The Real Deal

I’m floored. I barely know what to say, so I go with a sort of truth. “Mom, I’m not in the least bit pregnant,” I say, indignant. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like a break from the Inquisition.”

“So, that’s a no? Just to confirm. Not pregnant?”

I slash a hand through the air. “So not pregnant.”

She sighs dejectedly. “Consider it, though. It’s not a bad idea.” She stage-whispers, pointing at herself, “Free day care here in Wistful.”

And that’s it. My mom is off her rocker. She’s now resorted to suggesting I get knocked up so I can move back home.

“I assure you, I wouldn’t mind at all,” she says, trying one last time. “I’d be delighted to help you raise the baby.”

“Mom. There’s no baby.” I slide my purse up my shoulder and march to the door. Grabbing the handle, I yank it open. Then I turn my head back and leave them with this thought: “By the way, I’m off to find my hottie boyfriend. And hopefully, we’ll have hot public sex somewhere and you’ll all be jealous.” I wave. “Toodle-oo.”

The sound of their laughter follows me out the door, and I know we’re all good, even though I still can’t quite believe I just had a conversation with my mother and the other ladies about sex with Theo. It’s a wildly inappropriate topic.

But sex with Theo is also something I can’t get out of my mind. What would he be like in bed? Slow and tender at first, then hard and rough? Would he take his time exploring my body, as he did with my mouth?

Kissing you everywhere. Wondering how you taste. What you sound like.

He’d luxuriate in it. He’d drive me wild. My skin sizzles as my mind wanders, picturing everything.

Will I find out what he’s like in bed? Will I give myself permission to take a taste? If I do give in, will I return to my regularly scheduled man diet when I’m back in the city? I tell myself that, yes, I can handle a little indulgence. Yes, I can get real for a couple days with the man I’m sharing a bed with. A few days at a family reunion doesn’t mean we’d become an item back in New York.

But a part of me wants more than these few days. My mind is painting vivid images of wandering around Brooklyn with him, a strong arm of his draped possessively over my shoulder. Maybe he’d even meet me after a gig, grab my paints, and carry the bag for me. Some nights, we’d go bowling; other times we’d play retro arcade games. We’d do all the things we said we did as a fictional couple.

Only it’d be real.

So damn real, like the sweet ache in my heart that tugs toward him right now.

That’s because the fantasy is so vibrant, so potent, I tell myself. And since it’s my fantasy, I decide the realness wouldn’t ruin my work focus, wouldn’t distract me. I’d win the gig, and win the guy.

But relationships and work are opposing forces in my life. You can’t stay fit and eat cake at the same time. That’s why it’s best for me to remember that breaking a dating diet is fine for a vacation, but not so wise for a long-term plan.

With that in mind, I walk down the street. My phone rewards me with a text from him.




And I’ll find out if I can have just one bite.





Chapter Twenty-seven

Theo

The drawbridge cranks open, its metal halves widening like a big jaw ready to snap. From the nearby railing, April gazes at the dinner cruise boat that floats under it. I wrap my hands around the railing as we stare at the placid water, the vessel leaving choppy waves in its wake.

“Are you going to tell me if I’ve been good?” I ask, turning to her.

“Do you think you have been?” Her green eyes glint with mischief, the brown flecks in them dancing a jig.

I’m dying to know what’s on her mind. “What are you thinking, cupcake?”

Her lips twitch in an I’ve got a secret kind of look. The early evening breeze lifts the ends of her curly blond hair, and I want to touch those strands.

“I’m thinking that I have something for you,” she says, a little coy, a little playful.

For one dirty lust-filled second, my mind runs through bridge-sex scenarios. I’ve never done it on a drawbridge, and honestly, I’m not even sure drawbridge-sex is a thing.

I wait for her to say more. She doesn’t speak, though. She raises her right hand and dips it into her shirt. Holy shit. We are going to have drawbridge sex.

Her hand dips farther into the V-neck of her shirt, down to her bra. But she doesn’t take off her peach-colored T-shirt, much to my disappointment. She pulls out a white envelope from one cup, then another one from the other. “I put one on each side for balance,” she says sheepishly, explaining, “I didn’t want to have a lopsided boob on account of all the Franklins.”

I knit my brow. “Franklins? Lopsided boobs? What are you talking about?”

She hands me both envelopes. “Half your fee is in one. Half is in the other.”

I straighten, and cold dread races through me. She’s done with me? The job is over? “You’re through? I thought you were happy with the job I’m doing.”

She laughs and clasps my biceps. “God yes, I am. That’s not what this is about.”

“I don’t get it. Why are you paying me now? It’s a satisfaction-guaranteed kind of job. That’s how I work. It’s fair to you that way.”

“I know,” she says, her expression turning serious, but still soft. “And I’m satisfied.”

“And you want me to stay?” I scratch my head, trying to understand what she wants.

“I do. But I can’t let you think there’s still a satisfaction-guaranteed clause.”

I hold the envelopes limply. I’ve never been paid early. No one has ever handed me the money before the job was through. “But there is a clause. It’s a guarantee.”

“You’ve met it. Take the money,” she says, firmer this time, as she places her hands on my mine and curls my fingers around the envelope. “After you kissed me outside the hardware store, and after you kissed me again on the street, and then especially after we kissed each other senseless in the room, I would feel wrong not paying you till the end. I would feel like a liar. I’m more than satisfied already, and I don’t want you to have the pressure of thinking you have to deliver perfectly to earn what you already deserve. You’ve done so much.”

I shake my head, still processing this decision. “What have I done?”

The breeze rustles a strand of her hair again as the drawbridge creaks. Out of the corner of my eye, I see it’s closing.

She runs her hand down my arm. That small touch sends a spark over my skin. “You talk to me,” she says. “You talk to me about anything. About everything. About silly things. Serious things. Odd things. Anything.”

“I like talking to you. I love talking to you. It’s becoming a favorite thing. And remember, we don’t do companionable silence.”

“I just like you, and I don’t have to pretend to like you.”

Her admission is like a shot of pure pleasure. It charges through me, spreading into my veins. Those simple words—she likes me—mean so damn much. I want to embrace what they mean, and what the money means, too. It means the job is secure. It means I have nearly all I need for Addison. A little more here and there from bartending, and I can cover the rest. Hell, maybe I can still win that crazy all-around prize and be in the clear and then some. But at the same time, an ancient hurt rises up. The old fear that I’m no good for her. Money’s not the only issue at play between us.

“You shouldn’t like me,” I mutter.

“Why?”

I swallow thickly. “There are things I’ve done you won’t like.”

She tenses, but then says softly, “Like what? Have you killed someone? Maimed someone? Assaulted someone?”

I give her a look. “I’m not that bad a bad boy.”

“Then, what is it? Are you a drug dealer? An animal abuser?”

I laugh and shake my head. “No. And God no.”

“Then?”

“Let’s just say I was a very fucked-up teen.”

She breathes a sigh of relief. “What teen wasn’t a little messed up?”

I appreciate the way she’s trying to make things easy for me, even softening my words, but I can’t let her believe my life was on par with the average disgruntled teen.