What A Girl Wants (8 page)

“I knew I should have worked on the relationship goal first. You were so right. This is a lot easier. And it's obviously some kind of a sign that he's here. I'm going to ask him out.” Hayley looked curiously at Suz. “Seriously, did you know?”

“Did I know what?” Suz answered absently, still scanning the church.

“Did you know he would be here when you took me to the Beer Garden? You said good things always happen to you at funerals. Was this a setup?”

Suz stood up in the pew. “That was a very nice service.” She looked around and brushed off the butt of her tight snakeskin-patterned jeans. “What makes you think his being here is a good thing? Maybe he's still investigating Fred's death.”

Hayley laughed, but Suz shrugged, and her laugh trailed off. “You're not suggesting this is part of his investigation?”

“Why don't you just go ahead and ask him? You already committed to asking him out.” With that, Suz stepped deftly into the aisle and walked toward the back of the church.

She stopped next to the last pew and leaned down, murmuring something in the Roman-chariot-origami guy's ear. He got up and followed her into the nearest confessional, ostensibly for some sort of impromptu paper-folding lessons.

Hayley swallowed, half-impressed, half-daunted. Suz made these male-female things look so easy.

Remember, Hayley, inside they're all just drooling horndogs, there for the
choosing. Nothing to be intimidated by. He wants you. He just may not realize it quite this minute.

People were already heading for the church courtyard. Hayley was tempted to stand up on the pew and look for Grant, but it seemed sort of inappropriate. Instead she followed the mass of people outside, and decided to wait for him to leave.

He appeared in the church doorway a few moments later. Hayley caught her breath. There he was, Lt. Grant Hutchinson, looking right at her. Not unlike the way he had in the soda room—Wait a minute. . . . Hayley took stock of her appearance this time, but everything checked out okay. She seemed to be wearing her dress properly and nothing unusual was stuck to the eyelet. And when she looked up again, he was coming right toward her.

Hayley stared in fascination as that sense of slow motion came into being again and the crowd of mourners seemed to separate in his path as he came at her like a linebacker . . . no, that wasn't quite it. Maybe like a linebacker who'd once had ballet lessons.

Wait. Wait a minute! I'm supposed to ask you out. I'm supposed to approach you.
Hayley looked around wildly, disoriented, hoping to see Suz. Maybe Suz's offhand comment about his being here on behalf of the investigation was right on the money.

In all honesty, the guy hadn't exactly begged for Hayley's home phone number last time she saw him. Come to think of it, he hadn't asked for any personal information at all, and since she didn't work at New Economy Mouthpiece anymore, Fred could very well be the reason he was here.

Suddenly Hayley transcended nervous and went straight to panic. Panic in the way a person might get panicky when they know they haven't done anything wrong, but also know that it could be perceived that they have. She reflexively backed up a few
steps and bumped her heels against the courtyard wall as Grant continued on his warpath, looking about as hot as it was possible to look at a funeral.

Well, if he wasn't going to arrest her, she was definitely going to ask him out.

“I
just want to make one thing clear,” Hayley blurted out, blushing like a love-struck idiot. “I did not murder Fred.”

Grant shaded his eyes against the sun and said, “I'm happy to hear that, believe me.”

There was an awkward little silence, which Hayley felt responsible for filling. “Right. Well, I just thought it best to get it out in the open. Neither I nor anyone else I know of would have wanted to see Fred dead. I mean suicide, I can see. I know tons of people working in startups who'd like to kill themselves. . . .”

Grant smiled, and Hayley almost expected to hear a little toothpaste-commercial sparkle chime.

Nervously she took a step backward, forgetting about the courtyard wall. Her heel slammed against the concrete and she almost fell, but Grant steadied her by her elbow.

Hayley flushed and tried to play the whole awkward scenario off by picking up the thread and continuing the conversation. “Well. So, as I was saying, the thing was, Fred, well, he was a
total
stickler for the AP style guide. Personally, I'm of the mind that a
little creative license never hurt anyone, but Fred, nope, he didn't want any extraneous hyphens. I mean, this was something he was willing to go to violence over. I'm not kidding. I could tell he had it in him when he'd send me one of those e-mails written in all caps. So it wouldn't surprise me if he couldn't take it anymore, what with everybody's constant use of split infinitives and sentence fragments. . . . He really was an unusual guy. . . .”

Grant just stood there listening to her talk, with his head cocked and his arms crossed, and finally she clued in to the fact that she was totally babbling. Time to wind it down gracefully.

“I mean, I always knew he liked paper, but I had no idea he was part of this vast origami subculture. Well, that's not entirely true. There was that crane mobile he gave me last Christmas. But I didn't realize he was a professional . . . origamist. Really, it's amazing the things you learn about a person after they're, you know . . . dead. . . .”

