Big Dick Energy: A Meet-Cute Novel Read online

  I pecked her on the cheek and then stepped into my heels, sighing at the pinch of them on my tired toes, but letting that twinge fuel me. “And when our meeting with the Pythons comes around, Archer York is going to learn what it’s like to lose to a woman.”

  7

  Archer

  As soon as I stepped off the elevator and into the seventh-floor hallway, the scent of burned food hit me, and I really hoped that wasn’t coming from Mom and Kyle’s condo. But the closer I got to #703, the stronger it became.

  The yipe of a yorkie who owned more outfits than I did accompanied the smell, although the pocket-sized dog barked at everything, so that didn’t give me much to go on. I jammed my key in the knob and pushed open the door, scanning for Izzie.

  My sister stood in front of the oven, waving at the smoke with a potholder. “Don’t worry. It just boiled over the tiniest bit.”

  As helpful as ever, Kali padded over to me, her tail swinging so quickly it was just a blur of brown and black fluff, much like the rest of her. With her long hair, she was half mop, although her over-the-top accessories turned her into the glitteriest mop in history.

  I tossed aside my briefcase and rushed over to help Izzie. Sure enough, the…lasagna? had bubbled over the sides and dripped onto the bottom of the oven where it sizzled to a crisp. Smoke stung my eyeballs, and I snagged the potholder from Izzie and used it to yank out the blackened food.

  “I thought it’d be nice to have a fancy dinner. Are you mad?” Panic bled into features that were a mix of my mom and Hernando—husband number two of three. “I feel like you’re mad.”

  I slung my arm over her shoulders. “Of course I’m not mad. I appreciate it. And I was just thinking there aren’t enough smoke-scented air fresheners. Mmm, Italian campfire. We should market that.”

  With a giggle, she shoved at me, and there was the same smile that tended to get Mom whatever she wanted from men, which had me a pinch worried when it came to my little sister, to say the least. Then her big brown eyes went wide. I dropped my gaze to see red tomato sauce smeared across my white shirt.

  “Still not mad,” I said before she could ask. Another thing I’d discovered in the past week. Isabela second guessed everything she did, constantly asking if things bothered me. Not that I’d say so, as I didn’t want her to experience any anxiety over it, but I was honestly impressed at how much destruction such a tiny slip of a girl could cause.

  Between her shoes, jacket, backpack, and books and notebooks, I could hardly see the living room anymore. A water bottle, two cans of soda, and a giant carton of Goldfish crackers were stacked on the tray that sat on the inexplicably padded coffee table, and I knew without checking that there’d be orange crumbs strewn over the garish pink bohemian couch and woven wool rug beneath it.

  Don’t even get me started on her bathroom—it looked like a bomb of makeup and beauty products had gone off, and there were enough shampoo bottles to form an army.

  At least this time Mom married a guy with money instead of one who capitalized on hers. She owned a yoga studio that’d taken off about fifteen years ago, and once Izzie had convinced her to upload instructional videos to YouTube, it’d catapulted Mom’s entire career to the next level. Now she was a “hashtag social media influencer,” as was Kali, the dog who’d been named after the Hindu goddess of protection. More like the princess of destruction, but hey, Mom seemed to be happy and so did Izzie, so I clung to that.

  Plates clattered together as Izzie pulled them from the cupboard. She dished up our extra-done dinner and set them on the countertop with a flourish. She’d also shaken a bag of salad mix into a bowl and pulled out every dressing from the fridge. Who knew there were so many flavors of vinaigrette?

  As we dug in, I pulled a few of the bottles closer to read their labels. Red wine vinaigrette, mango chardonnay—which was definitely insisting upon itself but sounded kinda good—white balsamic shallot, and raspberry.

  What’ll make bunny food easier to choke down?

