The Player Gets Coached Page 10

  “Jeremy Haggert,” replied Delilah reluctantly. “And he was a bastard, no question there. And the girl he took to the prom in my place - Kendra Lorenz - was basically known as the school - well, let’s just say the word rhymes with cut. But I am definitely not sixteen years old any longer, Desi, and there is no way that Finn McManus - or any other man - is going to willingly break my heart. I’m going into this social engagement - since it’s not an official date - with wide open eyes. Besides, he let me pick the restaurant and you know how much I love Jardinière, and how difficult it is to get a reservation there. Apparently Finn used one of his contacts at the TV network to get us in at the last minute.”

  Desiree was clearly not impressed with this bit of news. “Bully for him,” she groused. “That still doesn’t make him the sort of guy you should be dating, Della. Have you even looked at one of the many infamous stories about him? I swear when I Googled his name the first time my jaw dropped at how many hits came up. And while a lot of them were about his football career or his broadcasting job, the majority of them concerned his - let’s call them escapades. Complete with photos. Lots of photos. In living color, to boot.”

  Delilah shook her head in annoyance. “Desi, you know darned well that the only magazines I read nowadays have to do with fashion. And that I barely have time to check my personal email most days, much less troll the internet for celebrity gossip.”

  “That’s what you have me for, isn’t it?” challenged Desiree. “What would you ever do without big sister looking out for you? Here, just humor me, will you, and take a look at a few of these?”

  “Fine.”

  Delilah blew out a frustrated breath and practically snatched Desiree’s phone out of her outstretched hand. She briefly glanced at a half dozen or so of the top hits under Finn’s name, noting grimly that he had been seen in the company of a different woman in each photo, including a supermodel, a reality show personality, a pop singer, and the ex-wife of one of his fellow football teammates. Most of the stories hinted that he was a real party animal, and that he’d been involved in some crazy shenanigans over the years.

  She grimaced at the photo of him taken less than two years earlier, where he’d been shirtless and unshaven, with a bottle of vodka in one hand and two scantily clad blondes draped over him. Resolutely, she pushed the phone back across the table to her sister.

  “I get the general idea,” she muttered. “Nothing that surprises me, by the way. And I’ve already told you, Desi. This isn’t a real date, okay? Just dinner at one of my favorite restaurants, and the best seats in the house at the symphony. With a program featuring one of my favorite composers. I might have agreed to spend the evening with Mikayla in exchange for both of those treats.”

  Desiree shuddered and grabbed the salt shaker, tossing a few sprinkles over her shoulder as if to ward off evil. “We agreed not to mention that skank’s name unless we were both too drunk to know any better. And I’ve only been drinking coffee this afternoon so I’m way too sober to mention the homewrecker.”

  Mikayla was their father’s current wife, the blonde witch who’d connived to break up Daniel’s marriage and lure him away from his family. And while it was a certain fact that she was far from the only woman he’d been unfaithful with over the years, she was the only one who had insisted he divorce his wife and abandon his daughters. Desiree and Delilah had tried, really tried, to get along with her, and when it had been obvious that wasn’t going to happen, to merely tolerate her. But over the years Mikayla had made it very clear that she had no interest in having a relationship of any sort with her stepdaughters, and the girls had been all too happy to oblige her. The fact that they also no longer had much of a relationship with their father as a result had been unavoidable collateral damage.

  “Let’s change the subject, shall we?” suggested Delilah hastily. “This food is too good to waste, and I’ll get nauseous if we mention her name one more time.”

  The two sisters tried to meet up for a meal, whether it was brunch, lunch, or dinner, at least once a week, something that was often difficult to coordinate given their equally hectic work schedules. At times Delilah secretly considered these occasions burdensome, especially since she and Desiree talked or texted nearly every day of the week. But she was reluctant to hurt her sister’s feelings by suggesting that maybe they limit their meet-ups to every other week. And every time she was tempted to bring up the idea, she’d remember how much Desiree had sacrificed for her and simply couldn’t follow through with the impulse.

