by Nikky Kaye
Miss Behave
Nikky Kaye
Contents
A note to you!
1. Lizzie
2. Ash
3. Lizzie
4. Ash
5. Lizzie
6. Ash
7. Lizzie
8. Ash
9. Lizzie
10. Ash
11. Lizzie
12. Ash
13. Lizzie
14. Ash
15. Lizzie
16. Ash
17. Lizzie
18. Ash
19. Lizzie
20. Ash
21. Lizzie
22. Ash
Epilogue
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
A note to you!
I love writing about sarcastic alpha heroes who know what they want, and sassy women who are just figuring it out. To me, sexy is funny and vice versa.
Above everything I believe writing and reading should be fun and leave you with a smile on your face, so I hope you enjoy this book! Please consider leaving a review if you do like it, to help other readers. I know that I check out reviews before I buy books, myself.
For sneak peeks at new books, contests, reading recommendations, and other cool stuff, join my “Coming Attractions” mailing list at http://subscribepage.com/nikkykaye.
1
Lizzie
I sighed, considering my words carefully.
Your vagina will not ‘shrivel up like a raisin’ if you don’t use it. In fact, you may owe the California Raisin Board an apology for that insulting analogy. There is absolutely nothing wrong with—”
“That’s not an analogy.” The voice of my co-worker and friend, Dara, penetrated the cubicle wall separating us.
I blinked at my computer screen, my vision blurring at the interruption. “What?”
“Like a raisin.” Dara’s head popped up over the top like a gopher. “That’s a simile. An analogy would be if you said that her va-jay-jay actually was a dessicated grape.”
Another head popped up over the wall, two cubicles down. “No, that’s a metaphor,” corrected Intern Pete.
Reflexively, I hit auto-save while I leaned back in my cheap office chair. I should have known better than to indulge in reading out loud. Clearly, I wouldn’t be able to continue the editing process until this was cleared up. In the office of the online magazine we worked for, the only thing more contentious than the use of literary devices was the Oxford comma.
It was pretty easy for battles like these to break out, when the cubicle walls were only five feet high. It was the kind of half-assed design decision that could cripple a workplace. Either have it all open or all closed—was my opinion.
At that moment, though, I couldn’t help grinning at the way Dara’s thick, dark bangs blew off her forehead when she snorted. “Please, Pete. How would you know?”
He gasped, his hand going to his throat. “How dare you? I went to—”
“Columbia,” Dara and I finished for him. I rolled my eyes at her. We’d heard this before.
Then again, maybe I should have given Intern Pete the benefit of the doubt. He was still actively in school, while I was a dried-up… raisin.
“Listen to me, Lizzie!” he called out. “It’s a metaphor.”
Dara turned away from me to focus her scorn directly on him. “Pete I am not arguing semantics, here. I am suggesting that you wouldn’t know a vagina if you walked into one, whether it was a raisin or a big, juicy grape in a freaking Waldorf salad.”
Was that a metaphor, too?
I stared at my screen again. Save. Save. My fingers moved with the muscle memory of a dozen years at the keyboard as I tuned out the shift from grammar to trash talk.
Intern Pete was going to lose some of the superior smugness of his Columbia J-school label when he went looking for a real job in the journalism business. But what did I know? I’d busted my ass on scholarship at a well-respected state school, and I was writing an advice column for Hot Mess—a slightly less-respected online magazine.
And I was one of the lucky ones.
Ever heard the joke about how many journalism school graduates it took to screw in a light bulb? Probably not, since the lights were already out at most news organizations around the country.
Slowly, I highlighted the reference still under debate. I’d only spent a month with Intern Pete and a year working next to Dara, but it had been two years since I became “Miss Behave”—the wholesome girl-next-door who was supposed to be a counter to the no-holds-barred sexuality of the digital age. I was a throwback to Dear Abby, Ann Landers, and all the classic columnists of my parents’—hell, my grandparents’—generation.
The only problem was that my professional goal had always been hard-hitting, investigative news journalism. I didn’t have the first freaking clue what Ann or Abby would have said about nipple clamps when breastfeeding, or how many dates to wait before rimming someone (if anyone had to ask, the answer was never).
Now the distinction between me, Elizabeth Bell, and my prissy online persona was blurring as much as my eyesight. I was twenty-five and hadn’t had a date in seventeen months and ten days—give or take.
On one hand, it was pretty ironic that I wrote my column from the perspective of a pragmatic virgin who believed that hipsters were a style of women’s underwear. On the other hand, nobody had seen my underwear since hipsters fell out of fashion—either kind.
Recently, it seemed as though the people who wrote in fell into one of two categories—either they had legitimate problems and were looking for a reasonable, sympathetic ear, or they were assholes trying to push my buttons.
Unfortunately for me, the Powers That Be had discovered that the numbers skewed to the assholes.
Fortunately, it didn’t take much journalistic chops to sweetly tell people to “just say no”. I could have done this job in my sleep. Sometimes, when I re-read what I’d written, I wondered if I had.
