Happy New You

by St John Brown, Brenda

  “I’m good here,” Allison mumbles from her spot against me. I stroke her back, this easy affection so far from when we could hardly touch each other at the gym without turning bright red.

  “Mom, stop annoying Allison and Mateo,” Miriam says as she rejoins our group, the baby quiet and calm in his mother’s arms. “Their adorableness must not be contained.”

  “How are you feeling?” Tracy asks, her full attention turning to her other daughter and grandbaby. “Do you need some water?”

  “No, I’m fine. Stop asking.” Miriam’s face goes tense as she looks past us into the kitchen. “Uh-oh.”

  “What?” Tracy demands, alarmed.

  “I think we’re out of cream cheese.”

  “Impossible. I got two tubs. Come help me.”

  “I have a baby.”

  “Your sister has arms. You’re the hostess. Be the hostess.”

  “Fine. Ali, can you hold Ben for a second, please?”

  Al lifts her head in alarm.

  “Wha—"

  Without waiting for an answer, Miriam gently places the baby in her big sister’s arms, then follows her mother to attend to the hostess emergency.

  Some people have a knack for handling children. The second those small bodies are placed within the circle of their care, they naturally conform to protect the child and wrap the precious cargo in maternal or paternal affection.

  Allison, apparently, is not one of those people.

  Her eyes widen in panic. “What do I do? What do I do?”

  My God, this woman is going to be the death of me in the best ways.

  “Support the head. That’s it. Keep him close.”

  I stand at my girl’s back, my chest rubbing against her spine and shoulder blades, guiding her arms and showing her what to do. Like at the gym, except this little weight is more precious than any piece of equipment.

  “Perfect,” I whisper in her ear. The sight of the woman I’m falling hard for—no use in lying about it—holding a baby turns on some switch I was never aware of until now.

  Without skipping a beat, Al turns her face to look up at me, and says, “You’re perfect.”

  “That’s a steep compliment.”

  “I mean it. What you said to my mom meant so much to me, and I don’t think I tell you enough, or show you enough, how much you mean to me. So let me say it now. You’ve made my life brighter too. In fact, it was so dull before I was walking around in a sepia-toned, poorly developed Instagram image. You’ve made me want to be a better person, live a fuller life. Thank you.”

  What do you do when your girlfriend makes you hard and go weak in the knees at the same time? You kiss the life out of her, being very careful and aware of the baby between you. You kiss her with everything you’ve got, so she can practically feel the love you want to confess to her, without scaring her off, through the touch of your lips.

  I do all of that. I put my heart into that kiss. Suck and nibble at her bottom lip, explore her mouth with my tongue, teasing and caressing every bit I can get at without stripping her down.

  In a few months she’s become everything to me. Everything.

  “Have I ever told you how fucking happy I am to have found you stealing that champagne bottle on New Year’s?”

  “Have I ever told you how happy I am that you stalked me after that party? Best birthday ever.”

  She rises on tiptoe and finds my lips with hers, the kiss slow and playful this time, but no less urgent for it.

  “Mmm, you’re so warm,” she mumbles against me.

  “So are you.”

  “And...wet.” She pulls back. “Did you spill something on your shirt?”

  I look down quickly. Oh, shit. Then, before she notices what’s happening, I grasp Al by the shoulders and try to speak as calmly as possible.

  “Al, sweetheart, don’t panic.”

  Still looking slightly dreamy from the kiss, she asks, “Why would I panic?”

  “Your new nephew is bestowing you with a present.”

  Her eyes widen as she slowly looks down and comes to realize it’s not my shirt that’s wet. The blanket swaddling the baby has turned dark and a steady stream of pee has started to leak from the open edges.

  “Oh God.” Her voice is high-pitched and panicky.

  “It’s okay.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Don’t freak out. Let me have the baby.”

  “Then you’ll have pee on you, too.”

  “That’s okay. Just hand me the baby, and then you can get cleaned up.”

