Miranda. His arm was on the back of
her chair, and unlike Devin, he was able to leap into the
conversation and laugh. He looked at Miranda with a
sense of-a sense of-pride, perhaps? It wasn't quite
lust, but it wasn't quite a look you'd get from someone
who's just a friend, either.

"Look at us, pining for people who don't want us,"
Devin leaned close to me and spoke in a muted tone.

I tossed my head toward Devin. "I'm not pining."

He ignored my comment. "Well, you go ahead and
stare all you want, but I'm doing something about it."

"Devin, don't get stupid."

"Don't worry, all right? I've been on my best behav for tonight. Only one cameraman came over, and he
took a very politically-correct shot of me and Miranda
and Anna. Look, just because I'm under your care
doesn't mean I can't date."

"I hate to break it to you," I tried to keep my voice
down so the rest of the table wouldn't hear, "but I don't
think Miranda's interested."

"I've barely gotten a chance to know her. And you
know me, I don't give up that easily."

"Only when it benefits you," I mumbled, recalling
our own breakup. Very clean and easy for him. He'd
had his assistant do it. There's rejection, and then
there's rejection via your boyfriend's sixty-year-old
temporary assistant. I had called Devin's office wondering what we had planned for that night, and Maria
answered his line.

"Oh, Mr. Underhill wanted me to pass a message on
to you. It's Katie, right?"

"Kate," I replied curtly.

"Anyway, he just doesn't think it's going to work out
and thinks it best you go your separate ways. Good-bye"

Yes, very clean and easy. And as I watched him
watching Miranda, I knew that he wouldn't give up on
her easily.

I caught Michael's eye. He nodded toward the front
door. He dismissed himself from the table, and I followed about five seconds later.

Michael was standing outside with his hands thrust
deep into his pockets, shifting from one foot to another,
when I slid up next to him. I don't know if it was Michael or someone else walking by, but I caught a
whiff of a spicy cologne. Mmm.

"Can't take the New York winter?" I teased.

"These are the times I really miss L.A."

I deeply inhaled the crisp March air. "What, and give
up all the damp, dreary, drizzly days of early spring in
Manhattan?"

"Uh, oh, it's come to this. We've resorted to talking
about the weather." He gave me a halfhearted smile.

"So, was there something you wanted to talk to me
about?" I encouraged.

He reached a hand up to his sideburn and started absently rubbing it. "Uh, just curious about what you and
Devin were talking about."

"I think he's obsessed with Miranda. I mean, I know
Devin intentionally showed up tonight, but I, er, well,
maybe .." I stumbled through my words, remembering what I wanted to talk to Michael about earlier today.

Michael raised his eyebrows encouragingly. When I
opened my mouth to say that I don't think we should be
hanging around Miranda, I realized that she was not the
problem here. "It's, it's ... it's not important."

Michael looked down at the sidewalk and traced a
half-circle with his shoe. "It's not that you want to get
back together with Devin, is it?" he said rather
abruptly.

"Phawww!" I guffawed. "You know, the more time
I spend with that man, the less attractive-and
redeeming-he becomes."

"Well, that's good news." He stared intently at me. I felt heat come to my cheeks, so I had to look away.
"Urn, we should get back inside."

And suddenly he had darted back into the restaurant,
leaving me alone to wonder what just happened.

It had been a lovely two weeks. It was mid-April,
there were hints of buds on the trees, and I had been
given an emergency project with another client that was
just wrapping up that day, so Michael was the one accompanying Devin to his events.

I felt a twinge of guilt, making Michael do all the
physical labor on this project. But I did what I could
during bouts of quiet time with my other project. I
called reporters and schmoozed the best I could about
why they should be interviewing Devin Underhill about
his new commitment to charity. It was no easy task,
having the phone slammed down in your ear an average
of five times a day-but I'd take it over spending any
time with Devin. I knew I'd have to buck up pretty
soon, but right now I was basking in the moment.

And what a brief moment it was. Michael entered my office unannounced. "Hey, you're finishing up the
Mason account today, right?"

Here we go. "Unfortunately, yes. I'm guessing my
shift is starting up again with Devin?"

"You guess right, but we can talk about that later.
About what time will you be available today? Maybe
noon?" He grinned mischievously.

I watched him skeptically. "Depends on what you
want me to do"

"Play hooky and come with me to a baseball game"
I thought he was dressed a little casually today, with his
baby-blue button-up shirt and khakis.

I wrinkled my nose. "Is it a Yankees game?"

"Like I'm that well connected. It's Mets vs. the
Brewers"

"Yay, I love the Mets!" To my chagrin, I sounded
like an overly enthusiastic cheerleader.

"All right, game time is at 1:00, but we should leave at
11:00 if we want to even consider being there on time."

"What happened to noon?"

"You're pedantic."

"Ooh, big college word," I teased, and I saw him
soften a little. Ever since the night at the restaurant,
communication had been perfunctory. He'd only stop
by when he had a question about Devin, and nothing
else. I had been so wrapped up in my other account that
fortunately, I hadn't really noticed. Maybe some over-
priced stadium dogs would do us some good.

"What about Gwen?"