  When Delilah had tried to get out of today’s lunch by claiming she was swamped at work - which hadn’t been a lie - Desiree had promptly offered to meet her at the little café just around the corner from the design studio. They had eaten both lunch and brunch at the café enough times for Desiree to know that the service was prompt and efficient, meaning Delilah could be back in her office in under an hour.

  The menu was somewhat limited in its selections, but Delilah loved almost everything the little place had to offer. Today she was savoring a roasted chicken sandwich with heirloom tomatoes served on a buttery brioche bun. Always mindful of her calories, she’d opted for the mixed greens instead of fries to accompany her sandwich. When you stood barely over five feet tall, even a extra two or three pounds could make a difference in how your clothes fit, and Delilah had to eat a carefully balanced diet - plus work out like a fiend several times a week - to keep the weight off. And since she adored good food and wine almost as much as she loved fashion, it took constant diligence to stave off those extra pounds.

  Desiree, on the other hand, had never seemed to have much of a problem keeping her weight under control, probably because she was on the high-strung side like their mother had been. Unlike Marina, though, you could never, ever describe Desiree as being weak or frail or emotionally unstable. It was more a case of having too much nervous energy, or a metabolism that ran a bit too fast. She worked insanely long hours, swore she got by on four or five hours sleep at best, and spent most of her free time training for the triathlons she’d started competing in about five years ago. If she had much of a social life outside of the office and meeting Delilah once a week, then it was news to Delilah.

  Delilah wrinkled her nose in distaste at the kale salad that her sister had ordered. “Are you back to being vegan again? I noticed you told the waiter to hold the cheese.”

  Desiree shrugged. “For the time being, yes. But when I start upping my training next month, I might have to go back to a Paleo diet. It’s tough for me to get enough lean protein when I’m eating vegan.”

  Delilah had lost count over the years of all the different diets and eating plans her sister had adopted. She’d switched back and forth from being a vegetarian to a vegan, to eating only a raw diet then doing a complete switch-up and going Paleo. Desiree claimed it had to do with her triathlon training programs, that there were times she simply needed more protein, but Delilah suspected that she just got bored eating such restrictive diets.

  “You know,” Delilah pointed out slyly, “when you eventually agree to work in Paris for a year or two it’s going to be awfully hard to have any sort of set eating plan. Even you won’t have the willpower to resist all that delicious bread and the cream sauces, not to mention the yummy desserts you’ll find on every corner. Every time I go to Paris I have to practically subsist on salad and green juice for a week before and after, and make darned sure I walk eight miles a day when I’m there.”

  Desiree glared. “Well, then, I guess it’s a good thing that I have no plans to go to Paris anytime soon, especially to work there for a whole year. You can be a real dog with a bone sometimes, Della, you know that? Why are you such a nag about me going to Paris anyway?”

  “You know why,” replied Delilah cheerily. “And it doesn’t have to be Paris - though that, of course, would always be my first choice no matter the circumstances. It could be London instead, or Zurich. Or what about Hong Kong or Sydney? Or any of the pla
ces your company has offered to send you for a year’s assignment.”

  The investment banking firm that Desiree had worked for since returning to San Francisco more than seven years ago was one of the largest and most successful in the world, and operated offices in almost fifty different countries. Desiree’s particular skill set made her a very valuable asset to the firm, and she had been offered the opportunity multiple times to work abroad for a year or more. But she had turned down the offers time and time again, a fact that drove Delilah a little crazy.

  “I like living in San Francisco,” insisted Desiree. “And given the price of real estate here right now there’s no way in hell I’d ever agree to sell my condo, and go work in Europe or Asia. I’d never be able to afford to move back, at least not into something as nice as what I currently own.”

