“I appreciate the offer, but with all the clients I’ve got booked in the coming weeks, I’m not really in the position to take a break. Bring me back some macarons, though.”
“A box of Marie Antoinette macarons from Ladurée.” He types himself a reminder to pick up my favorite Parisian treat, or to tell his assistant to, on his phone. “I’ve got you, boo.”
The mention of the scrumptious dessert that consists of two pale blue meringue-like shells sandwiching a creamy filling that’s the most heavenly mélange of flavors you can possibly imagine makes my very empty stomach growl. The noise reminds me that I need to call Curtis’s restaurant and let them know we’re coming.
“Have we been fake doing it for an ample amount of time now so that we can leave and get something to eat?” I wonder after making our reservation.
“Worked up an appetite, have you?” He winks at me.
“You’re incorrigible,” I say, rising from my chair and scooping up my purse. I’m almost to the door and have my hand outstretched to open it when Ian grabs me by the arm and spins me back around.
“You look way too put together for a woman who just received a good shagging. Let me fix that for you.” Raking his fingers through the long, curly hair I tamed into soft, smooth waves with a blow dryer and expensive product this morning, Ian tousles it with so much vigor that I’m certain it looks like small animals are living in the resulting mess.
When he’s done, he points to the ruffled placket of my red silk blouse from Gucci and inquires, “May I?”
I already have the top two mother-of-pearl buttons undone, so I’m not sure what his plan is. “Knock yourself out. I’m not walking out there with my bra showing though.”
“Trust me,” Ian says as he works his way down the placket, slipping the buttons through their holes. “Mmmm, lace,” he observes as his knuckles skim over the red balconette-style bra I got from La Perla. “Saucy. There might be hope for you yet, Gingersnap.”
He’s refastened my blouse now, but he’s got the buttons in the wrong holes. So it’s all cattywampus and looks as though I was too dazed post-tryst to perform this basic function properly. For good measure, Ian untucks part of my blouse from the red leather-trimmed waistband of my beige skirt with Gucci’s trademark GG print.
Turnabout is fair play, so I say, “I don’t think I’m the only who should be rumpled.” His lips twitch up on one side when I reach out to loosen the knot on his purple tie and unbutton the collar of his dress shirt followed by his suit jacket. I pull his shirt out of his trousers, then stuff it back in haphazardly, wrinkling the luxurious cotton in the process, which I know will drive Ian, the devout clotheshorse, nuts. I stand back to survey my handiwork. Seems like there’s something missing . . .
“You’re going to have to snog me,” he asserts. “Unless you want people to think we skip that part when we get busy.”
He’s right. My lipstick should be all over him.
“Oh, the torture,” I lament jokingly before cupping his cheeks in my hands. I gaze up at him, trying to decide where the best places to leave copper-colored lip marks are.
“Stay away from my collar,” he instructs. “Lipstick’s a bitch to get out, and this shirt is Armani.”
I roll my eyes at him, then pull his head down so that our mouths are level. Kissing Ian isn’t a big deal as we’ve done it in public to keep up appearances many times before. Still, it is weird to lock lips with someone you have no romantic interest in. I guess that’s what actors do for the job, though, so I’m following in my grandmother’s footsteps in that regard.
I press my lips to Ian’s brow, applying enough pressure so that some of my shimmery lipstick will be left behind, then move down to his cheekbone and the area above his jawline where his beard starts, being sure to smear the marks so that it appears we were caught up in a kissing frenzy. Finally, I plant one directly on his mouth, not lingering long enough for him to return my kiss, but still able to taste the creamy, slightly sweet taste of the lattes he loves to drink on my lips when I withdraw.
“Hmmmmm,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him. “I think the color of this lipstick might look better on you than it does me.” The copper really does complement his cocoa brown skin.
“Impossible,” he assures me, dropping a kiss on the top of my head as he snakes an arm around my waist. “Now, let’s go out there and make everyone jealous of how perfect we are together.”
