Adam

by Foster, Lori

  There was true passion behind her words and the way she applied her makeup. He’d been more right on the plane than he’d realized. Chloe was an artist.

  He clicked around a bit, watched more snippets of her videos. He couldn’t find a single one, though, where she didn’t start with all her foundation and one eye already done. He realized he’d never seen her without any makeup on.

  Sometimes she did investigative-type videos, showing the advertising claims of the product and how they didn’t work as shown, before giving some tips on how to achieve the product’s promise through alternate means. Even though she basically called out his entire profession in them, these videos were his favorites—especially the one about something called “lip plumpers” because she was particularly scathing in it. After a while, though, the strategic part of his brain took over, and he became obsessed with the metrics.

  She’d been making videos for about eight months, yet her subscriber list was much lower than he’d have suspected. Especially considering that at least a third of her thirty-two videos showed a dramatic upswing of comments and views over the last week. He couldn’t be sure, but judging by the comments, it seemed as if talking to Kenley Burke had paid major dividends. Imagine if she told even a few friends about the site. And if each of them told a few friends...

  Even without the word of mouth, some of Chloe’s special-event tutorials—like Halloween and New Year’s Eve—were fast approaching ten thousand hits. Those were the kinds of numbers that would push her revenue into higher brackets.

  But what amazed him the most was her total lack of self-promotion. She had no social media accounts linked to her channel, no website. Her entire reach was organic—makeup-wearers of all ages, from all over the world, stumbling across Chloe’s videos by sheer luck and then sharing them with their friends.

  But by not linking to the products she was using, she was leaving thousands of dollars’ worth of affiliate money on the table. She needed to up the quality of her videos, too. Nothing some decent lighting and a new laptop wouldn’t fix.

  With only a bare minimum of work, Chloe could turn her hobby into an empire. He was sure of it.

  Ben’s heart rate picked up. He was having that moment again. The electric rush that came when his brain churned with ideas. He could help her transform Makeup by Chloe into something even bigger and better than it was now.

  The sound of her key in the door startled him and he panicked. He hit the button to switch off his screen and shoved the tablet on the coffee table, exchanging it for the makeup magazine she’d left there. He settled into the couch and aimed for nonchalance.

  * * *

  CHLOE PUSHED HER way into the condo, kicking off her blister-producing high heels as she shut the door and locked it. God, it was good to be home. She headed straight for the fridge, dropping her purse on the counter and yanking a tub of Phish Food from the freezer.

  “Ben?” she called, opening the cutlery drawer.

  “In here,” came the reply, and she snagged two spoons before bumping the drawer shut with her hip and heading into the living room.

  Ben was sprawled comfortably on the couch, his bare feet crossed at the ankles and propped up on the coffee table. He was wearing a white T-shirt and gray sweats. And to top off the cuteness that was Ben, he wasn’t watching TV. He was reading.

  She raised her eyebrows as she took in exactly what he was reading, and he blushed when he closed the worn magazine and tossed it onto the table beside his tablet. “So, how’d it go today?”

  “Well,” Chloe began, dropping onto the cushion beside him. Her shoulder pressed against his upper arm.

  “Work itself was okay.” She mimicked his relaxed, feet-on-coffee-table position and pulled the top off the frozen nectar of the dairy gods. She gave him a spoon and Ben dug in before she’d dropped the lid on the cushion beside her.

  “What do you call your penis?” she asked, and Ben’s other hand flew to his mouth, ostensibly to keep his behemoth spoonful of ice cream from falling off his tongue.

  Chloe dug a chocolate fish from the pint with her spoon and let it melt on her tongue. “Have you given it a name? You know, something you call it when you’re with a special lady? Like Excalibur or Big Ben?”

  She couldn’t help that her eyes darted covertly to his crotch. If she remembered correctly—and she did—either of those names were appropriate. Oh, geez! Chloe hunched her shoulders, hoping her nipples wouldn’t betray her gutter mind.

  Clearing her throat, she pressed on. “Or are you into more generic innuendo? Like, ‘Hey, baby. I’ve got a package for you’?”

  Ben’s face was scrunched up with disgust, which she found kind of endearing. “I’m trying to eat here,” he protested. “Why are you talking about dicks?”

  Chloe dragged her spoon delicately along the top of the ice cream until she had a perfect curl. “Because the creepy delivery guy who dropped off our new Valentine’s Day signage asked if I wanted to go in the back room—”

  “Jesus, did he try anything? Are you okay?”

  Chloe was taken aback by Ben’s sudden intensity. “I’m fine. That’s why I’m trying to tell you the funny story of what happened to me today.”

  He stared at her for a long moment before his muscles relaxed.

  “What’s going on with you?”

  Ben shook his head. “Nothing.”

  She gave him a hard look to let him know she wasn’t buying it.

  “It’s nothing. Finish your story. He wanted you to go into the back room...” he prodded.

  “Because he wanted me to play with his trouser snake.”

  Ben froze. “He did not say that.”

  “I swear on Ben and Jerry’s lives.”

  They stared at one another for a moment in shared horror before bursting into laughter.

