We lie there, breathless. My legs feel numb, while the rest of my body is exhausted. I pull out and rest my head against her heaving chest, kissing her breasts and tracing her hard nipples with the tips of my fingers. If perfection had a name, its name would be Kate. She strokes my hair and hums in satisfaction.
“So,” I start. I chuckle giddily.
“So,” she repeats and smiles.
“New rule, I guess.”
“What would that be?”
“We tell each other how we feel. Always be honest.”
Kate nods in agreement. “Sounds like a plan.”
I roll over so that my back is flat against the sheets. Kate moves over so that she’s resting in my arms. She draws little circles into my chest, kissing my ribs as she does so.
“How do you feel now?” she asks me softly.
I press a kiss into her hair. She smells like citrus shampoo, sweat, and sex –not that I mind, of course.
“I feel happy. You?”
“A little hungry,” she admits.
“Do you want to go out to eat? I know this great little place on Fourth and Holland.”
She looks up at me with her big eyes framed by perfectly full lashes. She smirks.
“I doubt restaurants are open on Christmas.”
I glance at the alarm clock that’s sitting on the nigh stand. It’s exactly three minutes after midnight.
“Holy shit, would you look at that,” I breathe.
“You shouldn’t swear,” she warns, “Santa’s watching.”
“If Santa’s watching, he’s a pervert,” I chuckle as I roll towards her, kissing her slowly this time.
Kate laughs, pressing her face into my chest. I can feel her smile against my skin.
I’m in heaven.
EPILOGUE
Kate
I’m at my desk, hunched over a textbook. I nibble at the end of my pen –Peter tells me it’s a bad habit, but at least it’s better than smoking or something. I read the same line about property taxes for what must be the tenth time in a row. I sit back, rubbing at my temples. I can feel a headache coming on, so I roll my neck side to side and stretch my arms above my head. I can hear Peter clinking pots and pans together out in the kitchen –our kitchen.
“Do you need help?” I call out from the office.
“No!” he shouts back.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes!”
“I swear, if you set something on fire again, I’ll–”
“It was one time!”
I giggle. Peter is trying to put together the ingredients for my cookie recipe so we can bring some fresh pastries for my nephews. This year, we’re the ones hosting the family Christmas dinner. I manage to make it to the end of the page and decide that here is as good a spot as any to stop studying. I place my pen down between the pages and close the textbook before standing up to stretch my legs.
I wander into the living room and lean against the door frame, watching in silence as Peter studies the blue-lined paper before him. I had scribbled down the recipe for him, but judging by the frown between his brows, he’s having a hard time.
“How are we doing?” I ask, amused.
Peter doesn’t look up from the page. “I think you should call the local news.”
“Why?”
“I think I’ve discovered a new language. It’s called Kate’s Chicken Scratch. It’s impossible to read, but I’m sure with intense investigation, someone will be able to crack it.”
I roll my eyes and start towards him. “You’re such a drama queen.”
“I’m your drama queen,” he quips.
I take my place beside him at the kitchen island and bump my hips into his. “Here, why don’t I take care of this while you placing the gifts under the tree for the kids?”
“Sure,” he agrees.
Peter already has all the ingredients together on the table and the oven preheated, so it’s just a matter of mixing them together and portioning out the cookie dough onto a waiting baking sheet. My nephew’s presents are already piled up at the door, ready to go. Peter picks up a small box that’s wrapped in brightly patterned gift paper and adorned with several ribbons and bows, all messily tied together into one giant knot. He looks at the package, confused.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Did you wrap this one?” he questions me.
I shake my head. “A perfectionist like me, make something like that? I thought it was yours.”
He shrugs. “No, I didn’t touch this one.” He checks the tag that hangs from one of the ribbons. “It says it’s from Santa to Kate.”
I smirk, licking the tip of my thumb. “Oh, is it now?”
Peter smiles and holds the box out to me. I walk over and take the gift from him. I hold it up to my ear and rattle it. I can hear something small bouncing around against the inside, but I can’t make out what it is. Peter hands me a pair of scissors.
“You might need these,” he says with a wink.
I place the gift down on the kitchen island and start to snip away at the ribbon and bows. I tear at the wrapping paper and open the box. I peer inside only to frown.
“What?” he asks, holding back a laugh.
“It’s another box,” I sigh.
“What are you waiting for?”
I pull the smaller box out and quickly open that one up, only to find another, smaller box inside. I let my head roll back and groan.
“You’re funny,” I say dryly.
“I wanted to be a comedian.”
“I thought you wanted to be a cowboy,” I correct.
Peter shrugs as he starts to pick up the other gifts by the door. “I could have been both. Ever seen Shanghai Noon?”
I work on the present, finding box after box after box. I have to shove all of the ribbons and gift wrap out of the way to make space for the seemingly infinite pile of cardboard. I finally get to the very center and pull out a small, white velvet jewelry box. My hands start to shake. I glance at Peter, who’s watching me with a sparkle in his eyes. I open the box and gasp.
