Spencer Cohen Series, Book One (The Spencer Cohen Series 1) (11 page)

“Spencer,” she greeted me warmly. “Nice to see you again.”

“Likewise,” I replied. And for some unknown reason, I was nervous. I normally had the knack to work any room, regardless of my comfort level. But this was different, and Lola’s words of “sounds more like a date to me” skidded into my head. I wiped my hands down my thighs and struggled to find what to say next.

Thankfully Andrew spoke first. “So Spencer was just trying to convince me to tell you he cooked dinner and that I didn’t get takeout.”

My mouth fell open. “I did not!” Andrew laughed as he walked past me and into the kitchen. I pushed his shoulder. “Liar.”

Sarah laughed and said, “Don’t worry, Spencer, I know anything that comes out of this kitchen isn’t homemade.”

“So, he’s a notorious non-cooker?”

“Oh yes,” she said, nodding her head. “It’s not that he
won’t
cook. It’s that he
can’t
cook. I’m pretty sure he could burn water.”

“I can hear you, you know?” he called out. “Now, come in here and help me.”

“Is he always so bossy?” I asked Sarah.

She rolled her eyes. “Always.”

“Yep. Still hearing you,” he said, and I grinned as I walked into the kitchen. He had taken the dishes from the oven and put them on the counter. He threw a dishtowel at me. “They’re hot, so be careful.”

I snorted out a laugh. “Is that how you ask someone to take food to the table?”

“Well, it’s the least you could do, considering how many hours I slaved away in here,” he said without missing a beat.

I chuckled as I carried the takeout containers to the table. Sarah was looking at us with the same twisted-lip pout that Lola got when she was trying not to smile, and then they were having that silent eyeball conversation again, which I pretended not to notice.

And that’s pretty much how dinner went. Comfortable, funny, never-ending conversation. I liked Sarah. She was smart and cultured, like her brother. They talked of everything from world issues to reality television. And something I found really peculiar was not once did Eli’s name come up.

I don’t know why, but I’d expected him to be a large part of our conversation topic. He was, after all, the reason the three of us were together. But nope. Not once. Not that I minded. I’d rather not talk about him at all. I had a hard enough time wondering when Andrew missed him the most… Did he lay in bed and wish he was there? Did he miss the sound of him coming down the stairs in the morning? Did he miss putting his arms around him? Did he miss him at all? Because the more I got to know Andrew, I had to wonder where Eli fit in.

Normally when I took on a job, there was a gaping hole in my clients’ lives where their partners used to be, that void they were trying to fill. But Andrew seemed so complete. He was a confounding man that much was for certain.

“Spencer?”

Shit.
Andrew must have asked me something. “Huh? Sorry, I was a million miles away.”

Andrew looked at me quizzically. “Sarah wanted to know about the record player. I told her to ask the guy who bought it for me.”

Oh. “Oh, sure. Want me to play the album as well?” I asked. Glad for the distraction, I stood up and put the record onto the turntable and lowered the tonearm, and soon Jeff Buckley was singing to the three of us. I sat back down and took a sip of my wine, with no clue of the conversation I’d missed.

Sarah tilted her head, listening to the music. “It’s lovely.”

Andrew put his glass down on the table and excused himself, I presumed, to go to the bathroom. He shot a well-aimed
be nice
glare at his sister, and then it was just me and Sarah. I knew she was going to ask me questions, and I didn’t have to wait long.

“So,” she started. “I have to say, I’m surprised you bought him a record player.”

She didn’t ask it as a question, but it totally was. What she was really asking was
Why did you buy him a record player? Do you buy all your clients record players?
I gave her a smile and sipped my wine. “I’m surprised he didn’t have one.”

“You’ve been spending a bit of time with him,” she said, totally asking in a non-question kind of way.

“I have. He’s a nice guy.”

“Just nice?”

I cleared my throat and steered the conversation. “Tell me about Eli?”

She sat back in her seat and took her wine glass off the table. “Eli’s a… nice guy.”

“But?”

“But he wasn’t right for him.” She frowned at her own words. “I don’t know. They just didn’t seem to fit. It was so odd. They had nothing in common, and when Andrew told me they were talking about getting married,” she leaned in and whispered, “I almost freakin’ died.”

“Whose idea was it to hire me?”

“Mine,” she said. “I just want him happy. And if Eli makes him happy, then that’s what I want.”

“Did Eli make him happy?”