  Delilah sighed. “And you already know the answer to that, Desi - you don’t have to sell your place, just sublet it for a year. And, yes, I know exactly what you’re going to say next. You don’t feel comfortable having someone sleep in your bed, you have too many personal belongings around, what if someone breaks something. Blah, blah, blah. Buy a brand new mattress when you return home if the idea of someone sleeping in your bed bothers you so much. Put your personal stuff in storage - you can use the storage room at my studio, in fact. And make sure to use a reputable leasing agent who’ll vet the renter and charge them a big security deposit. All of those arguments are just excuses, and you know it.”

  Desiree waved a hand in dismissal. “Maybe I just don’t want to go, did you ever think of that, Della?”

  “You used to talk about going to Europe, traveling all over the world in fact, when you were in high school,” reminded Delilah. “And let’s be honest here, hmm? You know damned well the only reason you don’t want to work abroad for a year is because you think for some insane reason that you still need to watch over your baby sister. And we both know that hasn’t been necessary for a long, long time.” She reached over and squeezed her sister’s hand before adding gently, “I’m twenty-eight, Desi, not fifteen. I’m the CEO of my own design firm, still take self-defense classes twice a week, and I assure you that I’m very capable of taking care of myself.”

  “Are you?” glowered Desiree. “I would have agreed with you, Della, until I learned that you’re going out on a date with a womanizing manwhore who makes our father look like a priest. Now I find myself questioning your level of responsibility, not to mention your appalling taste in men.”

  “Not this again.” Delilah sighed, wishing now that she’d ordered the fries instead of the salad. Or that she didn’t have a ton of work to get through this afternoon, which meant she could be enjoying a lovely glass or two of wine right now. “Okay, read my lips - it is not a date, got it? I’m going out to dinner and the symphony with my new neighbor, who is not even going to get to first base with me. Don’t forget who you’re talking to, Desi. I’ve given enough men the cold shoulder over the years that stopping Finn McManus in his tracks is going to be child’s play for me.”

  “You maneater, you,” teased Desiree. “Chew ‘em up and then spit them out, right?”

  “I am not a maneater,” groused Delilah. “For one thing, I don’t need to use men for their money or for any so-called favors I expect from them. I’ve got plenty of my own money, thank you very much, and I certainly don’t need to rely on a man to get what I want. And I could strangle that troublemaker Calvin for ever dreaming up that term.”

  “Hmm.” Desire began tapping at her cell phone. “You do realize that’s not the sole definition of a maneater, don’t you? Here, let’s see what our friend Wikipedia has to say on the subject. Ah, according to them a maneater is - and I quote – “an attractive woman who leads men on but does not care for them”. Della, sweetie, that’s you word for word.”

  “Is not,” argued Delilah crossly. “I don’t lead men on, in spite of what you might think. Now, I’m not saying that they aren’t hopeful after the first date or two that the relationship will keep progressing. But I can truthfully say that I have never intentionally led a guy on, or given him false hope. Especially since I can tell after the first couple of dates if he’s going to be a winner or a dud. And, well, let’s just say there have been an awful lot of duds these past few years. Now, since you seem so interested in my love life or lack thereof, I think it’s only fair for me to turn the tables. Any hot dates lately, sis? Or any dates at all?”

  Desiree scowled. “Nice try changing the subject there. And no, as you’re very well aware, I haven’t been on an actual date for months. Not counting the annual awards dinner for my triathlon club last month, since there were five of us who went as a group.”

  “You’re right, that doesn’t count at all,” agreed Delilah. “Though I’m willing to bet that you’ve been asked out at least three or four times this month alone, but you found some flimsy excuse each time to say no.”

  “Not quite that many,” admitted Desiree reluctantly. “Only a couple. And I really was busy, Della, swear to God. One time I had to attend that conference in Denver, and the other time my boss insisted I go to dinner with him and a couple of clients. And before you start reading into things, you already know that my boss is almost sixty, married with three grown kids, and I swear I’ve never seen the man crack a smile, much less laugh.”