"She's out of the office the rest of the day. If she
asks, we'll just say we were out doing `research.' Any way, I should let you finish your work." Michael pivoted to make an exit. "So, we've agreed upon 11:00?"

"Tricky like a good old-fashioned publicist, just
spinning the conversation right around like that" I
smiled and nodded. "Yes, 11:00 should work"

"You better be nice to He Who Holds The Tickets."

"How dare you hold that over me!" I mockingly cried.

Michael glanced at his watch. "It's 10:00 already.
Why don't we just leave now and grab an early lunch
first?"

"And not be given the chance to eat my weight in hot
dogs? I don't think so"

"All right, I'll let you get back to business so you can
cram an entire day's worth of work into an hour."
Michael left the office and was back in ten seconds.
"Can we go yet?"

I shooed him away. "Don't tempt me. I'm very fragile when it comes to my Mets"

"You're right, you're right. I'll let you continue your
work" And he reappeared another ten seconds later.
"How about now?"

"Michael! Naughty! Go to your room!" He purposely shuffled out of the office as I grinned into my
paperwork. I made a few phone calls, sent out a press
release, and shuffled papers around my desk to make it
look like I was returning after the game. Michael again
came into my office. "For real this time, can we go?"

I looked at the clock on my wall. "11:00 sharp.
You're good. Are we taking the subway?"

"No, I drove in today."

Hmm, he owned a car and was able to pay for park ing. Yup, he was definitely making more than me. We
walked about six blocks to a lot in which all the cars
were crammed. He led me to his vehicle and unlocked
the door for me. I opened the door and had about three
inches of room to slither in.

"So this is what a car looks like." Granted, it was a
1996 silver BMW, but it was a BMW nevertheless.
"You realize I'm doing my best to refrain from Wall
Street yuppie jokes, right?"

Michael shook his head and laughed.

I looked around at the spotless leather interior. "Ever
since I got my driver's license the day I turned sixteen,
I could never imagine being without a car. In Kansas
City, you drove everywhere. I even had a car when I
was at college in the dead center of Missouri. And I got
here and haven't driven since."

"Yeah, this L.A. boy would be lost without his
wheels"

"I don't even want to know how much you pay to
park."

"Well, I usually don't drive into work, and besides,
I've got a driveway."

"Where do you live, Connecticut?"

"Try again. Brooklyn."

"Huh."

"What's the `huh' for?" he grinned.

"I just never imagined someone like you living in
Brooklyn."

Michael leaned forward to watch for pedestrians before he turned the corner. "Care to explain?"

"You just seem more, I don't know, urban or something."

"And is urban nice-speak for `uptight?"'

"Okay, so maybe I might have pegged you as a stiff."

Michael covered his heart with a hand. "Ouch, nothing hurts like a zinger from Kate Brown."

And we were off, crossing the Queensboro Bridge
with relative ease. And finding a place to park within
blocks of the stadium. And shuffling in to Shea Stadium with 50,000 other fans enjoying an afternoon off.

For the first time in God knows how long, I felt relaxed. No tense shoulders, no furrowed brow, no grumbling stomach forming an ulcer. The sun shone on us as
we made our way down to the bottom row right at the
first-base line.

"How did you score these tickets again, and why
aren't they my clients?"

"Actually, they're not from a client. Miranda got
them, and she thought that we might like to use them."

"'We' meaning you and I?"

"Of course. But I have a confession." He cleared his
throat. "When Anna heard about the tickets, she told
Miranda you were a huge Mets fan, so, here we are"

Good old Anna. And good old Michael for catching
on. "Why didn't you take Miranda?"

"Are you kidding? She hates baseball, and besides,
she's been so wrapped up with filming that she couldn't
get away even if she wanted"

"So you haven't seen much of each other lately?" I
inquired casually.

"No, unfortunately. I keep meaning to drop by her
set, but that pesky work thing gets in the way"

"Anna seems to be enjoying herself immensely on
the set, though we hardly get to talk anymore, now that
she's a Hollywood hotshot. I'm so proud of her."

"That's a nice thing to say."

"Well, she is my best friend, so I try to throw her a
line every now and again." I looked at him. "So tell me
a little bit about your best friend. What's his name, does
he live in L.A., stuff like that."

Michael sighed. "It's not a he, it's a she. Miranda's
my best friend."

I tried to avoid it, but all roads apparently led back to
Miranda. And why not? Besides being inhumanly gorgeous, she has charisma, style, smarts, and a sense of
humor. And she's so damned nice, plus she gave my
best friend the job of her dreams. "Miranda's really
great. How did Hollywood not get to her?"

"Family. She's really close to the whole familyaunts, uncles, cousins, you name it. Her dad wouldn't
have a prima donna in his household, and she doesn't
want one in hers, either."

"Sheesh, is there anything this woman can't do?"
Michael opened his mouth to answer, but the Mets took
the field, and I leapt from my seat and started shouting.
He looked startled.

"FYI," I said between shouts, "I can't be held accountable for anything that escapes my mouth during a
Mets game" Michael scanned me quizzically. "I sometimes forget that it's not just me watching the game in front of my TV in the privacy of my own home, so I go
a little crazy on the jeers and the slandering."