I kept hoping that seniority and sucking up would get me to the news desk, but so far…
To keep myself sane, I kept a blog called Miss Givings. Well, I couldn’t use Miss Behave, since that belonged to the magazine, but I was trying to do similar stuff on the blog. Instead of doling out advice, though, I used it more as a platform for babbling about relationships in modern times. Kind of like Sex and the City for millennials, though arguably missing in the “sex” part.
Recently I had branched out to look at relationship questions from the perspective of different generations. I was still tinkering with it, which I guess was the point of a blog.
Dara and Intern Pete had moved on from metaphors to taking pot shots at each other’s talent. The argument grated on my nerves. I had a deadline. My chair squeaked as I stood up to join the firefight.
“Look, you guys, it’s not my fault that she referred to her coochie as a raisin.” The visual flashed through my head, making me grimace. Raisins belonged in cookies, not underwear.
Their heads swiveled around. Dara’s eyebrows rose underneath her heavy bangs—I think.
I slapped the top of the cubicle wall. “I don’t care if she meant a seedless sultana, a currant, or one of those weird golden ones. I’m a professional, dammit! I need to know if it’s a metaphor or an analogy or a simile, or if she’s just a whole fricking fruitcake!”
“I vote for fruitcake.” The deep, unfamiliar male voice reverberated through me like a tuning fork.
When I spun around to put a face to the voice, my hip caught the armrest of my chair and my upper body flew forward.
“Ow!” I was about to fall over the chair in a very inelegant fashion, when two strong arms appeared underneath me.
Well, to be more accurate, his ha
nds were pretty damn close to palming my boobs in an effort to keep me from face-planting.
“Whoops! Sorry about that,” he said as he righted me. He’d ducked into my cubicle quickly to rescue me, and now stood back just outside my invisible door—waiting for an invitation or some gratitude.
“Thanks,” I muttered.
My face burning, I didn’t know whether to smile or glare at the stranger. From the looks of him, he was probably used to getting smiles from women.
He wore a faded denim button-up shirt, and if I leaned forward again without the chair in the way, I could put my nose right up against the tattoo peeking out of the top. His black pants were slim, making his sneakers look like clown shoes in comparison.
There was that saying about men with big feet…
Topping all of it was a lopsided smirk and eyes the color of good coffee, under dark hair cut so short it almost looked like he was headed to basic training.
It was the smile that was so dangerous. That smile—I was guessing—had launched a thousand pairs of panties. That smile was what women like myself had to guard ourselves against.
“Can I help you?”
“Are you Miss Behave?”
“No. Well, yeah.” I waved a hand, not seeing the point of getting into the distinction between my pen name and my legal name.
“You,” he said, pointing a long finger at me, “owe me a date.”
As pick-up lines went, it was pretty effective. If he flashed that smirk at me one more time… oh, no. I was a journalist, a professional. I could resist the panty-melting smile.
I folded my arms over my chest and jutted my hip out, planting my feet squarely on the industrial carpet. “I’m sorry?”
His gaze went down my body. I didn’t mind as much as I ought to. My traitorous nipples hardened under my crossed arms.
“You should be. Your advice cost me a sure thing last weekend.”
My mind flashed back to last week’s column—something about not putting out on the first date—or even the third.
I’d gone all starry-eyed virgin last week and tried to convince readers that sex didn’t need to be part of the dating equation for the first month—if not more—of a budding relationship.
“How else are you supposed to know if you can get along with someone, if you don’t spend non-naked time with them?”
Judging from this guy’s reaction, his date took her non-naked time very seriously.
“That was pretty shitty advice,” he told me now.
“Hey, I’m not responsible for what people do with what I write,” I tried to say. “Have you ever heard of free will?”
His dark eyes flashed before his full lips twisted in a scowl. “Are you kidding me? That’s part of your job. People ask questions, and you give them answers. They’re begging you to be responsible for them. That’s part of the power and privilege that you have as a columnist.”
Who the hell was this guy? I sniffed. “You seem to have an awfully big opinion—”
“What qualifies you to give that kind of advice, anyhow?”
The casual sweep of his gaze up and down my body left me breathless and tingling—in anger. Yeah, it was anger.
“I beg your par—”
He interrupted me again. “Frankly, I don’t see you having trouble getting dates. But if you’re the kind of girl that takes your own advice, you won’t get many.”
“What are you insinuating?”
“I’m just guessing here, but well… You. Don’t. Put. Out.”
I stared at him. Was he serious?
“But, Miss Behave,” he continued, stepping forward, “do you ever let yourself change your mind? What happens if you’re with a man who smells good, tastes good, and wants to touch you in ways you’ve never been touched before?”
He leaned closer to me, the heat of his body closing in on mine. “What would you do if, deep down, you really wanted someone more than your good manners and ‘holier than thou’ attitude allowed?”