Before she could answer, Andrew came back. He looked between us warily, knowing full well he was the subject of our conversation. “Everything okay?”

“Yep,” Sarah answered. “Spencer and I were just arguing over who was going to clean up. He lost, so he has to do it.”

A bubble of laughter escaped me. “I totally didn’t, but I will clean up.” I put the empty takeout trays on top of one another and started to stack plates. “I could just imagine you two as kids.”

Andrew took the plate from me. “You don’t have to clean up anything,” he said. “And our childhood was quite normal. Well, after Sarah realised she’d never win an argument with me, we got along just fine.”

“So, tell us about your childhood,” Sarah asked. “What was life like growing up in Australia?”

There was a dull thud, and I was pretty sure it was Andrew kicking his sister under the table. He was cautious of asking questions of my family, no doubt reading into the veto I gave him the other day. “My childhood was fine,” I said, looking at him. I’m pretty sure he heard the unsaid teenage years weren’t so great. “I had a pretty good childhood actually. I grew up in Sydney, and we rode our bikes down to the soccer fields, to the corner shop, that kind of thing.”

Sarah very astutely, and somewhat obviously, changed the subject. “So do you get asked about your accent all the time?”

I nodded. “All the time. And can I just say, asking me to say throw a shrimp on the barbie is not conducive to keeping one’s teeth.”

They both laughed. “People have asked you to say that?” Andrew asked.

“You’d be surprised. Though my friends are used to it now, but at first they’d crack up at some of the things I’d say.”

Andrew was smiling. “Like?”

So I told them funny stories, using words like
servo
and
arvo
,
sunnies
and
chooks
, and the differences between mate and maaaaaaate. And all the while Sarah sat back and watched us. Well, mostly she watched Andrew. And not long after, she looked at her watch and stood up. “I didn’t realise it was so late,” she said.

“It’s not even nine,” Andrew countered.

“Yes well,” she said, grabbing her coat and handbag. “I better be going. I’ll leave you guys to clean up.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Andrew mumbled. Throwing his napkin onto the table, he stood, as did I.

She kissed her brother’s cheek. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” Then she looked at me. “The answer to your question is no. I thought so, but no. Spencer, it was really nice to see you again.” And with a smile, she was gone.

Huh. Weird.

“What did she mean?” Andrew asked, staring at the door Sarah had just gone out of. “Answer to what question?”

“Um.” I sat back down and tried to recall what I’d asked her. “I can’t remember.”

We were talking about Eli… Oh. That’s right.
Did Eli make him happy?

Her answer: I thought so, but no.

“Um, it was about the record player,” I lied. “I asked her if she wanted me to get her one.”

The way Andrew looked at me, I knew he knew I was lying. God, I was struggling to keep up the façade with him. Normally untruths just rolled off my tongue. I’d spent most of my teenage years lying about who I was, then now as a dial-a-boyfriend, it was what I did for a living.

“You can’t lie for shit,” he said, picking up the stack of plates.

“Shush,” I said, just as Jeff Buckley started to sing “Hallelujah.” I breathed in deep, as though I could inhale the music. “It’s my favourite song.”

He made a face at me, though stopped short at sticking his tongue out before he picked up the dirty plates. I helped him pack them all into his dishwasher and tidy up, and in no time at all, everything was back to perfect. “So what time do you start with Lola tomorrow?” he asked when we were done in the kitchen. I’d told him how I sometimes help her out when she needs me, mostly carrying her boxes and bags, or just being an extra pair of hands. It was never strictly exciting work, but I loved spending time with Lola.

“Seven, so I probably should get going soon.” I didn’t really want to leave but couldn’t think of any reason to stay. Well, any reason for him to want me to stay. I took the record off the turntable and slipped it back into its cover. Then I realised his piano was just sitting there, all neglected and unplayed, and I really wanted to hear what he could do. “Would you play me something on your piano?”

His eyes shot to mine, wide and shocked, as though I’d just asked him to have sex with me. “Um…”

“You don’t have to,” I said, giving him an out.

“Are you sure?”

I scoffed. “Of course I’m sure.” Actually, there wasn’t much else I was sure about. But hearing him play the piano was a definite yes.

“What will I play?”

“First thing you think of.”

He blinked a couple of times, still so unsure, and walked over to the piano. He sat down slowly and put his fingers to the keys. And without another word, he took a deep breath and started to play.