  Delilah wrinkled her nose. “Not to mention a terrible dresser. You’d think with the seven figure salary the guy must earn that he could hire a personal shopper to help him coordinate his wardrobe a little better. The last time I saw him at your office he was wearing a gray suit with a dark green tie and brown shoes. I figured he was either color blind or got dressed in total darkness that day. And while I know you don’t care much about clothes yourself, even you wouldn’t go out with someone who had such appalling fashion sense.”

  “Humph,” snorted Desiree. “From what I’ve seen of your date tomorrow evening - oh, excuse me, your neighbor - it doesn’t seem like he likes to wear clothes at all. Judging from some of those pictures, it looks like Finn prefers to wear as little as possible. Let’s just hope he shows up tomorrow evening for your not-a-date with a shirt and shoes on. I don’t think Jardinière would let him through the doors looking like he just came off a two-day bender.”

  Delilah threw a piece of bread crust at her sister. “Hah, hah. Once again you’re trying to dodge the subject, divert the topic back to me. And here I was going to tell you how nice that outfit looks on you. How many times have I told you that you don’t need to wear a suit every day to look professional? And that’s a great color for you, Desi.”

  Desiree was wearing a superbly tailored hunter green shirtdress embellished with flat gold buttons and a narrow brown leather belt about her small waist. It was one of Delilah’s creations, of course, and it had been specifically designed with her sister in mind. In fact, Delilah had pretty much designed an entire line of clothing with Desiree as inspiration - an attempt to get her out of the plain, boring skirt and trouser suits that she insisted on wearing. Instead, Delilah had created dresses, skirts, jackets, sweaters, and pants that were beautifully tailored and far more feminine while still looking completely professional. She’d known better than to ever try and dress her older sister in pastels or florals or anything too girly, and instead had focused on colors, fabrics, and trimmings to create a softer image.

  Desiree’s hair was a little longer, too, Delilah noticed, the soft curls nearly reaching her collarbone instead of ending at the chin as usual. That, however, was probably because her sister had been too busy to get to the salon for awhile, instead of consciously deciding to grow her hair out. Desiree had never liked wearing a lot of makeup, preferring to keep it minimal and simple, but Delilah was relived to note that she was at least wearing some mascara and a hint of bronzer. The two of them bore quite a resemblance to the other, though not enough to be mistaken for twins, especially given their very different styles.

  Desiree nodded, smoothing down the
skirt of the shirtdress. “I meant to tell you that at least six different people have complimented me on this dress today, and asked where I bought it. Unfortunately, none of them could be considered petite so I wasn’t able to send any business your way.”

  “That’s okay,” assured Delilah. “Business is doing just fine. And if the meeting I have in a couple of months with Bloomingdale’s goes well, then business will really be booming. I’ll definitely have to hire more help. But I’m getting ahead of myself. There’s zero guarantee that they’ll be interested in carrying the Ma Belle Petite line in their stores.”

  “Stop selling yourself short, would you?” demanded Desiree. “Your designs are gorgeous and you know it. Bloomingdale’s should be lucky they’re getting a meeting with you.”

  “Speaking of work,” said Delilah regretfully, “I do need to be getting back. I wasn’t exaggerating when I told you how swamped I was.”

  “No worries. I should be getting back myself. Here, it’s my turn this time.”

  Desiree plunked her AMEX card down on the check holder tray their waiter had discreetly left on their table. As they waited for the waiter to return with the receipt, she waggled a finger at her younger sister.

  “Promise me that you’ll be extra careful with this guy tomorrow night, okay?” she cautioned. “Whether you believe me or not, I am aware that you’re not a naïve teenager any longer and can look out for yourself. But this McManus guy is a little older than most of the men you date, after all, and from all accounts a big time player. So don’t fall for any of his lines, or let him convince you he’s looking for anything but a one-night stand. Promise me, Della?”