Lying in Bed. Jo Leigh

Angie had been tempted to switch her allegiance, or at the very least call room service for a cocktail of her own. Especially after she got a load of the weird as hell layout of their new location.

      The lunch tables had been set up in odd configurations: some were long family style, some round that could seat eight, a couple of them could accommodate four and only one table for two. There were more seats available than participants and each seat had a complete table setting.

      Delilah had asked them all to sit. Anywhere they chose. With no more than a glance between them, she and Ryan went for the round table for eight where, for the most part, they’d eaten and listened to other people talk. The person to her right had been Luke, husband to Erica. Luke had spent the bulk of the meal’s two courses telling her how he was only at this workshop because of Erica and how the whole point of intimacy was sex, and since they had sex pretty much every night, what was the point? He also mentioned the cost three or seven times.

      Fortunately it hadn’t been difficult for her to play her role. Primarily because Ryan had kept checking in with her. Not with words. With a look, a smile, a roll of his eyes. Each one a string between them, connecting, strengthening, woven together like a safety net. That tie relaxed her enough that she was able to answer the few questions asked without over-thinking or stumbling.

      The one time she’d tripped up was when she turned to find him staring across the table at Tonya Bridges, the yoga and tantric massage instructor. He’d looked riveted, interested. But then he’d turned back to the man to his left. Chris looked to be in his fifties. The two went on to discuss basketball until it was time for dessert and they’d all been “invited” to find different seats. Ryan had taken her by the sleeve and pulled her straight to the back of the room, to the table set for two where they hid like the bad kids during assembly as they watched the most confusing game of musical chairs ever.

      “I think Ira’s wearing patchouli oil,” Ryan said as he fiddled with his linen napkin. He’d gotten coffee, nothing else, while she’d fixed herself a small plate of fruit. “Think he’s actually old enough to be a hippie?”

      Ryan wasn’t looking at her, but that was okay because she was too busy scoping out the room to look at him. Their little table was situated close to the desserts. There were only three choices: a crème brûlée, a New York–style cheesecake, which was calling Angie’s name, and a bowl of fresh fruit. She ate another piece of cantaloupe and decided the cheesecake had to be a billion times better. “Delilah hasn’t had any work done I don’t think,” Angie said, pushing her grapes around. “Which makes me like her more, and also makes me question her involvement.”

      “What? Why?”

      “They’ve been living in L.A. and Vegas for years. Plastic surgery is practically required by law for any woman over the age of forty.”

      He looked at her, clearly disbelieving. “That might be true for celebrities, but—”

      “Ellen Fincher.”

      Ryan tossed the napkin all the way past the table, which Angie doubted he meant to do. “Get out.”

      Ellen was Palmer’s administrative assistant. Angie knew for a fact she was forty-seven, because Angie had been at the birthday party. Ellen’s present to herself had been eye lifts and some lipo. “Oh, I’m right.”

      “I’ll take your word for it, but why does that make Delilah a more trustworthy person?”

      “If she had a ton of illicit money, she’d probably have a nip or a tuck. She’s pretty, but she’s starting to droop. On the other hand, she could be saving every last penny for her dream retirement in Cancún.”

      “Or maybe she’s just not that vain. You know—” Ryan stopped talking as Zach, the banker from Orange County, came by. Rachel, his wife, followed shortly thereafter, and all four of them chatted about how fantastic the food was until the couple wandered off.

      Angie would have been fine with that if Zach hadn’t been eating his damn cheesecake right in front of her. But after four bites she’d broken like a dime-store toy. “You want anything?”

      Ryan shook his head staring once more at Tonya, who was sitting at one of the long tables, talking with two other couples.

      Angie refilled her coffee, then said, “Screw it,” even though no one was near enough to hear her, and picked up the biggest piece of cheesecake on the table. As she took her first bite, standing there like a heathen, she did a quick scan of the room. No one had left, even though they were perfectly free to do so. Marcus had cornered Olivia and Kyle. Delilah had both Paul and Natalie and Chris and Hannah.

      Ryan watched Angie come back to the table. She sat down, both pleased and troubled that they were alone once more and murmured, “We’re the only ones without a staff member.”

      “Yeah, I was thinking that we should probably move.”

      “Not near Marcus,” she said after she’d swallowed another bite of the incredible cheesecake.

      “We’ll have to talk to him at some point.”

      “Not now. I spent five hours with him when you excused yourself after the main course.”

      He blinked at her. “I was not in the bathroom for five hours.”

      “My point exactly.” She’d rarely run across anyone as beige as Marcus. Not simply his skin tone, his dishwater hair and his clothes, but his voice and his whole demeanor were so dull it was almost mesmerizing. He could put whole cities to sleep. “Now that I think about it, it’s the perfect disguise.”

      “What’s that?” Ryan’s lips were already quirked up a hair, which made her throat tighten for a second.

      “Being so boring people will do anything to avoid you.”

      Ryan’s smile broadened. “How come I didn’t know you were funny?”

      That wasn’t what she expected him to say. “I have no idea. And I don’t think I am. Not funny funny. I’m intermittently amusing.”

      “You’re under-the-radar funny. I imagine it would be very entertaining to sit next to you during bad movies.”

      “Now that I know your taste in films, that’s never going to happen.”

      “Excuse me? Shaun of the Dead.”

      “You said bad movies.”

      He laughed outright, and she hoped that Delilah and Ira were watching because this moment would convince anyone she and Ryan liked each other very, very much.

      “ALL RIGHT, EVERYONE, are we ready?” Delilah glanced around at each couple, smiling serenely, until her gaze stopped on Ryan. “Is there a problem, Ryan?”

      “Nope,” he said, eyeing the bean bag chair. “None.”

      Problem was putting it mildly. This was exactly the nightmare he’d dreaded. Only worse. They hadn’t been back in the Lavender Room for five minutes when the woman had described their very first bona fide intimacy exercise. Of course, it involved a bean bag chair. One chair. To be shared by him and Angie. At the same time. Hell. For a second he’d seriously thought about faking an allergic reaction to something he’d eaten at lunch. But Angie would know. Not to mention they were on the job.

      “Come on, Ryan, move it,” she whispered, her impatient voice edging toward panic.

      He looked around, saw that all the other couples were in place, the husbands somewhere between lying and sitting, their wives cuddled on top of them. Slowly he lowered himself into the torture pit. Once he arranged himself as best he could he stared up at Angie, waiting for her to join him.

      She hesitated, briefly met his eyes, then concentrated on her feet.

      Ha. Yeah, real easy, right? He killed all hints of a satisfied smirk as he offered her his hand.

      Ignoring it, she plopped down, none too gracefully, then swung a leg over him.