  Kali whimpered and pawed at my leg, and I shook my head. “You have your own dinner in your fancy rhinestone-covered bowl.” Twice a week, she got lamb and liver wet dog food, and Mom mentioned it occasionally got between the rhinestones, but I should be careful scrubbing it out or I’d take off the bling, too. I assured her I wouldn’t be scrubbing them at all, which had resulted in a sigh and Izzie offering to take care of it.

  Guilt started to rise before I reminded myself that keeping the dog alive that kept trying to cuddle with me while I fell asleep every night was plenty. Every woman I’d met had been obsessed with snuggling in bed. It wasn’t for me. I liked my space and already slept too warm. Not that I was the type of guy who kicked a woman out of bed the instant after the deed was done, but I’d never wanted to intertwine my life with someone’s to the point I couldn’t easily be extricated.

  Mom had told me that I’d never win if I didn’t play the dating game, but I’d seen enough relationships from the sidelines to know they mostly meant power struggles and losing. Like my buddy. We’d made plans to meet up at Paddy’s last Friday weeks ago. He’d had to clear them with his fiancée beforehand, only to have to cancel on one of her whims.

  Izzie passed me a napkin and then placed her own over her lap. “So,” she asked as she shoveled a bite of lasagna in her mouth, “how was your first day at the new office?”

  Naturally, my mind didn’t go to my meeting with Doug, the tour of the office and talk of hitting the golf course, or the nice cubicle set up they’d given me with plenty of room for drawing up blueprints. It went to the blonde who glared and repeatedly clicked and unclicked her pen against the side of her head, cheek, or jawbone while she was thinking. “Fine. Pretty much the same old same.”

  Save Penelope Jones, who’d disliked me before I’d even opened my mouth. And that was whether we were talking at the bar or this morning in the conference room.

  “I want to work in a big skyrise building when I grow up. Well, if the popstar thing doesn’t work out.”

  Heaven help me.

  Then again, at least Izzie would have me to look out for her. The first contract I’d signed had been a mess that left me holding the short end of the stick, but I’d been too eager to make some real money after a lifetime of barely scraping by. Dad’s meager high school teacher and coach salary left us on the poor end, especially in L.A. I’d worked odd jobs as I could to help, although he’d insisted I play the field. Not with women, per se, but for every sport that was offered. I’d never considered myself scrawny until I’d played high school football and sat bench most of the season. Soccer was where I shined, and not just because Dad was the coach.

  Although yeah, having him teach me to play from the time I could walk definitely factored into it being my sport of choice. It’d always been the foundation of our relationship, so I’d chosen to wait tables and tend at a sports bar. That way I could catch the games and be prepared to pick apart and analyze the games and discuss what they should’ve done.

  I drank my water, washing down my last bite of my food. “Hey, before you ever sign anything—and I mean anything—you bring it to me so I can read it first.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Izzie said. “We don’t really go on field trips anymore, though.”

  “I meant legally binding documents. More after you graduate high school.”

  “Seems forever away.”

  “It’ll be here before you know it,” I said, and then I frowned at my own words. I didn’t expect it to happen at thirty-one, but it was official. I was old now. Extra weird, since I was only a year younger than my stepdad—not that I’d ever ever refer to Kyle as that.

  “Is your boss a he or a she? Or are they non-binary?”

  The question surprised me enough that I inhaled the lettuce leaf with the mango chardonnay vinaigrette. While I’d rather drink the dressing than the ever-popular white wine served at most business functions, I refused to let it lead to my demise. No way would I let “choked on salad” be l
isted as my cause of death. I swigged my water, recovered my voice, and said, “His name is Doug Bishop.”

  “Oh.” So much disappointment packed into one bitty world, and Izzie’s expression matched. The other thing I’d learned during our few days of cohabitation was that asking the whys behind her constant stream of questions was unnecessary; she’d tell me. “Did you know sixty percent of women would earn more if they were paid the same as men? I was hoping you’d work at a more progressive company.”