  She starts to gingerly hand over the dripping baby but stops as we both have our hands around the small bundle.

  She stares up at me, looking somewhat confounded.

  “You would get baby pee on you for me?”

  “Anything for you, Allison.”

  She turns pensive after my declaration, and I can only imagine what’s running through her head. Shit, I hope I haven’t scared her off.

  It’s not till after we return the wet baby to his mother and are cleaning ourselves in the upstairs bathroom that she asks, “You’d do anything for me?”

  “Anything, Al. Seriously.”

  She takes an assessing pause, her lips pursing in deep thought. After a moment, she squares her shoulders and holds my hands, and I swear to God, I think she’s about to reveal some hidden secret or emotional depth.

  Instead I get this:

  “Would you wear a unicorn onesie?”

  “What the fuck is with you and onesies?”

  She shrugs innocently. “Your ass looks great in a onesie.”

  I burst out laughing, hugging her to my chest.

  That’s it. I’m officially in love.

  24

  Allison

  September

  I’d do anything for you.

  Mateo’s words are still ringing in my head as I sit on my couch on a quiet Sunday night.

  Anything. Anything. Seriously. Anything.

  I shake my head. Another week of this and I’ll have to see the doctor. I can just imagine that conversation:

  “Ms. Gottlieb, based on your presentation and history, I believe you have…” Insert dramatic pause here. “Commitmentitus.”

  Gasp. “What’s the treatment?”

  “Take two steps back in your relationship and call me if it gets worse.”

  Scribbling down my list of resolutions on New Year’s Eve seems like a century ago, but time is whipping by like a cab on Seventh Avenue at three in the morning. I entered that bargain with him knowing I could do it on my own, but where’s the fun in that?

  Of course, he has always been there for me as a friend—more than I have been for him. I wince as I remember the times I blew him off because work was crazy or I had a last minute conference call or had to stay late.

  Hmmm. I’m beginning to see a pattern emerging here. The problem is that I really do love my job—most of the time.

  Right now, I’m waiting for Mateo to come over, but I have LexisNexis open on my laptop and a legal pad by my side. Mr. Pritchett’s assistant called again with questions—only this time she called my boss. Then I got called on the carpet, because I hadn’t given her the answers she wanted in the first place. So now I’m researching my ass off, and to be totally honest, part of me is glad Matty’s running late.

  You know how people say you should work to live, not live to work? I’ve always been the latter. Although it’s draining sometimes, I thrive on the meticulous attention to detail, the twisting language and demanding clients. Contract law challenges me like nothing else in my life.

  Except for Mateo Ramirez.

  He pushes me but also supports me at the same time, like he’s pushing me on a swing. I can fly high enough that my stomach drops a little at the top, but I know that if I lean back on the way down, I’ll see him there and get a head rush.

  When he looked me in the eye and said, “Anything for you,”—when I was soaked in baby pee, incidentally—it made me want to
jump off the swing at an unsafe height.

  Is this what love is supposed to feel like?

  It occurs to me that love is a lot like the law. It’s all just…words. Promises. Agreements. There are no handcuffs keeping people together—just mutual trust. But, if everything is done correctly, it’s binding. The difference between the two is that I know how to practice law.

  I still need a lot of practice with relationships.

  The case law database open on my computer blurs as I stare at it without seeing. Instead, my vision is filled with memories of Matty.

  My crush back in high school.

  Reconnecting in law school and how we drifted apart after he dropped out.

  New Year’s Eve and the warmth of his grin in the cold night air.

  I wasn’t sure if I wanted to laugh or punch him the first time he showed up at my office for…

  Personal training.

  My face heats as I recall the, um, more personal training over the last couple of months.

  Before, when he smiled, I reflexively just smiled back. When he grins at me now, it’s like an intimate secret. It’s one thing to feel the warmth in your best friend’s coffee-colored eyes; it’s a totally different thing to be seared by the heat of that gaze upon you.

