Will closes his big fist around the keychain. “First of all, it’s not an ‘if.’ Secondly, I can’t believe you made this because I just got a job at a garage in Helena.”
My mouth falls open. “You’re going to be a mechanic?”
“Yeah. Probably not at this place, but once I’ve remastered the basics, I’m thinking I might start my own business. I used to be into rebuilding muscle cars, now I’ve got the money to do it full-time. I could open a place, hire some people who need work. Make things I'm actually proud of.”
I smile so wide it hurts. “You found something you want to do.”
Will shakes his head. “You showed me what to do—that you can make things that really matter for people who appreciate them.”
As they’ve done so many times these past weeks, the backs of my eyes burn. I raise a reflexive fist to wipe away the tears, but then Will opens his arms and I gladly move toward him. He folds me against his body and we squeeze together, tight as a bow.
“Sorry for throwing a coffee in your face and telling you you’re a bumbling tech bro asshole. Forgive me?”
He kisses my forehead. “Of course. Do you forgive me for sending you the money?”
“As long as I get to pay for all our dates for the first month.”
Will huffs out a laugh. “Deal.”
“But you’re not my sugar daddy. And I’m not your sugar baby.”
His expression goes sexy-stern in a way I’ve craved more than sugar and coffee and margaritas combined. “But I am your daddy and you are my baby.”
“Shh,” I whisper self-consciously. “That’s bedroom only.”
“I can live with that.” Will pulls me in for a kiss.
And because sometimes life is a Lifetime movie cliché, the sun chooses that moment to pierce the clouds and bathes us in citrus light. We break apart to look at the sky.
“That’s unexpected,” I say.
“No, you’re unexpected.” Will kisses my cheeks, my nose, my brow. “I have a feeling we’re going to be awesome together.”
I grab his hat and cram it onto my head. “I have the same feeling, Tech Bro.”
He pinches my ass, but he doesn’t take his hat back. We smile at one another, letting the moment wash over us. Then we say it, at once, in exactly the same way.
“What a time to be alive.”
The End
Acknowledgements
Huge thanks to Tessa Bailey and Alexa Riley for bringing me onto the Read Me Romance Podcast and giving me a chance to write Sweeter. The sugar baby/tech bro romance was an idea I’d had in the pipeline for a little while, but which I never imagined could be such a fun, punchy little novella.
Massive thanks to Sarahjess, an amazing friend and artist who made the only necklace I wear (proof on the ‘Gram) and whose ceramics continually blow my mind. Thanks for allowing me to essentially carjack your identity to make the character of Marley and for helping me understand the finer points of kiln firing. Big ups to Kole and Jessica Cale who helped with the editing and proofing of the novella and for being such cool individuals in general. Kisses for my Willsperation, a smart guy who’s bored of everything, until he isn’t. May you never get your knighthood (fuck the monarchy) but may you always, always be happy and loved.
About Eve Dangerfield
Eve Dangerfield has loved romance novels since she first started swiping her grandmother’s paperbacks. Now she writes her own tales about complex women and gorgeous-but-slightly-tortured men. Eve lives in Melbourne and when she's not writing, she can usually be found jugging a beer, her phone and an argument about how hot chips are shit. Sign up for her cheerfully bonkers newsletter Living Dangerfieldy at www.evedangerfield.com
Eve Dangerfield hath various social media accounts
Facebook
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Twitter
Goodreads
Eve Dangerfield hath written other books
So Wild: Silver Daughters Ink Book One
So Steady: Silver Daughters Ink Book Two
Act Your Age
Degrees of Control
Locked Box
Captivated (co-authored with Tessa Bailey)
Taunt
Open Hearts
Something Borrowed
Something Else
Dysfunctional
Paying For It
Sweetest
by Eve Dangerfield
Chapter 1
Marley
I peek out from behind the chiffon curtain and study the crowd. They look good. Too good. I’m used to sweat patches and cowboy boots at my exhibitions. Exposed bra straps. Children tugging at their mom’s hands, pleading for ice cream while their forebearers examine my earrings with the utmost skepticism. I could stand to see a little outright hostility toward my art amidst all these clean, beautiful people. It would prove this isn’t a trap.