Just as she said the word “amazing,” Grant's arm started forward in a Heisman, and by the time the word “dead” came out of her mouth, his palm was firmly planted against the wall next to her ear. He leaned down and looked into her face with about six inches between them.

“You're saying that Fred Leary may have killed himself over grammar?” The corner of his mouth twitched.

Hayley swallowed and finished weakly. “Or maybe it was just natural causes?”
God. How lame.

“You seem nervous. I don't mean to make you nervous.”

He thinks I seem nervous. Yes, I'm nervous, you big idiot. My insides feel like smashed atom particles stuck in the Stanford Linear Accelerator supercollider. Not to mention there's serious personal-space violation going on here.

With his free hand, Grant suddenly raked his fingers lightly
through Hayley's hair. It took him right up close to her to do it. “Fluff.”

Fluff is right. My brain is fluff.
Hayley noticed that he didn't back away once he'd rubbed his fingers together and disposed of this mystery fluff. Hayley wiped her sweaty palms against the fabric of her skirt.

God, how did one reel in a guy like that without appearing obvious? She definitely wanted him. Of course, she'd just proved to herself a few days ago that being obvious wasn't necessarily a problem. If only she had that green dress . . . or not even the dress. She'd settle for the wig. Or the boobs—she'd even wear the boobs again.

I can't do this on my own. Oh, stop it. Yes, you can. Get a hold of yourself.

She released a breath of air she'd been holding for way longer than was healthy, and said, “Well. It's nice to see you again.”

“Yeah, I'm actually here on official business.” He winked.

Why the wink? Why the wink! Suz, where are you . . . what does he mean by the wink?

He seemed to be waiting for her to say or do something—Confess? What?—and the silence stretched out.

Grant pushed off the wall and put his hand on her shoulder, pressing down gently. It was nonthreatening but definitely controlling. She could feel herself moving into that space—that space where hormones meet heat and ridiculous and humiliating things occur. It was not a space that she really wanted to be in. Because there would either be a bed and hot sex or forget it.

There was not going to be any random, noncommittal groping taking place in the church confessional or any other vertically oriented casual space, no, sir.

He cleared his throat. “I wanted to apologize to you for my unprofessional behavior last week. You were clearly in emotional
distress, and I probably took advantage of the situation. My behavior reflects on the entire San Francisco detective squad, and I stepped over the line.”

Awwwww.
Hayley melted a little. How sweet was that? “I'm not going to be arrested then.”

“No.” He laughed.

Hayley bit her lower lip and looked up at Grant. “Not questioned in any way about Fred's death?”

“Not right now, anyway.” He smiled. “I don't have enough time.”

“The point, then, is that you're apologizing.”

“That's right.”

She should ask him out. Right now. Immediately. This was too good to be true. A man who wasn't afraid to say “I'm sorry.” It was like finding the Holy Grail.

“Apology accepted.” Hayley smiled back at him. “Not to mention, it wasn't all your fault.” She thought she'd just about found the courage to get on with it and ask him out when he derailed the whole notion by tilting his head slightly and moistening his lips.

Hayley's eyes flew open wide.
Oh, my God, he's going to kiss me. He's looking at my mouth. That's a classic indicator. Jesus . . . wait a minute. You can't French-kiss a person at a funeral. You just can't. In fact, I don't want to go out with a guy who would try to French-kiss a girl at a funeral. It's remarkably inappropriate. I don't care what Suz thinks.

But then Grant pulled away slightly and looked at his watch. He frowned and stepped back. “Damn.”

Hey! Wait a minute. What's up with that?
Flooded with disappointment, Hayley narrowed her eyes and gazed at him suspiciously. If she hadn't already made it to third base with him, she'd have to accuse him of being a tease.

Grant didn't seem to be put off by her expression. He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and removed two business cards. Handing them both to her he said, “I have to go. Can I get a contact number?”

Can I get a contact number?
Could he possibly have picked a more unromantic way to ask for her phone number?

Hayley fished around in the bottom of her purse and pulled out a pencil. She wrote her phone number on one of the cards and handed it back to him without a word.

“I'm glad we cleared everything up. I'll see you around.” Then he turned and walked out of the courtyard to the street.

Hayley watched him leave and then pressed two fingers to her forehead above her right eye, where a throbbing pain was just now gaining some steam. If she weren't so confused, she'd be certain she was supposed to feel pathetic.

Somebody's elbow dug into her side. Hayley turned and could only roll her eyes at the sight of Suz tucking her shirt back into her jeans.

“That looked promising,” Suz said enthusiastically.