  “So if you have some cutesy name for your lower anatomy, I need to know now. Because I discovered something important about myself tonight—I can’t live with a man who says things like that.”

  “I don’t. But for the record, after that speech, I wouldn’t tell you even if I did.”

  Chloe smiled. “For fear of constant and merciless mocking? Or because you don’t want me to leave?” she asked, putting her spoon in her mouth upside-down, applying the ice cream directly to her tongue.

  Ben sobered and glanced over at her. The smile slipped from her lips as awareness hummed between them. Her nipples tingled as she slipped the spoon from her mouth and forced herself to swallow. “Okay, seriously though,” she said, barging through the moment in the interest of self-preservation. He’d been kind of a jerk to her at breakfast. She was not going to fall right into bed with him. “What’s your penis’s name? Because I feel like that’s something a wife would know. What if your boss asks?”

  Ben took her cue, dispelling the remainder of the tension with a grin. “I like your moxie, Masterson. You’re taking this seriously, preparing for every eventuality.”

  “A good hostess always has a bevy of conversation topics at her disposal.”

  “Yes, she does. And speaking of conversation topics, I have something I need to tell you.”

  Chloe went still at the serious note in his voice.

  “I watched some of your makeup videos.”

  “What?” The blood drained from her face. It was like she’d been soul-jacked. A ridiculous reaction, she knew, since she’d posted her soul on YouTube herself.

  “They’re great. You’re very natural on camera.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ben laughed. “Your words say ‘thank you’ but your tone says ‘fuck you, Ben.’”

  That was probably true.

  “I just do it for fun.”

  “I think that’s your first mistake. Makeup by Chloe has the potential to be a big deal. It could be a brick
and mortar business—I mean, you did your sister’s wedding makeup for free, obviously, but people pay big money for that. Or you can keep the business online. If you write anything like you speak in those videos, you could branch into a blog and it could lead to sponsorships, or just new audiences. You could even do a little of both, kind of dovetail them together, depending on your vision.”

  Ben’s lecture was starting to feel like the speech her dad had given her before she applied for law school. “You will do this and you will go here.” Before she’d realized it, all her choices had been taken away.

  She knew Ben was just trying to help. That his suggestions came from a good place, but...Makeup by Chloe was hers. And Ben didn’t have the right to make these decisions for her. That was the whole reason she’d started her YouTube channel in the first place.

  “...I mean, just talking with Kenley resulted in a huge spike in your numbers. Imagine if—”

  “Hey, Ben?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

  “Right, I know, I’m getting ahead of myself, but it’s not as intimidating as it sounds. Even just linking to the products you use could result in an impressive amount of affiliate revenue and—”

  “Ben!”

  He started at her brusque tone.

  “I said I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Fine. I get it.” His voice belied his words. He wasn’t happy. She’d hurt his feelings.

  Well, join the club.

  “I’ve got some work to finish up anyway. I’ll be in the office.”

  “Okay.” It was all she could say as she watched him leave.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t feel badly about cutting him off. He talked a good game. Made her consider things she usually dismissed as fanciful. But Makeup by Chloe wasn’t ready yet. She wasn’t prepared to put it out in the world until she learned more techniques, and saved more money. Until she felt like a businesswoman, not an imposter. Doing makeup made her happy, sure, but she had so much more to prove before people would pay for her services. Before she could really make use of his advice.

  She looked down at the ice cream in her hand. It had melted a fair bit during their chat. She put the lid back on it and headed into the kitchen to put it away, dropping her and Ben’s spoons in the sink as she passed by.

  It was only the second night since he’d tracked her down, but they’d already started fighting and stopped having sex. Real life was intruding on their fantasy more quickly than she’d expected.

  CHAPTER 11

  CHLOE DIPPED HER roller into the blue-gray paint and rolled a trial stripe of it onto the wall, excited at how well everything was coming together.

  It hadn’t started out that way.

  Ben had already left for work by the time Chloe got up. After last night, it felt odd being alone in his place. She wasn’t sure if it was the residual effect of their sorta-fight or just the inherent emptiness of the condo, but it had to change. Fast. They were only days away from the business dinner that could make or break Ben’s career.

  And right now it looked like they were faking their entire relationship. Well, except for the sex. No faking required there. But orgasms weren’t the kind of proof they needed. As things stood, no one would walk into this empty bachelor pad and believe a happy couple lived here. Hell, she barely believed Ben lived here.

  Ben didn’t think redecorating was important. He thought saying he had a wife was enough to convey stability, but Chloe knew better.

  She might have rebelled against that life, but she was intimately familiar with the world of business dinners. It was all about appearances, about projecting a certain lifestyle. Every detail said something about what was happening inside a house.

  Ben didn’t understand that yet, but he was going to when he saw the magic she’d worked today.

  It had started with the modest hope of finding somewhere in the condo a throw for the couch or a photo for the wall—anything that would loan his place a little hominess. Instead, she’d found a trunk full of amazing stuff just sitting out in the open in Ben’s makeshift office.

