The Casual Rule (3 page)

Dimples? Damn, I didn’t notice those on Saturday. As my hand slides into his to shake, I feel a spark shoot through my body. I break our handshake, briefly staring at my hand. Whoa…what the hell was that? My eyes quickly dart down to the table and I sit. He politely follows my lead and sits.

“Just a little mishap with her son, I’m sure it’ll be fine.” I recover.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he says.

Our server walks up to our table with a small pad in hand. “Can I get you a drink, sir?” she asks.
Apparently, I’m invisible.

“Yes. Thank you. Would you like a drink Miss Conti? They make fantastic sangria here,” he asks.

“Ah, sure. And it’s Julia.”

One glass, Julia, one glass only.

“We’d like a pitcher of white sangria, please.” He smiles. His teeth actually sparkle; this guy could star in a toothpaste commercial.

“Of course, sir.” She gawks at him as she practically curtseys.

Seriously? Get a grip, girlie.

She leaves and his full attention is back on me, his dark brown eyes boring into my green. I squirm in my seat. “Mr. Martin, I have the manuscript here with the latest chapters you submitted. Would you like to go over them?”

“First off, it’s Ben. Why don’t we order our dinner first? There’s plenty of time for work, Julia,” he answers smoothly.

Duh…of course, what a rookie move on my part. We have to order dinner first. This is a dinner meeting. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Of course…Ben.”

He hands a menu sitting on the table in front of him to me. I open the menu and frown. I don’t have a clue where to start, paella, tapas, and everything under the sun on a skewer. There’s too much to select. Ben peeks over his menu, looking amused. “It’s quite a varied menu, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I’ve never had tapas before. There’s so much to choose from.”

“Why don’t I order a few different tapas? We can share them. It’s a nice way to sample a little bit of everything. Do you like fish?”

“Yes. Fish is fine. Thank you,” I answer, relieved.

Our server returns to the table with a large pitcher of sangria.

One glass, Julia, I remind myself.

After a little too much fanfare in pouring two glasses and spooning a few chunks of fruit in our glasses, we finally have our drinks. All of her attention is directed toward Ben and I am, once again, the invisible woman.

She’s so obvious. Why don’t you pull up a chair and gawk at him while we eat our dinner? Better yet, sit on his lap and feed him?

“Are you ready to order, sir?” she stammers.

Whatever happened to ladies first?

“Yes, we’d like the baby chorizo, cracked Spanish olives, shrimp ajillo, plato de quesos variados and plato de jamón Serrano.”

I peek over my opened menu and study his face while he orders our meal. He looks so in command and sure of himself. I wish he wasn’t so good looking, I know it’s going to distract the hell out of me.

“Very good.” She nods, takes our menus and leaves.

“So Julia, how long have you worked with Vivian?”

“Two years.”

“She speaks very highly of you. I was wondering if I was ever going to work with you.”

“Well, here I am.” I take a sip of the sangria. It doesn’t seem to be packing too much of a punch. I hate when restaurants water down drinks, although I imagine in this case, it’s a good thing. “There are a few points about your book I was hoping to go over with you.”

“We don’t need to rush. First tell me more about yourself. I only know the little bit Vivian has mentioned.”

“Uh, I’ve been with Wisteria Hill for two years.”

“As an assistant editor?”

“No, I started as a fact checker. Vivian took me under her wing and eventually I became her assistant.”

“You must be good. Vivian has a reputation for only taking on the best.”

I try not to blush. I’m determined to keep this professional and not get lost in his gorgeous eyes or those kissable lips.
I wonder if his hair is soft. I bet it is.
“Vivian surrounds herself with the best team and only takes on authors she feels have true talent. She has great instincts.”

“What made you choose publishing?”

“Stories. I love all kinds of stories.”
And gossip rags, but I’ll leave that out.

“What kind of stories do you like?”

Gossip, gossip and more gossip
.

“Nonfiction, mostly. I like to read about people, learn how they tick. You know, behind the scene accounts of true life events, which is why I was drawn to your book.”

“This may sound sexist but I did have reservations about a woman editing a book about baseball.”