  One day hardly qualified me to judge BJB Architecture Firm, although now that Izzie had called my attention to it, I’d never worked with another female architect before. “The other person who’s working on the account with me is female.”

  “That’s cool, I guess. It’s just supposed to be better these days, and people like to think it is, but there’s still a long way to go.”

  While Mom was about prana, chakras, and mother earth, sounded like my little sister was a feminist. Since I didn’t have much to add on the subject, I asked about her day at school, and let her talk through the rest of dinner. After helping clear the plates and load them into the dishwasher, I opened my laptop and scanned through the emails Penelope had sent me.

  During the next few days, I planned on notating where I saw room for improvement so that during our big presentation to the Pythons on Thursday afternoon, I could show Penelope that not only were we on the same team, but like it or not, I could also be an asset.

  8

  Penelope

  “Or…” Archer cut in, and I did my best to hold the smile plastered on my peachy-pink lips at the start of the meeting on Thursday afternoon. The lipstick shade was called Designer’s Muse, which seemed like the perfect color to carpe the diem and the presentation.

  As for the not-so-perfect, Archer pointed at the blueprints projected on the pull-down screen, over where I’d drawn up the three-story fitness center. “What if we have one big sports bar and grill that’s three stories right here? The top floor would have an amazing view of the field.”

  “Didn’t you read the materials?” I asked, barely resisting the urge to jam my stiletto into his fancy polished shoes. I’d worn my badass silver Maddens with glitter and studs, which made them surprisingly heavy. While the pointy four-inch heel probably wouldn’t puncture the leather, I could leave a bruise if I tried, and trust me, I’d be trying my damnedest. “We don’t need two sports bars along with the other restaurants that’d already been claimed, especially one that takes up so much real estate while cutting into the profits of what the vendors might sell at the stadium, and—”

  “But they could charge an entry fee on event days. Not as high as a game or concert ticket, for people who might not be able to afford to go, and then the restaurant could pay a percentage to whoever’s running the event.”

  “Whomever,” I muttered, unable to help myself. Then I flinched, hoping our audience hadn’t heard and already judged me as unlikeable, something Mr. York didn’t have to worry about like I did. City Councilwoman Jill Roberts, Scott Watson, the club president of the Pythons, and the mayor’s chief of staff, Mario Avila, were seated at the long table on the other side of the room, various expressions flickering across their faces.

  “That’s where the fitness center is planned.” I went ahead and tapped the blueprints myself, as if my friends would later ask How’d you win, Pen?

  And I’d reply with Oh, I tapped the rough draft of my design with gusto.

  Before I got sidetracked with rambling internal monologue, I charged on, firm and a pinch bubbly. “While the fitness center will be open to the community, those who live in the condo will get a discounted rate. Having a gym mere steps from one’s home is going to be a huge draw.”

  A muscle ticked in Archer’s cheek, and a victorious surge streaked through me; I was getting to him as much as he was getting to me. “Well, if they truly want to get in a workout,” he said, “they can walk a few extra blocks. I’m sure we can negotiate for a discount with another gym.”

  “People often think of walking or driving the extra blocks and decide it’s too much effort.” If only Archer would try to get in his steps for today by taking his leave of the conference room and my presentation. Come to think of it, though, when it came to the layout of downtown, I was the expert. “The nearest gym is about five miles away. Hardly huffing it distance, and when you factor in it’s also run down and at capacity, without the inspiring view of the field, there’s no comparison. Most females also don’t want to have to think about coming out of the gym late at night, and how much safer they’d feel if they could go from one well-lit building to another in a matter of a block.”

  “There are also benefits of being able to walk a few steps home after having several beers and watching the game. Think of the citizens’ safety.”

  Oh, he was good, but I was better. “If you loved watching the matches so much, wouldn’t you just pay the extra money to be on the side where you could watch from your balcony?” Since talking sense into Archer was like bashing my head against the wall and expecting progress, I aimed my next comments toward our client. “There’s also something to be said about appealing to a wider audience and breathing new life into that older area.”