I squirmed.
“What if you wanted him pressing you up against a wall and sliding his hands under your skirt? Would you stick to your ‘no-sex’ rule then?”
Was he offering? My heart pounded in my chest at his candor, at his words, at his… at him.
“Are you calling me a prude?”
“No, I’m calling your advice prudish. And kind of a cock tease.”
Dara, who was shamelessly eavesdropping, gasped. So did I.
He continued, “And you’re encouraging other women to do the same thing, which isn’t fair to the general male population. Hell, it isn’t fair to them.”
“Yeah!” yelled Intern Pete.
“And I suppose you speak for the general male population?”
“Somebody has to,” he said. I could smell whatever spicy, citrusy shampoo he used, and the scent of coffee clung to him, as though he’d just spent half the day in a Starbucks.
I snorted, unconsciously taking a step back. “And I suppose you believe in sex on the first date.” Typical.
He shook his head. “No, but the first month isn’t too much to expect. Especially if there’s a mutual attraction.”
My mouth fell open. “Define ‘mutual attraction’.”
“I just did. The whole can’t-wait-to-get-his-hands-under-your-skirt thing.”
I looked down at my tailored black pants. So did he. “Well,” he chuckled, “metaphorically speaking. Like your raisin.”
Now I’d had enough. “Who the hell are you?” I demanded, just as my editor rounded the corner by Dara’s cubicle. Thank god. “Rob, can you help me out here? This guy—”
“Oh, good!” My boss beamed as much as a middle-aged man could. “You’ve met the competition.”
2
Ash
From the way Miss Behave’s hazel eyes were flashing at me, she had some fire in her—fire that wasn’t evident in her advice column. Her advice, generally speaking, was the definition of being a “wet blanket”.
Robert Mooney, the editor of the web magazine, looked pleased that I’d introduced myself.
I hadn’t, not properly.
“What?” Miss Behave looked like she was about to explode. “Competition? I don’t have competition.”
Mooney looked embarrassed for her, and shot me an apologetic look. “Yeah, you do, Lizzie.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. Her honey-colored hair fell to the middle of her back as she tilted her head like she had a nosebleed.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Is the air thinner up there on your high horse?”
Her chin dropped, her mouth turned down. “What are you talking about?”
Mooney looked over at the dark-haired girl and the dude who were very obviously trying not to be caught eavesdropping. “Come to my office.”
I stretched my arm out, gesturing for her to go ahead—ladies first. Not only was it the gentlemanly thing to do, but it also made for a good view. We followed him down the hall to what appeared to be a repurposed closet. But it had a door, which he closed behind us.
Mooney leaned back against his desk. “Now you can’t go spreading this around, but Hot Mess is going to be merging with Static,” he said. “And word is that they don’t want two advice columnists.”
Her eyes widened in shock. I’d already heard this news, but I wasn’t too concerned. I had a loyal readership; they wouldn’t let me go without a fight.
“Miss Behave,” I began.
“Lizzie,” she snapped, her face coloring. “My name is Elizabeth Bell, not Miss freaking Behave.”
That was cute. She couldn’t even swear.
“Lizzie, cool it,” Mooney said. “The owners have an idea.”
Her back straightened. “So do I. Move me to the news desk.”
The editor frowned.
“C’mon, Rob, you know that’s where I want to be, anyways.”
“There isn’t room there right now, especially with the merger. We’ve got journalists coming out of our ears, and we�
�re trying not to fire too many of you guys.”
That was a relief to hear. Again, not that I was worried.
“The owners put their heads together to figure out what to do about some of the redundant—”
“Redundant?” she squeaked.
“—columns. They came up with the brilliant idea of you two playing off each other. Kind of a battle of the sexes thing. See who comes out on top.”
Lizzie looked pained. “Who decides that?” She spun to me. “What’s your column, anyhow? Who are you?”
“Ash Garrison.” I stuck out my hand.
She shook it briefly, but the warmth of her skin didn’t spread to her eyes. A blank look was all I got. Well, laced with some irritation.
Mooney added for me, “Ash’s column is called ’A Guy’s Guy’.”
She snorted. “Oh, right. Party every night and screw around on the Internet all day. That’s your advice.”
I gave a fake gasp. “Miss Behave! Language!” My eyelashes lowered. “But I’m flattered that you read me.”
“See?” Mooney smiled. “I knew this could work. You guys already have great chemistry; it’s sure to come across online.”
She glared at both of us, though a little less forcefully at her boss. “What do you mean by ‘play off each other’?”
“They want you to respond to the same letters. Kind of a joint column, with two points of view for one question.”
“And it would be on both sites?”
He nodded.
“Are they cutting our space?” I asked.
“Not exactly. For the moment, they want you each to run your advice to the hypothetical question in your own column, like normal. But they want to link to the other column for the alternate point of view.” He held up his hands. “That was the best I could do right now. They’re going to see which column gets more clicks and engagement before deciding further.”