Want to know why it may sound sexist? Because it is sexist, you good looking chauvinist pig
.  

I grab my glass of sangria and take a huge gulp. “A good editor knows how to make a story flow. And let me assure you, even we women know a thing or two about baseball, after all baseball is known to have the hottest quarterbacks.”

His jaw drops.

“I’m kidding, Ben.”

“I was about to contact my lawyer to find the
get out
clause in my contract.” He laughs.

“I promise we won’t steer you wrong,” I assure him.

“No, I don’t think you will, Julia. More sangria?”

“Sure.” I can drink twelve watered down versions of this sangria, besides half the glass is full of fruit.

Our server brings our dinner to the table. This girl has real skills because she’s placing each small plate on our table while never taking her eyes off of Ben. Maybe I should give her my napkin so she can wipe the drool off her chin. I look at our table of small savory foods on colorful intricately patterned ceramic plates.  The presentation itself is a work of art. They say you eat with your eyes first; my appetite is sated from the visual alone.

Ben explains each plate of tapas on our table. Some are blatantly obvious. Does he think I’ve never seen an olive before? He seems so nice. I have to keep reminding myself that somewhere behind the good looks and charm is the same idiot who called me out at Central Park. At least he doesn’t recognize me as the stalker gawker.

“I read through your manuscript. I love the premise. Behind the scenes stories of the Mets is brilliant. How did you get access to so many people in the know? You have everyone from groundskeepers and batboys to security guards and upper management.”

“I had a connection.”

“Who?”

“My father does business with some of the higher ups in the organization. They hooked me up with the right people. The rest is history.”

So he’s good looking and rich. Figures.

“You know people in the organization?”

“Yes, well, a few.”

“Impressive.” I nod.

“I don’t know if it’s impressive, but it certainly opened doors that otherwise would have been closed shut. I was grateful for the help.”

“When I first read your manuscript, I expected to see a lot about the World Series games. They were presented so well in your writing. I enjoyed reading about the nicknames some of the groundskeepers gave the players. I haven’t read that anywhere else.”

“You read books about baseball?”

“I read books about the Mets. I come from a long line of diehard Mets fans, as I suppose you probably do.”

“Actually, I’m a Yankees fan.”

A Yankees fan? It figures…

“And they still hooked you up with insiders?”

“Yes, they don’t hold it against me.” He laughs.

“I might,” I answer sarcastically.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he coos as he pops an olive in his mouth. I really wish he’d stop eating— it’s very distracting, drawing all my attention to his lips, his luscious, perfect lips. How’s a girl supposed to act professionally with a man who looks like this across the table?

I clear my throat, redirecting my attention from his lips to his eyes. I never noticed the tiny golden flecks in his eyes before. Okay, now I’m lost in his eyes. Damn him. Damn me. Okay, I’m acting like an ass. I’m a professional. I have to behave like one. I straighten up my posture. “Vivian and I feel that your book has terrific technical merit. However, we think that a few chapters need some retooling.”

“Retooling? You mean a rewrite?” He frowns.

“Yes, some minor revisions to make a better story. It needs to be playful, you know, a little sexy.”

“Sexy? It’s a book about baseball.”

“Baseball can be very sexy. Romantic even.”

“Can you explain to me what is sexy about a game with nine players on two teams covered in dirt and sweat, adjusting their cups and spitting?” he asks, his finger tapping on the table. He looks a little pissed.

“The game depends on the skills, energy, and frame of mind of the two teams playing. Take the game you described in chapter five.”

“What about it? It’s an accurate description.” His posture stiffens.

“Yes. But it’s too mechanical, too precise. There’s no sexy. In the first inning you have a player on third, another on second. The batter grounds the ball. The shortstop grabs the ball and throws it home.”

 “Ah yes, the sex is oozing,” he scoffs as he rolls his eyes.