Such a sweet song, with patient, perfectly timed finesse. I’d never heard anything like it.

I didn’t know what the song was called, who wrote it, composed it, nothing. But it stole my breath. It wasn’t just the music. It was the man who made angels sing from his piano.
He
stole my breath, how his hands moved, how he closed his eyes and got lost in the music, how he coerced the sounds from the piano with his whole body. And when his hands fell to his lap and the last note hung in the air, I couldn’t find the words.

Andrew glanced at me, before he looked back at the piano and he exhaled through puffed out cheeks.

I swallowed down the emotions, the butterflies that swarmed my chest. He was waiting for me to respond, so I told him the God’s honest truth. The best I could manage was a whisper. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”

He gave me a coy, embarrassed smile. “Don’t you mean
heard
?”

“Isn’t that what I said?” I asked, confused. My heart was still pounding, an erratic metronome.
I was sure I said heard.

Andrew shook his head and smiled down at his hands. “Better than ‘Hallelujah’ by Jeff Buckley?”

I laughed off my embarrassment at my own reaction to him. “Andrew, that was incredible. What song was it?”

“Just something I wrote.”

I scoffed. “Are you kidding me? You wrote that?”

He nodded.

“Just something I wrote.” I mimicked his voice. “No, a grocery list is just something you write, that—
that
”—I waved my hand at his piano,—“was, my God, Andrew, that was so… incredible.” There just wasn’t another word for it.

The smile he gave me was pure relief and maybe a dash of pride. “Thank you.”

I had to stop myself from walking over and touching him. From putting my hands to his face and kissing him. From taking his hand and leading him upstairs to bed. I wanted to. Fuck, how I wanted to.

And I knew then that I was in over my head.

Somewhere, somehow, I’d let myself cross the line. And I hadn’t just merely stepped over it. Oh no. I’d crossed that line like Usain freakin’ Bolt. And instead of putting a stop to it, instead of stepping back and doing my actual job, my stupid heart went and spoke before my stupid brain.

“Play it again.”

Lola pulled up out front of the shop and I jumped into the passenger side before the car behind her could honk. She drove her little 80s model Honda hatch—aptly named Cindy Crawford, after Lola’s favourite 80s model—like a demon through morning traffic. And to her credit, she made it two whole blocks before she started with the questions. “So, how was dinner?”

“Good.

She glanced from the road to me. “Just good?”

I tried not to smile and failed. “Okay, so it was better than good. Lola, he played his piano for me last night.”

“Is that a euphemism for something dirty?”

I laughed at that. “No. He actually played his piano. It was incredible.”

“Was Sarah still there?”

“No. Just me.”

“Oh, really?”

“Shut up. It wasn’t like that. I asked him to play something, and he did. I mean, he has a grand piano sitting in his living room, for God’s sake. It’s not like I bought him a piano so he could play.”

“Like you bought him a record player?”

I gave her the best shut-up glare I could manage. “That was different.”

“Mm mm,” she made that assent noise that wasn’t really agreeing at all.

“Everyone should have a record player and at least one Jeff Buckley album,” I said. “I’m sure it’s a written rule somewhere.”

She laughed. “What did he play you?”

“He said it was something he wrote. You know, like we write down a phone message, he writes music.”

“Is there anything he can’t do?”

“Cook, apparently. He sucks at it.”

Lola laughed. “Oh, good. For a second there I thought he was utterly perfect.”

I rolled my eyes at her. “He orders good food though. It was a bunch of pastas and some veal dish.”

She glanced at me a few times, like she was trying to figure out how to phrase something, and normally I’d tell her to just spit it out. But I was pretty sure I didn’t want to hear whatever it was she was about to say if it involved Andrew, so I changed the subject. “So, where are we off to?”

“Downtown,” she said. “It’s a metro shoot.”

“Cool.”

And she didn’t bring up Andrew again for the rest of the day. Granted, she was busy transforming beautiful people into extraordinarily beautiful people, and I was busy doing what she asked me to do. But our topic of conversation revolved around other things, and that was fine with me. That was until we finally climbed into Cindy Crawford and headed home, and I checked my phone. She drove like a crazy blind woman so sometimes it was best not to look up anyway.

“Checking for messages from anyone in particular?” she asked.

“I sent him a message earlier,” I answered. “Just seeing if he replied.”

Which he hadn’t.

“Lining up another dinner date?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Mm mm.” Again with the sarcastic course-not sound.