Inside is a diamond engagement ring.
“Peter!” I exclaim. “What–”
He walks up to me and plucks the ring out of the box. He gets down on one knee and holds it up to me.
“Kate, a year ago you broke my heart,” he begins.
“This is a great start,” I giggle nervously.
“And a year ago, you also made me the happiest man alive. I don’t ever want to be away from you. You’re the only thing in my life that gives me purpose and meaning. And I would be so honored if I could call you my wife.”
I swallow hard. I can’t stop smiling.
“Kate, will you marry me?” he asks.
“Yes!” I shout. “Of course, I will.”
Peter lets out a relieved sigh as he places the ring on my finger. He stands up and wraps me in his arms, squeezing tight. I cup his face with my hands and kiss him, smiling against his lips. I lean forward and rest my forehead against his. My whole body is tingling with excitement. I glance down at the engagement ring, thoroughly mesmerized.
“Thank God you said yes,” he admits.
“Did you honestly think I wouldn’t?”
“No, I knew you would. Richard just made it really clear that I better make you happy.”
“You asked him for permission?”
“Is that weird in this day and age?” he inquires.
“A little, but I think it’s sweet.”
“I love you, Kate.”
I kiss him again, slower this time. “I love you, too.”
For my EXCLUSIVE, Dedicated readers, here is a “snippet” of
The Love Grind
Chapter 1 - Miles
The melodious ascension and dissension of the diatonic scale echoed throughout my SoHo apartment’s vaulted hallways. My fingers spider- walked up and down the guitar neck with neat precision and produced clear, crisp notes with each pluck. I hummed along with the scale to help
train my ear, my eyes wandering lazily around the immaculately arranged living room. Its tall rectangular windows overlooked a darkened sky, the last pale pink rays of daylight scanning the elegant buildings across the street.
I had spent far too many years without music in my life. I never fully stopped listening to my favorite artists… I don’t think I would have made it through my twenties without Bob Dylan. But music is a living, breathing thing… listening to canned songs just isn’t the same as listening to a live show, or interacting with a vibrating instrument. The more I learned the guitar, the more it came to life in my hands, and the closer friends we became.
It took me until my thirty-second birthday to figure it out. I needed to make music, and I needed to do it on my own terms. I could have hired the best teachers in New York, of course… but I didn’t want the help. I felt like the songs were already inside of me, and I just needed to discover the way to let them out. I bought a beautiful Fender electric acoustic guitar and started learning from every online resource I could find. I played songs, but mostly I practiced scales over the dull repetition of a metronome. I wanted to become the best musician that I could, and I was happy to put in the time.
But after the first few months, the novelty of being able to pick up my instrument and make music wore off. I wanted more… I wanted to share the sounds I was making with other people. I wanted feedback, and I wanted to entertain.
I couldn’t exactly just drop in at a local open mic night, though. As one of the wealthiest men in New York City, my actions were fairly closely scrutinized. Me, on a local stage, would almost certainly result in a media frenzy, and that was the last thing I wanted. Besides, I didn’t like going to bars or cafes or any of the sort of places that hosted musical events. I liked to have my own space, and people were always packed into those rooms like sardines.
But I needed to perform. Night after night I thought about it while plucking and strumming my way through scales and songs. How could I slake my thirst for an audience anonymously?
The slender, sleek Smartphone sitting on the polished mahogany end table illuminated, showing an incoming text message.
I placed my guitar lovingly in its stand and heaved myself off of the leather padded bench I preferred to sit on while playing. I pressed my fists into the small of my back until it produced a satisfying crack, and then groaned and picked up my phone.
I knew who the text would be from - not many people had my personal cell number, and my best friend James had a habit of texting around dusk when he got home from his baseball practice. I swiped the screen open and read the message.
Hey buddy, it said, feel like coming out tonight? Me and some of the guys are going for a few drinks.
I sighed and shook my head. No matter how many times I said no, James always kept inviting me out with his teammates. I appreciated the sentiment, but pubs just weren’t my type of place.
Not tonight, I wrote back, I’m really into my guitar right now. I paced up and down the wide living room, my leather shoes whispering on the shag carpet, suddenly filled with a nervous energy. I wanted to do something, to get out of the apartment… but what would I do, if not join my friend for a drink?
Aren’t you getting bored of that yet? James wrote back. I rolled my shoulders. He was far from wrong.
A bit, I texted, but it passes the time.
You sure you’re not up for joining us? We could go to a karaoke night or an open mic. This is the city that never sleeps, Miles!
Thanks, I replied, I’m just not up for it tonight.
My phone remained dark for a time, so I sat down and started playing the diatonic scale again. The seconds ticked by until James texted again.
I get it, man, he said, though if I were you I think I’d put on some ordinary clothes and go busking. You should share your music with the world, you’re getting really good!
I laughed and shook my head.
Maybe, I sent, enjoy your drinks. I put the phone down and resumed my practice.