I take a big swig of sangria. He’s not going to frighten me off with his demeaning eye rolling. I know what I’m talking about. “What’s sexy is the push and pull, like a relationship between a man and a woman, should I, shouldn’t I? Do I try to move up the bases, or retreat back? Get inside their heads. In that play, once the ball was thrown to home plate, the player on third retreats back toward third. The guy on second is almost at third, but has to retreat back to second. The shortstop gets the ball again and chases the player back and forth toward second base. The shortstop momentarily stops to see where the guy on third is, giving the other player enough time to get back to second safely.”

“And that’s sexy?”

“The back and forth, the indecisiveness. I think that’s very sexy.”

“Some might call that being a tease.” He smirks as he pops a chunk of cheese in his distractingly perfect mouth.

“Others might call that doing what’s best for your game.”

“Your game? Baseball is a team sport.”

“Agreed. The ultimate goal is scoring, but most of the excitement is getting there. You need to build that up, raise the excitement level. Titillate your readers. There’s an intimate relationship between the written word and the reader. You need to keep them interested. Why didn’t you mention anything a little outrageous? I’d love to know what was going on behind the scenes, something a little scandalous,” I ask.

“Scandalous or Slanderous?”

“Spicy, something your reader can sink their teeth into.”

“It has no place in
my
book.”

“I’ve always suspected there’s some juicy behind the scene stories we’ve never heard. Surely with your resources, you could delve deeper.”

“I can assure you, Miss Conti, I’ve delved deep enough. Everything that needed to be written was in that manuscript,” he answers sternly.

Oh, now I’m back to Miss Conti. Touched a nerve, have I?

“Mr. Martin, readers want something fresh. You have to give them something a little salacious, something they haven’t read before. You’re going in the right direction, but you need to add an additional chapter and some rewrites. Your stories are very good, but you need more grit.”

“Grit, Miss Conti? Is that code for gossip? I am not writing a book for gossip hungry women.”

I don’t know if it’s the two glasses of sangria that has given me the courage to speak my mind, but I’ve had it.

“Do you have an issue with women, Mr. Martin? You will add an additional chapter and the rewrites and they
will
be ready by your next deadline,” I say heatedly.

“My issue is with you. Do you think I’m going to take orders from a wet behind the ears
assistant
with hardly any editing experience? You look like you’re barely out of college.”

“I can read, Mr. Martin. And make no mistake about it; I’m damn good at what I do. I know the difference between writing that’s worth my time and writing that falls flat.” I quickly look at my watch; it only took him forty-five minutes to completely piss me off.

“I see you got your watch fixed.” He glares at me, his eyes cold and hard.

Shit! That smug bastard knew who I was the whole time and didn’t say a word.

“Yes, it’s telling me it’s time to leave. I’ll pay at the front. Enjoy the rest of your meal.”
You sexist jerk.

~o0o~

I walk into my apartment ready to forget tonight ever happened. Allie is sitting on the couch with her feet on the coffee table, remote control in hand. She turns around when she hears me.

“Hey, how did your first one on one with an author go?” she asks.

“Super. I should be unemployed by morning,” I answer sarcastically, walking over to the couch and sitting next to her.

“Why? What happened?”

“He was an arrogant ass. I lost my cool and called him out on it. I was unprofessional. I’m sure once he gets Vivian’s ear, I’m fired.” My stomach is starting to hurt. I just royally screwed myself.

“Vivian is not going to fire you,” she assures me.

“You weren’t there. I let her down. No matter what my opinion is about the guy, I shouldn’t have let it affect my work.”

“Ah, Jules, I’m sorry. Just explain to Vivian what happened. She may reprimand you, but she likes you. She won’t fire you.”

“There’s something else,” I say quietly.

“What?”

“The author guy…we’ve met before.”

“Really?”

“He’s Mr. Khaki Shorts.”

“Get out!” She puts her hand over her mouth, stifling a laugh.

“Yes. It’s not funny, Allie. It was mortifying. He was talking to me the whole time pretending he didn’t recognize me. Then we exchanged some words and he called me out on the Central Park thing.”

“What did he say?”

“Nice to see you had your watch fixed.” I close my eyes tight, reliving the embarrassment.

She rests her elbow on her thigh, resting her chin in her palm. “What an ass.”