“I asked him if Eli had contacted him,” I admitted. “We uploaded a photo onto his Facebook, and his sister commented with a time and place we’d be meeting this Saturday. I just wondered whether Eli had taken the bait, that’s all.”

“It’s okay, Spence,” she said. “You don’t need to justify anything to me.”

“I know. I’m not,” I said. But I totally was, and we both knew it. I wanted to tell her I was struggling with this job. I wanted to tell her it was amazing and terrifying and horrible and wonderful. But I didn’t. The cold reality was my job with Andrew would be over in five days. Come Sunday morning, we’d know whether Eli wanted him back. I mean the guy would have to be crazy if he didn’t. “Can you watch the road and not me? I don’t feel like dying today.”

Lola scowled at me as my phone buzzed. It was Andrew, and the way my heart tripped over its own stupid feet was ridiculous.
Sorry, been a busy day. Just finished work and saw your message now. I had a message from Eli as well. What should I do?

And that stupid heart-tripping feeling became a lot more like heart-sinking. God I was so stupid.
What did he say?

Wanted to say hi. See how I was. Saw the photo, wanted to know if it was for real?

“What is it?” Lola asked. She looked from the traffic to me, her eyes etched with worry.

“Nothing,” I lied. “It’s Andrew. Said Eli’s been in touch. He saw the photo.”

“Is that good?” she asked slowly, clearly unsure.

I nodded. “Yep. It’s what Andrew wants.”

Lola had gone from unsure to concerned. “Spencer?”

“No, it’s good. It’s exactly why I suggested taking the photos and putting them on his Facebook,” I answered, looking at my phone. Then I replied to Andrew’s text, telling him to do the very thing I dreaded most.
Message him back. Tell him you’re not sure where things stand with me. Tell him it depends on how much time and space he needs. That should get a response.

With a deep breath, I turned my phone off. When I looked up, I realised we’d stopped across the road from the tattoo shop. Shit. I quickly undid my seatbelt and opened the door.

“Spencer,” Lola started to say.

I got out and leaned down to speak through the door. “See you tomorrow at seven. I’ll bring coffee,” I said before I shut the door and tapped the roof of Cindy Crawford.

The car behind her honked his horn, and Lola flipped him the bird before taking off at warp speed into the flow of cars. I laughed and took my chances crossing the street in peak-hour traffic.

* * * *

I climbed back into Cindy Crawford right on seven Wednesday morning. I had a takeout tray with a coffee for Lola and a tea for me. I waited until we were moving through traffic and I felt safe enough before I handed it to her.

“You didn’t answer my texts last night,” she said.

“Sorry about that,” I mumbled. “I had my phone off.”

“Spencer, can we talk about it?”

I shook my head. “I’m fine. Please watch the road.”

“Don’t change the subject. You can’t avoid shit like this forever.”

“Yes, I can. I’ve done it for years. It works just fine.”

“You’re allowed to feel things, Spencer.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

“I thought we weren’t talking about it,” I said, looking out the window.

“One more question, then I’ll leave it alone.” She was gonna ask it whether I wanted her to or not, so there was no point in arguing. “Did Andrew reply?”

“I don’t know. I turned my phone off.”

“You haven’t looked at all?”

Still looking out the window, I shook my head. She didn’t say any more, but the sigh she let out may as well have been an “Oh, Spencer.”

I helped her carry all her boxes and pull make-up bags on wheels down city streets until we reached the photoshoot. Lola and a few other make-up artists soon got busy doing their thing with the models, and I hung back out of the way. Normally when I helped out at these things, I’d score a phone number and a one-night stand. But these pretty boys didn’t interest me today, and by 10:00 a.m. my phone started to burn a hole in my pocket.

Well, wondering whether Andrew replied had started to burn a hole in my brain. Same thing really.

So I walked down the street a ways and turned on my phone. I had a bunch of missed calls and text messages. I checked the text messages first. Without reading them, I could see two from Lola, no doubt saying
Answer your goddamn phone
, two from Andrew, and one from a number I didn’t recognise.

I opened the unknown number message first. It was a prospective new client named Lance, who got my number from my old client Gerrard, the super-rich arsehole guy, wondering if I was available to meet with him. I sighed. The idea of meeting another guy to go through the whole getting-to-know-you phase again seemed like torture. I considered hitting delete but didn’t. It wasn’t like I needed the money, but ordinarily I really liked my job. I figured I’d be back to normal next week so I was resigned to calling Lance later.