CHAPTER 6
“Sorry, I’m late!” I greet Viv and my mother who are already seated at the white linen-covered table that sits beneath the column-supported pergola to the side of the pool where my grandmother faithfully swims twenty laps every morning. “I was catching up on some e-mails and lost track of time.”
“Working on a Sunday?” Viv tuts disapprovingly as I take the seat to her right. “You really need to relax more. Matthew,” she addresses the uniformed, young Brad Pitt lookalike standing a few feet away from me, “would you please pour my granddaughter one of these mimosas?” She lifts a frosty cocktail glass filled with a reddish-pink beverage and garnished with a candied orange peel. “She could use it.”
I’m perfectly capable of pouring my own drink, but I know Viv likes her Sunday brunches to be elegant so that means letting her staff wait on us.
“Blood orange juice and Cava, it’s quite tasty,” my mother tells me after draining the last of her mimosa and raising her glass in the air to let the female server standing on her side of the table know that she’d like a refill. Mom’s sitting directly opposite me to Viv’s left, and I’m struck, as always, by what a study in contrasts they are.
My mother looks very stylish, smart, and doctorly with her shoulder-length red hair (the color’s still similar to mine thanks to monthly visits to the salon) parted down the middle and sleeked back into a low ponytail. The square, black glasses pushed up the bridge of her turned-up nose are no-nonsense, as is her monochromatic ensemble of taupe-colored ribbed knit top and trousers. Her makeup is natural, and her jewelry is minimal, just the simple, but nonetheless pricey, white gold and diamond engagement/wedding ring set on her left hand.
Meanwhile, Viv is in full flamboyant diva mode, wearing one of her flowy, multi-colored Pucci kaftans with gold bangles piled halfway up to her elbow on each arm, dark, oversized sunglasses, and a floppy sun hat that’s so large it’s casting a shadow over the table. The sunglasses and hat are there to protect Viv’s greatest commodity, her face, and I have no doubt she’s also coated her entire body in several layers of SPF 100. My grandmother takes no chances with her fair skin, which is why it’s still milky white and flawless at her age. Mom and I haven’t been as careful, and we both have a dusting of freckles on our noses and shoulders as a result.
“Mmmmm, you’re right. This is good,” I comment after trying the mimosa, which is icy cold and has a pleasant tang to it thanks to the citrus.
“Tell Matthew what you’d like to eat,” Viv directs, “and he’ll make a plate for you.”
My eyes scan the table, which is covered with such a vast array of breakfast dishes we could probably feed ten more families with all of it. I would cringe at the wastefulness of this excessive display if I didn’t know that Viv always gives the leftovers to her staff. “Oh, gosh, I don’t know. Everything looks and smells so delicious.”
“If you want eggs . . .” Viv indicates the crab and avocado eggs Benedict on her plate. “. . . Chef will prepare them à la minute.”
“Thanks, but that’s not nec—”
“Yvonne!” My grandmother calls for someone in the large pool house that’s outfitted with a gourmet kitchen where this brunch was prepared.
A petite blonde with braided pigtails who’s wearing chef’s whites bounces out to answer Viv’s summons. “Yes, Ms. Hart?”
“Will you ask Chef to make—”
“Viv, it’s fine. I’ll eat something that’s already here.” I hate to put her staff to any extra trouble. I’m not sure if my stomach is up for crab and Hollandais
e sauce this early in the day anyway.
“Have a scone,” my mother suggests, pointing her knife at a basket covered with a cloth napkin. “Chef got the ratio of flour to butter just right today, so they’re nice and fluffy.” She slathers more red jam on the half-eaten scone sitting on her plate.
Clearly, no one in my family is averse to consuming carbs or gluten as most everyone else in LA is. That’s because we’ve all been blessed with high metabolisms and don’t have any allergies.
“I’ll just have some of these pancakes,” I say as I reach for the metal spatula sitting next to the warming tray where there’s a stack of them, but Matthew sweeps in to do the honors.
“Those are lemon ricotta pancakes,” the pigtailed sous chef narrates as Matthew places several of the pancakes on a plate. “And Chef has prepared a wonderful blueberry sauce to accompany them if you’d like.”