As my fingers plucked and pressed the steel strings, James’ idea revolved around slowly in my mind. It had a simple cartoonish appeal - would a change of clothing really be enough to disguise a notorious billionaire? Most likely it would. My face and name were not so very well known. The problem would be in procuring such clothing. I didn’t own a single article that cost less than a thousand dollars, and I sure as hell didn’t feel like running out to a department store. I rolled the idea around in my head as I continued practicing my scales.
The polished oaken door leading down the hall to the kitchen opened, and my handyman came in, wiping his hands on his baggy jeans. At age twenty-five, the kid was some kind of wizard with plumbing and appliances - it seemed he could fix anything. My faucet had been acting up, so I’d called him over and true to form he’d repaired whatever was wrong in less than an hour.
“Do you need anything else, Mr. Barker?” He asked. I didn’t even bother to inquire whether the job was done; I only hired the best.
“Not at the moment, Greg,” I said. “Thanks for coming by on short notice.” The faucet hadn’t been much of a problem, but little things like that had a way of nagging at me. I paused and he turned to leave. “Wait,” I added. I put down my guitar and stood up, eyeing him thoughtfully. “We’re about the same size, aren’t we Greg?”…
Stronger Than Bonds
One - Sarah
“Let me tell you, Miles, you’re one hell of a genius,” I said, eyeing my all-time favorite employee. He tapped his pen against his notepad, squinted at the overcrowded piece of paper and then looked up at me. That's what I loved about Miles; he was the ultimate computer geek, more-or-less the male version of me, minus the blonde locks. “With this new model, we’ll make all the other ones obsolete! Do you know what this means?”
“If we can launch this software into the market, we’ll have a monopoly over software providers all over the country. his kind of technology is totally unprecedented.” I shot up from my seat and searched their faces. “All thanks to this geeky team of burrito-loving, keyboard-smashing geniuses!” A wave of applause exploded across the meeting room, and I burst into laughter. “But seriously, though, great work guys.”
“Do I get a bonus?” Miles asked, leaning back in his chair and gawking at me like a chubby eagle. I brushed my fingers through my hair and stared up at the ceiling.
“Well, well,” I said, spinning back and forth in my chair. “If you really want a raise, then maybe you should set up that meeting with John Socket.”
“I thought that was Amy’s job?” he asked, staring down the table at our PR professional.
“Sarah! Booking the meeting with John was my gig!” she said, pulling her blazer together and staring at me. I threw my head back and chuckled again.
“Hey I tried, man,” I told Miles. “Looks like you’re not getting that bonus.” The truth was that Miles was our head software developer, and despite his ugly khaki pants and poor social skills, his ideas were basically skyrocketing our company all the way up to the moon. While wiz heads like him worked their magic with numbers, Amy was our ultimate marketing expert, the one responsible for making a new irrigation management system look sexy. I trusted her with hotshot entrepreneurs like John Socket because I knew she would convince them to buy bottled air if she wanted to.
“I want everyone to be on their toes these days. This is a make or break kind of thing, and we really want to make it,” I said. The rest raised their hands up in the air and cheered me on. We had been stuck in that meeting room for hours now, but we were far from being done. “What time is it?” I checked my wristwatch. “Wow, guys. I think we broke a record here. Guess how long we’ve been here?”
“Four hours!” Sandy, an HR professional, swiveled in her chair and said.
“Six,” I declared.
“Oh, come on! Let go of us, boss.”
“Come on, guys, you’re better than this! We’ve got so much to do still,” I teased. No one said anything, but they
smiled at me like I was their friend. And I was. I never liked to think of myself as anyone’s boss, and I knew damn well that they didn’t think of me as their boss, either.
“Let’s at least order food,” Miles said, rising to his feet and rubbing his belly in such a way that made me laugh like an idiot.
“Alright, guys, I’m kidding,” I admitted. “I gotta run to a meeting right now.” I looked around and everyone was smiling. It wasn’t easy working at Callaway Tech, and it certainly wasn’t easy working for Frederick Callaway. “Make sure to get a good night’s rest, we’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow,” I said before throwing my handbag over my shoulder and strutting out the door.
“All hail, Sarah!” Miles yelled from inside the meeting room.
“Stop it, Miles. You’re embarrassing me,” I waved, turning around the corner and making my way down the corridor. On the inside, Callaway Tech looked like the future, with all its white lights and marble walls and zesty smelling hallways. I took the elevator to the fourteenth floor and knocked on Mr. Frederick’s glass. He raised his eyebrows at me, got up from his chair and let me in.
“Sarah, I’m so glad you’re here,” he said. “Come inside.”
It was always interesting meeting Frederick. He was an intimidating man with an intense face, and he always wore the same suit to work. I had this theory that he had a hundred identical suits hanging in his closet, one for each day. I imagined his home to be just as minimalistic as his office, and his estate to be just as spotless. Anyway, I stepped into his office and slumped down on my designated seat. “How’s it going?” I asked him.
“You look a bit weary, why is that?” His eyes were darting back and forth like he was studying me. Frederick knew me like he knew his son, Ryan.
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