Page 49 of Mr. Perfect

Chapter Nineteen - Mac

This is the longest weekend of my life. First of all, Friday sucked. Sucked with a capital S. The dress I gave Ellie looked like it was painted on.

Note to self. Next time I buy her a replacement outfit for work, make it the shapeless trousers she came in wearing.

Oh, that dress was a fabulous idea if she decided to spend the weekend with me. I was going to fake our way through a few more hours at work and then whisk her off to dinner, a show downtown, and then back to my place for a weekend of dirty sex, room-service breakfasts, and elegant restaurants at night.

Clearly, I am as delusional as she is.

Which brings me back to Heath’s phone.

I cannot stop reading her messages.

Look at this nursery. If we have a boy his room will be pale blue like this.

It came with seven attached pictures of a nursery filled with everything a baby might want, complete with Baby Boy Ellie and Heath combination Photoshopped in.

The girl’s nursery was light pink and yellow, and yes, she had a stand-in Heath-and-Ellie baby for those pictures too.

She can’t really have been serious about Heath. He’s such a fuckup. And even when she was messaging him normal stuff, before he got sent to China two months ago and she went off the delusional Mr. Perfect deep end, he did not show even the slightest interest in Ellie. Not like that, anyway. His messages were all business.

Can you get so-and-so on such-and-such show? Can they fly in Wednesday instead of Thursday? Can you be in the meeting I have with my father to explain what we’re doing with the airport budget?

Not even once did he thank her. And sure, it’s possible he could’ve thanked her in person, but knowing Heath the way I do, he didn’t.

And the goddamned puppies. Old English Sheepdogs. It’s like every kid’s dream dog. No one gets a sheepdog. They have all that hair, they’re big, they need… sheep. Or something. Farms. Lots of care requirements for sheepdogs.

But Ellie has her heart set on one.

I check the clock on my phone again. Eight. Sunday night. Is she home yet? I don’t want to call. I really don’t want to call her. It’s so fucking pathetic.

I tab my contacts and slide down to Nolan’s face, then press it.

It rings twice and goes to voicemail.

Figures. I end the call, but just as quick as I do that, it rings back.

“Hey,” I say to Nol.

“What’s up, Perfect?” He sounds beat. No doubt trying to recover from some crazy weekend.

“Um,” I say. Why did I call? Advice? From Nolan Delaney? Please. He might have had more girls in one week than I’ve had the whole last year, but Mr. Romantic he is not. He got that nickname back in college when the press had to call us something and the gag order prevented anyone from using our real names.

“Girl problems?”

“No. Asshole. Why do you ask that?”

“Dude, you always call when you’ve got girl problems. And I always tell you the same thing. Just ignore them, man. That’s the ticket to catching that elusive fish. You gotta ignore them and they come running.”

“That never works, Nol.”

“Works for me every time, Mac. You’re doing it wrong. You gotta be firm. Be pissed off.”

“Pissed off over what?”

“Whatever it is she’s doing that’s got you calling me, dumbass. What did she do?”

“I didn’t call for a girl, Nol. I just wanted to see what you were up to.”