“I’d definitely like.”
I watch as Matthew pours some of the dark, yummy-looking fruit sauce on top of the pancakes, which spills over the edges of the stack and trickles down its sides. When he sets the calorie-laden plate down in front of me. I glance up at Matthew to say, “Thank you,” but notice he only has eyes for the brunette on the other side of the table. However, she is studiously avoiding his gaze, looking straight ahead at a spot somewhere behind him. Interesting . . .
“Since you made the scones sound so appealing, I think I’ll try one myself,” Viv tells my mom as she helps herself to the contents of the basket. “You know what that means, Yvonne.”
“I do?” The young woman looks perplexed.
“Tea, girl. I can’t have a scone without tea. What would Helen Mirren say? Or Ian McKellan? Or Michael Caine?” She name drops several of the British actors she’s worked with. Not that Yvonne is old enough to know who any of those people are. Well, maybe Ian McKellan if she’s ever seen an X-Men or Lord of the Rings movie.
“Earl Grey or English Breakfast?”
“Surprise me,” Viv says with a dismissive wave of her hand.
I have no problem washing my pancakes down with the mimosa I’ve got, so I commence carving myself a large, multi-layered bite. “Garrett couldn’t join us this morning?” I do the polite thing and ask my mother about my stepfather before doing the impolite thing and stuffing a trucker-sized portion of food in my mouth.
“A man with an unusual head trauma was brought into the ER late last night. He needed surgery that was going to be tricky, so they called in Garrett.”
As you might have guessed from that reply, my stepfather is something of a big deal in the field of neurosurgery. He’s particularly well-known for some innovations in the surgical treatment of brain aneurysms and frequently speaks on the subject at medical schools and conferences all over the world. It was at one of those conferences that my mother crossed paths with the very impressive Dr. Webster and they immediately clicked, which wasn’t surprising because they are similar in so many ways, each of them being intellectual, analytical, and career-driven. And in an amusing twist of fate, they both work on people’s heads! My mom shrinks them, and Garrett slices into them, with the goal of making their patients healthy and whole, mentally as well as physically.
I’ve honestly never seen a more compatible couple, and they set a very good example for me in my formative years. I used to sit at the dinner table, listening to the two of them talk, and marvel at how perfectly in sync they seemed to be. They were always interested in what the other had to say and seemed to agree on everything from the small stuff like what to eat for meals or where to go on vacation to the bigger things like religion, how to invest their money, and whether or not to add more children to the mix. Their marriage worked like a well-oiled machine from day one because they were straightforward about their needs and expectations and despite their demanding careers, they have always made their relationship a priority, going so far as to have a schedule for sex, or as my mother likes to call it “meaningful and mutually satisfying physical encounters,” that they strictly adhere to. And I really wish I didn’t know that, but as I’ve said before, my mother believes in transparency in all things, which is why I’m also privy to details about my conception I’d rather not be.
My bio-dad, Jason, was a guy my mother “experimented” with her freshman year of college. She was so focused on her studies in high school that she started NYU as a virgin. When she saw that her classmates were casually hooking up and having fun, she was curious to find out what all the fuss was about. So she knocked on her cute, curly-haired RA’s door late one night, told him that she needed him to advise her on sex, then dropped her robe and jumped him. This course of instruction went on for a couple of months until my mother started barfing up the Rice Krispies and bananas she got in the dining hall for breakfast every morning and realized she was late. A trip to the student health center confirmed her suspicion that a baby was on the way.
At this point, you would think a young woman with as much brains and ambition as my mother would have said, “Point me to the nearest clinic where I can have this taken care of,” and gotten on with her life, but she didn’t. She figured if she got pregnant while using not one, but two, forms of birth control (the Pill and condoms), then the child she was carrying really wanted to be born and she should give him or her that opportunity. Fortunately for her, the pregnancy was timed so that she could finish out the school year, return home to California, give birth to me in early August, and be back in class at USC, the college she transferred to, two weeks later. Viv was delighted to take care of baby me, along with the help of a team of nannies, while my mother pursued multiple degrees for the next seven years.