  I am training myself not to shiver—too much, anyhow—when his wicked smile curves against my skin. I’ve lost count of the reps and sets of my own gasps and giggles when his hands travel across my body as if he’s mapping it.

  Now I’m not a witness or a bystander to his magnetism—I’m a participant. Hell, I should get a ribbon.

  My body is tingling and I’m lost in a dreamlike state when the buzzer announces his arrival. The sound brings me back to the world like the snap of a rubber band, and I frown at my laptop screen. How could I have sat here for close to an hour, daydreaming about my boyfriend like a teenager? I can’t help but sigh as I get up to buzz Matty in. Looks like I’ll be staying up late tonight getting work done.

  Maybe he won’t stay too long.

  “So I was thinking,” he says as he breezes past me in the open doorway, “you haven’t gotten anywhere on that signature dish resolution. You wanted to cook, right?”

  I blink as he begins unpacking a grocery bag on my kitchen counter. “Yeah.”

  “Well, it’s Rosh Hashanah this week, isn’t it?”

  Blink. Blink. “I guess?” I’m a little ashamed to admit that Jewish New Year doesn’t mean nearly as much to me as regular New Year’s.

  “So I did some googling and got stuff to make a traditional dish or two. I figure we can learn together.”

  “Awww, that’s so sweet of you.” I kiss his cheek. “But I’ve decided to let that resolution go. It’s completely unnecessary when I have a mom who knows how to cook everything, complete with a side of guilt.”

  He frowns, his hands on his hips. “Allison Gottlieb, you’re not a quitter. You are going to cook. We can’t live on protein shakes alone for the rest—” He stops as my eyes start to bug out of my skull. Then he clears his throat and turns away from me. “Uh, do you take the day off work?”

  I laugh, still dizzy from the whole lifelong protein shake proposal thing. “Matty, if every Jewish lawyer and doctor in New York took that kind of holiday time, the city might shut down.” Not true, of course, but the idea still strikes me as hilarious.

  When he blushes, I notice that the bridge of his nose is a shade darker, as though he spent all weekend outside. Despite all the little changes I’ve made in my life, the closest I come to tanning is basking in the blue light of my computer screen.

  Sometimes—just sometimes—I take the filter off. What can I say? I’m learning how to take risks and be more spontaneous.

  Right now, Matty’s spontaneous cooking lesson is not on my agenda. He pulls out a couple of pomegranates, honey, dates, carrots, leeks, and beets. It’s like a farmers market threw up on my counter.

  And I hate at least half of everything he unpacks. I can’t tell him that, of course.

  “What’s that?” I ask, pointing at a parcel wrapped in brown butcher paper.

  “Fish.”

  I shudder. I will not eat anything that still has a head. It’s a personal philosophy, like eating the red M&Ms first.

  “So you came over to…cook?” There is no mistaking the incredulity in my voice. I had been expecting a different kind of heated action.

  He comes up behind me where I stand at the counter, wrapping his arms around my waist and pressing his body against mine. I am warm all over, butterflies migrating from my stomach to the tips of my fingers and toes.

  “Al,” he murmurs in my ear, “I want us to try kugel-ing.”

  Giggle. “Perv.”

  He rocks his hips against my backside, the tip of his tongue touching my earlobe.

  Gasp. My first set of the day.

  I contemplate the food in front of me, then look over at my open laptop on the couch. Mr. Pritchett. Damn.

  Licking my lips, I spin around in his arms and lace my fingers behind his neck. “You know, I can think of a better use for that honey.”

  “Oh really?”

  He arches one ridiculously sexy eyebrow at me and flashes me his gleaming white teeth. The double whammy is enough to make my heart race and my breath hitch. I feel like Little Red Riding Hood, and the wolf has just unpacked my basket of goodies.

  Oh, what big eyes you have! Big hands, big muscles, big…everything.

  His broad shoulders are hard under my forearms as he lowers his head to kiss me. I imagine a trail of honey meandering from the hollow of his throat all the way down his muscled torso, over his rippling abs. Lower still.