  “I think it’s a mistake not to consider all our options,” Archer said.

  Letting him go off all half-cocked like this without practicing our presentation together was the mistake. I kept my gaze away from the thick-headed numbskull and continued on with the other thing I had on my side. “As you know, I’ve been working on this project and running figures for two months…”

  There. Pointing out he was new to the project without having to say it. I clicked onto the next slide I’d prepared all by my lonesome. “As you can see, there’s a market for—”

  “Numbers can be manipulated. Sometimes you’ve got to go with your gut. What’s your gut telling you?”

  Mine was insisting I follow through with my threat to stomp on his toes. “Mr. York, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but if you’ll stop interrupting so I can finish showing the data I’ve collected, then you’ll be free to talk about your issues with your gut.”

  As he glowered my way, I widened my smile, calmly swept my hair over my shoulder, and then gestured to the chart behind me. I rattled off a stream of facts and figures, as well as highlighted similar projects done in other cities and what’d preformed the best there.

  Archer’s eyes met mine the instant I finished, a lightning strike in the stormy gray, and my pulse snagged on its beats. The slight lift of his eyebrow very clearly asked if I’d finished speaking, and I swallowed before nodding.

  “Who knows the Pythons better than you, Scott?”

  Scott perked up, happy to be called on and even happier to show off his knowledge. “Nobody.”

  From there, Archer praised several of the moves the guy had made, including listing players and coaches he’d recruited.

  “Johnson was a good grab,” I said, because he was an amazing head coach, and our local team had been lucky to nab him. “I’ve been a huge fan since his Hoosier days.”

  Archer turned to me, poker face in place, and I tensed. Witnesses or no, if he called that interrupting, I’d straight-up murder him. I’d been spoken over and interrupted so many times I couldn’t even count them up.

  Don’t apologize, don’t apologize, don’t apologize.

  “There’s something Miss Jones and I one-hundred percent agree on.”

  Was he toying with me? What was his endgame. Did he think I couldn’t rattle off Python stats, past and present? My fingers curled in on themselves, preparing for the cracking of knuckles necessary for how hard I was about to school him.

  But he turned back to the three members seated at the table, his long fingers casually threading the button on his suit into its home. Then he reminisced on bartending during games, when for a few hours, ninety percent of the patrons were united, regardless of their various walks of life. It didn’t change that there wasn’t a ne
ed for three floors of that when those people could sit in the stadium, but whatever.

  The nostalgia was reeling in Mario hook, line, and sinker.

  Then Archer launched into making a gift shop where I’d put a nail salon and massage parlor, for people who might not want to spend hours watching a game but liked the tailgate and postgame experience. Why not have an option for people to treat themselves regardless of whether or not they were sports fans. It also meant customers who came to relax and frequented the restaurants, even on days when there weren’t events going on at the field.

  Perhaps they’d get a little eye candy when the players were coming out of practice, too. Win-win.

  “Sports merchandizing is down in person,” I said when there was an opening. “It’s an online game now.”

  “Not if we had the players come sign stuff in person. I’d bet we could have the Padres and other teams, too. One of my favorite memories with my dad was getting a football signed by Shawn Lee. He was one of the greats, gone too soon.”

  Now he was milking the emotional angle? And again, Mario was lapping it up. Scott cleared his throat, obviously getting swept away, too.

  Needing a task for my fingers, I dragged them through my hair. It caught the attention of Scott, so I tipped my head to the side, exposing more of my neck and fiddling with my earring.

  Was I proud of the move? Hell no.

  But did it increase my chances of getting what I wanted? Yep, and as Catalina had said, why were we the only ones required to play by the rules? I’d hardly use flirting or sex to get my way, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t showcase my assets. I repeated the move, and bonus, it flustered Archer nearly as much as it distracted Scott. I couldn’t help inwardly pump my fist at the checked-out expression on the lone female in the group.