  It had contained a few fishing trophies that she’d displayed beside the TV, a homemade quilt in shades of blue that she’d draped over the back of his couch, and her favorite find—a bunch of incredible pictures from Ben’s youth.

  She couldn’t decide which one of the photos she loved best. The one of a young Ben and his dad fishing at a beautiful lake with an amazing log cabin in the background, the picture of the two of them making faces at the camera from the box of a beat-up red pickup truck, or another of a teenaged Ben in his cap and gown with his father’s arm around him and pride shining in the man’s eyes.

  That’s when she’d decided to go all out, because these beautiful memories deserved a room that suited them. She’d picked up some paint for a feature wall in the living room and an inexpensive bookcase that she’d assembled herself. She’d even swung by her place for a couple of throw pillows, some books, a box of candles, and a few framed pictures of her and her friends to add to the mix and help sell the illusion.

  She set the roller back in the tray and took in the rest of the room while she waited for her test patch to dry.

  She was proud of how much personality she’d imbued in the room for a mere sixty-seven dollars and a couple of hours of her time.

  And once she finished painting this feature wall, she could hang a few more photos and they would have a hope in hell of convincing his bosses that this relationship wasn’t a sham.

  Ben might be the ultimate ad exec, but if being raised by Fiona Masterson had taught her anything, it was how to be the woman behind the man.

  And everyone knew that was the important part.

  * * *

  “CHLOE? I’M HOME, and I’ve got pizza!”

  Ben’s meeting had gone really well and he’d managed to tie up things at the office more quickly than he’d anticipated. It was only seven o’clock and he was already done for the day.

  The door had barely shut behind him before he was struck by two things: the distinct chill in the apartment and the unmistakable smell of paint.

  Chloe glanced over her shoulder, and pulled the bud from her ear. “Sorry. Music.” She removed the other earbud. “Didn’t hear you come in. Surprise!”

  Ben walked right into the middle of the room, the pizza forgotten in his hands. “That is...blue. Like, blue-blue. I’m talking really blue.”

  “You’ve got a real way with words, Masterson. You should write poetry in your spare time. Flight attendants the world over will swoon. More than they already do, that is.”

  “Why are you painting my wall blue?”

  “It’s not blue, it’s arctic mist.”

  “Why are you painting my wall arctic mist?”

  “Because it’s going to look great.” Chloe set her roller in the paint tray and turned to face him. “This is an intervention. I’m trying to save you. I mean, I consider it a miracle that you haven’t shriveled up and died of beige yet!”

  His eyes flitted through the room, barely able to track all the changes. “Where did you get my grandmother’s quilt? And my dad’s fishing trophies?”

  Then he caught sight of his graduation photo. On a bookshelf he’d never seen before. “What have you done?”

  Chloe looked taken aback. “I redecorated.”

  “What the hell for?”

  She frowned. “This is what I wanted to talk to you about over breakfast yesterday. Your bosses are never going to believe we’re married.”

  “Sure they will. A lot of people already do.”

  “Right, but we were out. Maybe they’d believe us if we were having the dinner at a restaurant. But they’re coming here,” she said in a tone that suggested he’d just been
checkmated in the argument.

  “So?”

  “So? This is not the house of a happy couple, Ben. It’s the house of a robot. You have a couch, a TV and a gaming console. Even frat boys put up some pictures of naked ladies making out!”

  “That still doesn’t give you the right to go snooping in my personal stuff. These pictures? The trophies? This quilt? Did you ever consider that they were in that trunk for a reason? You had no right to do this. Any of this.”

  “Ben, I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”

  “No. You didn’t think. You just did. You never make a plan, you just act.” Ben raked a frustrated hand through his hair. “I can’t deal with this right now.”

  He dropped the pizza on the counter as he walked back out the door.

  Ben pulled out his phone, dialing as he took the elevator down to the lobby. “Hey, you busy?...Yeah, great. I’ll meet you there in about ten minutes.”

  The air was frosty as he stepped out of his building and followed the sidewalk north. Ben jammed his phone and his hands, in the pockets of his jacket and tried to concentrate on the traffic rumbling along beside him, because if he didn’t keep his mind occupied he found himself ruminating on what an ass he’d just been.

  She’d just caught him by surprise. He hadn’t seen a lot of that stuff for years, had kept it out of sight in that trunk because he didn’t want to think about the people he’d lost. He felt enough pressure to perform, to achieve, without constant reminders of them everywhere.

  Ben pulled open the door to O’Malley’s Pub & Grill and stepped into the cozy restaurant with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner headed for the gallows. Calling Oz had been instinctual. Just what he always did. In the moment, it hadn’t felt weird. Now, with the meeting imminent, he was acutely aware that he hadn’t seen his best friend face-to-face in over a year. A couple of texts and the odd phone call. That was what twenty-five-odd years of friendship had deteriorated into.

  The bar was dim, your typical brass-rails and dark-wood dive, with stained-glass dividers, beer ads lining the walls, and the requisite pool table and dartboard. There were four large-screen TVs mounted strategically throughout the room, and each and every one of them was tuned to a different sports channel.