That left Andrew’s texts. The first was sent not long after I replied telling him to reply to Eli.
Okay. Message sent
was all it said.

Then an hour after that was another.
He called me. Wanted to know what I was doing on Saturday night. I told him I had plans, which he admitted to seeing on Facebook. Then he suggested Friday night. I told him I’d let him know. What do I do now?

Oh, fuck.

I took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. Then another. I didn’t know if he’d called him back, if he’d agreed to meet him. God, he could have ended up calling back, and for all I knew, they’d reconciled and spent the night in bed.

I felt sick.

I stared at my phone screen, then I stared at it some more.

And with a sense of dread, I listened to the voice messages. There were two from Lola, saying exactly what I thought. The second wasn’t as pleasant as the first, and I knew I’d have to apologise to her. The remaining three were from Andrew. The first was rather cheerful. “Hey, it’s me. Um, Andrew. Andrew Landon.” I smiled at that. “Eli called me. Can you give me a call back? Thanks.”

Then the second voice message was forty minutes after the first, and he sounded a little anxious. “It’s um, it’s Andrew again. Not sure if you got my last message. I told Eli I’d let him know about Friday, but I wanted to talk to you first. I’m not sure what you want me to do.”

The third voice message was two hours after that. His voice was quiet. “It’s Andrew. I um… Call me.”

The sound of his self-doubt expanded like a lead balloon in my chest. I hated that I caused him to doubt himself. Of all the people who should be confident. God, he was successful, talented, and sexy as hell. But he was also honest and funny, and for some reason he didn’t see himself the way he should.

I guessed Eli leaving him would have hit his confidence hard, but it was like he’d been downtrodden or constantly told he wasn’t quite good enough, and to think I’d added fuel to his fire of insecurity just about killed me.

I hit his number and put the phone to my ear. Given it was mid-morning and he’d be at work, I was expecting it to go to voicemail but was still disappointed when it did.

“Hey, it’s me, Spencer. I’m really sorry I missed your calls and texts. I wasn’t feeling well,” I lied, “and had my phone off. I should have responded regardless, and I’m sorry I didn’t.”

He just had no idea how sorry I was.

“Just wondering if you called Eli back? Whether you’re going out with him on Friday?” I cleared my throat. “Call me when you can. And again, Andrew, I’m sorry I let you down.”

I clicked off the call and exhaled through puffed out cheeks. God, this was so fucked up. This feeling… this horrible feeling was a heavy, aching reminder of why I put up walls and kept my distance.

It was also a stark reminder that this was a professional transaction. He was paying me to get results, and I’d failed him. I should have taken his calls, and I should have told him, without any hesitation, to go out with Eli on Friday night.

Hell, maybe they did get back together last night. Maybe we wouldn’t get a result on Saturday night because maybe we already had one, and maybe Andrew wasn’t my client anymore. Maybe I needed to man the fuck up and get over it.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

So, with that mindset, I opened the text from Lance, the prospective new client, and hit reply.
Sure. Does this Monday suit?

I headed back up to the photoshoot to where Lola was working her magic on some over-tired, under-fed girl. As I walked in, one of the male models gave me a nod. “Hey,” he said gruffly. He looked me up and down and gave me a smirk, which I’m sure on any other day would have worked for a phone number or a blowjob. But not today.

“Hey,” I said, just to be polite, and kept walking. Lola didn’t miss it, of course, and raised an eyebrow at me and a sad shake of her head. Ignoring whatever it was she was implying, I asked, “Need anything?”

“No,” she said brightly, adding some black to the model’s eyes with perfection. “Called Andrew yet?”

I thought about not answering but remembered her concerned messages on my phone. “I left a message.”

“Good,” she said with a fond smile. Like it was some huge personal milestone. I don’t know, maybe it was.

I spent the rest of the day between doing whatever Lola told me to do and checking my phone. No reply from Andrew. I couldn’t say I blamed him, after all, I’d ignored him. And by the time I’d loaded the last of Lola’s equipment into Cindy Crawford, I had pretty much convinced myself that Andrew couldn’t reply because he’d spent the day in bed with Eli.

No replies and a vivid imagination would do that.

“He’ll call you,” Lola said. She must have read my mind because I hadn’t mentioned him for hours. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s written all over your face.”

“It’s stupid,” I finally admitted. “I’ve known him for what? Not even two weeks.”