Although his name is on my birth certificate, I’ve never had any relationship with my bio-dad as my mother excused him from taking any responsibility for me, which he was no doubt relieved about. The only tangible ties I have to Jason are my blue eyes and the curls in my hair. Growing up, I had two such strong female role models in my life I never really felt the absence of a father and by the time Garrett came along I was a teenager and neither of us was looking to form a parent/child bond. I do like and respect him, though, and am glad my mother found her perfect match.
“The man is lucky to have a surgeon as skillful as Garrett wielding the scalpel,” I assert.
“Indeed.” My grandmother dabs her lips with her napkin. “Does he still have the lowest mortality rate of any neurosurgeon in the state?”
“For five years running now,” my mother proudly confirms just as her phone beeps with an incoming text. She looks down at the device that’s residing on the table next to her place setting and quickly reads it. “Surgery went well, and the patient’s prognosis is good,” she reports.
“Cheers to that,” Viv lifts her mimosa in a toast, and we all clink glasses.
“Have you started writing your new book yet?” I ask my mother since we’re on the topic of work.
“Yes, and it’s going very well.”
Yvonne has returned with a pot of tea in one hand and a tray bearing a creamer and sugar bowl in the other. Matthew meets her at the head of the table to relieve her of the silver teapot.
He then slides my grandmother’s china cup and saucer away from her plate and proceeds to pour.
“What’s the title of this one?” Viv queries just as I shovel down another forkful of my cheesy, blueberry-soaked pancakes.
“Bad in Bed: Ten Ways to Become a Better Lover.”
I suck in a breath of surprise, forgetting that I just swallowed food, and start choking at the same time Matthew’s arm jerks and he spills tea all over Viv’s tablecloth.
“Oh, dear!” my grandmother exclaims. “That’s going to stain the linen.” A consequence that seems to be more concerning to her than me choking to death.
Raising an eyebrow, my mother queries, “Do I need to administer the Heimlich?”
I can’t speak, so I shake my head no and grab a water glass. Several swallows later, I’m no longer coughing and sputtering.
&nb
sp; “You need to take smaller bites,” Mom suggests as if that’s why I choked, not because I was caught off guard by the title of her book.
“Bad in Bed is catchy,” Viv declares while Matthew mops up the mess he created. “But who are you giving tips to on becoming a better lover: men or women?”
“Both,” my mother replies matter-of-factly. “The genders make the same mistakes when it comes to intimate relations. The number one complaint I’ve heard from couples over the years is that their partners fail miserably when it comes to oral sex, so I’m devoting a whole chapter to that.”
The female server’s face turns beet red, Pigtails freezes in shock, and Matthew continues to scrub at the tablecloth even though the puddle of tea is now just a wet spot on the fabric.
“Perhaps we should shelve this topic until a time when we’re alone.” Ending the sentence on a whisper, I give my mother a meaningful look.
“Yes, yes, quite right,” Viv agrees. “This is not a conversation for the staff’s tender ears. You may disburse.” She flaps her hands in the air, granting her three employees permission to fly, and they all scurry away from the table like they’re celebrities being chased by the paparazzi.
Although my mother doesn’t roll her eyes at us, it’s implied when she says, “They’re all adults for heaven’s sake.”
“Adults you were embarrassing with the sex talk. Clearly, Matthew has feelings for the dark-haired girl. What’s her name?” I ask Viv.
She pauses with a bite of eggs Benedict halfway up to her mouth. “Matilda? No, I think it’s Miranda. Maybe Melissa. It definitely starts with an M.”
“Either way, I could tell by the longing looks Matthew was casting across the table at her that he’s in love with the girl, and I think she reciprocates. She’s just shy or unsure how to express her feelings for him.”
I sigh because it’s all very romantic. Two young people connecting at work, developing feelings, and aching to be together, but afraid to open up their hearts for fear of being rejected, losing each other’s friendship, and/or compromising their jobs.
Straight from the Hart Page 6