  Turning my face up to him has become second nature, but somehow the sensation of his lips on mine feels like it’s the first time. Every time. When he touches the tip of his tongue to my lower lip, it doesn’t take much to coax my mouth open.

  This is my kind of cooking.

  I could stain his lips with pomegranate seeds before trying to lick them clean. I could tear open a date and smear a sweet, sticky spot on the perfect V of his groin—just for an excuse to bite him. I could…

  Nope. There isn’t much I can do with leeks and fish heads. Yuck.

  His mouth claims mine, as surely and steadily as his friendship. My hands run up and down his back, memorizing each muscle as it shifts and hardens under my fingertips.

  Then Mateo presses the pause button.

  He pulls back a little, a serious expression on his face. “Al, I need to tell you something…”

  I wonder if he feels my body stiffen. My skin grows hot, then cold. My heart stops, before racing again. Does he?

  With panicked passion, I yank him down into another kiss. This one cranks up the heat between us. His arousal is weighty between us and his groan makes my panties wet.

  There are only so many ways he can finish that sentence, and right now I’m not ready to deal with any of them. I’m not saying that I’m trying to distract him with my body, but… Actually, I forget what I thought I was doing.

  All rational—and irrational—thought flies from my head as his hot hands clamp around me and lift me onto the counter. My legs spread instinctively in welcome. My head tips back as his lips move over my jaw and down my neck.

  “You make me crazy,” he mutters into the magic spot under my earlobe.

  “Yes.” What am I agreeing to?

  I slip my hand under his T-shirt, desperate to feel his skin.

  With a growl, he runs his fingertips under the waistband of my leggings, following the elastic around my waist from back to front.

  Then his hand moves lower.

  The breathy sound coming out of my mouth can’t be mine. It’s too…shameless. But when his index finger slides beneath my panties and makes a beeline for my slick center, I arch my back to spur him on.

  “God, yes! Oh!” My whole lower body squeezes, my heels digging into his ass as he circles my opening.

  “I love how ready you are for me
.”

  “All…the…time,” I pant, then cry out as he plunges into me. Jesus fucking Christ.

  “More?” he asks.

  I nod.

  He adds another finger and stirs.

  If I were to look down, I would likely find the image of his hand moving underneath my leggings ridiculous, but with my eyes closed all I can do is feel.

  It feels amazing. But it’s not enough.

  “More,” I demand against his lips. He agrees, his hunger matching mine.

  Like a flash he pulls his hand free, then wedges his palms under my ass. I cling to him as he hauls me off the counter with my legs wrapped around his waist. Beneath the thin—and damp—fabric of my leggings, the muscles of his abdomen ripple and flex. With my chin on his shoulder, I see my screen saver bobbing and getting smaller as he carries me to my bedroom.

  I have come to realize that there are definite advantages to being with a trainer. Upper body strength, for one. Mateo lifts me easily, never breaking his stride or shifting me in his arms. With each step I’m reminded of the discipline that comes with years of working out and learning about biomechanics and nutrition. It’s impressive, especially when I am the beneficiary.

  This man has a goal, and his focus is singular. He is going to make me come.

  It’s not an educated guess. He’s dropping dirty promises in my ear all the way down the hall. I have yet to master talking easily during cardio, but he’s a pro. If he’s breathing hard when he drops me on the bed, it’s because of the bulge in his jeans, not exertion.

  I know this because when I rise up on my knees and eagerly open his jeans, he stops.

  Stops breathing, that is.

  “Need to feel you,” I whisper, my gaze fixed on his.

  His eyes glitter like obsidian in the dim light of my bedroom. My fingers fumble only a little. I’m going by memory, by touch and instinct. I could do this in my sleep. In fact, I probably have.

  When I wrap my hands around him, Mateo comes back to himself with a sharp inhalation.

  “Oh fuck,” he moans.

  I love that sound. I love knowing what I’m doing to him, knowing what I am capable of. It’s a heady experience, making a man like him lose all that hard-earned self-control.