Hayley shook her head, miserable. “Mistakes were made. I'm not exactly sure what happened, but I have reason to believe that, between our first meeting and just now, he thinks I'm a politely deranged nymphomaniac with murderous instincts.” She ran her fingers through the choppy strands of hair he'd ruffled up. “It wasn't the effect I was going for. I don't know if he wants my phone number for a date or for a future police interview.”

Suz grinned. “Just like Audra said, ‘murder and sexual intrigue.' I'm impressed.”

Hayley groaned. “Be serious. I needed you. I really needed you.
I didn't ask him out and I got nervous and I looked for you but you weren't there and I started babbling and now I don't know if he's attracted to me or what.”

Suz looked at Hayley askance and put her arm around her friend's shoulders. “You're serious, aren't you? You didn't ask him?”

Hayley shrugged and kicked the toe of her shoe against the ground.

Hands on her hips, Suz gaped at Hayley. “But you said you were ready. We went to the Beer Garden, you came out all empowered and stuff, and you said you were ready! And he asked for your phone number.”

She snatched the business card from Hayley's hand and peered at it. “Oh, geez.
And
he gave you
his
phone number. How much more obvious did you want the poor guy to be?”

“It wasn't obvious,” Hayley said sullenly. “He said ‘contact number,' not ‘phone number.' And that's his office contact number, not his personal phone number on his business card, and since I haven't the faintest idea as to whether he gave it to me for business or personal reasons, it's not going to do me any good.”

“Audra's going to have a field day with this.” Suz sighed. “Let's just look on the bright side. He gave you his card and if you want, you can use Fred as an excuse to go down to the police station and talk to him.”

“Are you nuts? I can't just prance into the police station and proposition him. There's no way I would do that. No possible way.”

In a strained voice that sounded suspiciously like she was trying not to laugh, Suz said, “Okay, but think about it this way. You just go in there asking about Fred, and if you get positive vibes that he seems interested in you, you can still ask him out.”

• • •

To avoid wallowing in misery, the minute Hayley returned home from the memorial service she called Audra to set up an appointment with Bruno Maffri.

She was pretty happy with herself for taking the initiative on that matter. Free therapy, free lunch, and plenty of free time sans gainful employment; what excuse could there possibly be for turning it down? She'd run out of ideas. Or rather, she'd run out of her friends' ideas save for this one.

And so it was a day later she found herself eating Chinese food in Audra's swanky office. The Humbert & Quigley building was located in downtown San Francisco in the prestigious Spear Street Tower complex by the waterfront.

It would make the girls feel much better if they could attribute Audra's meteoric rise at such a young age to the fact that she'd had a head start by graduating a couple of years earlier than the rest of them. But Audra could smell money about to happen from miles away, and she'd had the smarts to put herself in the right place at the right time, when venture capital companies couldn't hire people fast enough to handle all the money flowing in and out of the economy.

Which explained why Audra occupied a large office on the thirty-second floor with a window overlooking the Bay Bridge. She sat behind her giant mahogany desk eating the last third of a carton of chow mein with personalized red-lacquered chopsticks.

She was looking much better, in spite of the thicker-than-normal layer of foundation on her face. Hayley assumed the hives had mostly gone away, and Audra didn't say anything about it. She
was her normal self-satisfied self, actually, which meant she'd been feeling much better lately, too.

Hayley shoveled more broccoli beef into her mouth with a plastic fork and looked around the office while she chewed.

It was hard to tell which was more impressive, the pricey digs or the fact that Audra was able to wield chopsticks so vigorously without damaging her fabulous suit. Audra's Donna Karan charcoal-gray crepe pantsuit was severe, masculine even. But those stiletto death heels and the perfectly crisp white shirt opened deep at the neck just short of “wow” . . . well, she was truly magnificent, in her element. A true queen of kick-ass.

Why can't I be like that?

“I really don't think you should be taking advice from Suz. You know I love her, but really, Hayley. Let's be honest.” Audra tapped her temple with two fingers and mouthed,
Not quite all there.

“I don't know.” Hayley sighed. “I can't seem to get things on track. I thought all I had to do was decide to change my life and give it a go, and things would get better. But I've been giving it a go, and in spite of what feels like a yeoman's effort, things seem to be degrading rapidly.”

“That's not true. Well, I guess losing your job was a decidedly inferior outcome, but the situation with the policeman, in all honesty, I don't think we've seen the end of that story yet. There's potential there.”

Hayley peered into her take-out carton and pushed the contents around to find the good stuff. “You don't understand; I was supposed to take a stand and ask him out. I'd been trained less than twenty-four hours earlier for just such a scenario, and I copped out.”

Audra let out a short laugh. “No pun intended.”

“Ha-ha. I just don't seem to have what it takes. I established these two goals. I decided I wanted a raise and a guy, and the best I can do is to keep the one goal afloat—barely—while the other tanks. That's not progress.”