I stand on my tiptoes and spy a gorgeous black woman stroking my wishbone necklace. She looks like she’s smiling, but it could be a trick of the light. Or she could be smiling because she’s about to call The New York Times and report Marley Ellis’ ‘Silk and Bones’ exhibition is an unabashed shitshow. I used to dream about showcasing my art in front of audiences like this—hot men in tuxedos, androgynous women in long glittering dresses. I wanted to be known by people who love art, who expect things of art. Right now, I’d rather be back at the Portland Antiques and Collectables show with all the corndogs and annoyed moms. None of them had the power to end my art career with an Instagram story.
I run my hands down my silk dress, willing the buttery material to soothe me. It doesn’t work. I watch another cluster of well-dressed people arrive and someone, somewhere starts playing the piano. ‘Dance of the Sugarplum Fairies’ of all the pretentious clichés. I told the organizers I’d be more comfortable with a DJ or a Spotify playlist coming through a portable speaker, but no one at the top listened to me, after all I’m just the fucking artist.
“Nervous?” someone asks.
I turn and see my friend and personal assistant, Anna Debono looking sexable as ever in a red Jessica Rabbit dress. I force myself smile. “I am so close to wetting myself it’s not funny.”
Anna doesn’t bother smiling back. Instead, she holds up her phone, opened on the notes app. “You don’t need to worry. Over the course of planning this exhibition, I established two hundred and twenty-seven lines of enquiry and sixty-three tasks that had to be completed. Every single one has been finalized with time to spare.”
I gape at her. “That...can’t be true.”
Anna turns the phone toward herself and flicks the screen. “Enquiry number one was ensuring you got the contract, which was delivered to you via email on July 27th of this year. Enquiry number two was guaranteeing the contract wasn’t going to fuck you over, which I did by hiring three separate entertainment and art lawyers to look over it. Enquiry number three was making sure—”
I hold up a palm. “Okay, I get it, I’m sorry for questioning your professionalism and insane list making abilities.”
“Good,” Anna says, tucking her phone between her boobs. “I mean it. Don’t bother worrying. You’re gonna knock this thing out of the park.”
“Mmm.” I turn and peek through the curtain again. “Do these people all look aloof and slightly miserable to you?”
Anna shrugs. “Don’t all fancy-pants art people look like that?”
“Kinda. But my work is supposed to be fun and interesting and no one’s on that vibe.”
“Could be the music.” Anna wrinkles her nose. “Is that like...depressing chopsticks, or something?”
“It sounds like it.” I rub my dress like I want to start a fire on my thighs. “Stupid piano. Stupid art. Stupid ambition.”
Anna’s warm hand falls on my arm. “Breathe easy, bella. We’ve done all we can do. You give them another forty minutes to look around and then you’ll emerge with Will on your arm.”
For the first time all night the knot in my chest loosens
. Will. Yes. Him being here will make this less terrible. Him being with me always makes things less terrible. “Have you heard from him? Is he close?”
Anna extracts her phone from her tits and checks it. “He hasn’t sent anything, but he can’t be far. He won’t miss this. Not if he’s interested in still having a face tomorrow.”
I chew my lower lip. Will, my boyfriend of the past two years, was supposed to be here an hour ago, holding my hand and telling me I’m amazing and my first big ticket exhibition in New York won’t be a disaster. He called Anna while I was getting my make-up done to say he had a last-minute errand to run. His vintage car repair business has had a few issues lately, so I didn’t think twice about it, but he’s been gone for ages without calling again to reassure me. That’s not like him.
“Can you call him?” I ask Anna.
“You could call him yourself if you let yourself have a phone right now.”
I shake my head. I refuse to have my phone on me at exhibitions. I’m twitchy and paranoid enough without vanity searching my event on Twitter and seeing a bunch of mean comments or pictures of myself that are so unflattering I begin to question the nature of existence. Besides, I should be focusing on my lived experience, not whatever’s going on in cyberspace. Chris Rock says there’s no sex in the champagne room. I say there’s no phones at the exhibition.
“Please just call him, Anna? For me?”
Anna sighs and puts her phone to her ear. I watch nervously but the call clearly rings out. I bunch my hands into fists. In ten minutes, I need to go out and start mingling with my patrons and guests and the thought of doing it without handsome, easy-smiling Will is terrifying. He knows this rich and indulgent world so much better than I do. Not from birth—he’s from Belton, Missouri—but a few years ago he helped invent the worst app in the world and internet wealth and fame came calling.
Usually this would inspire me to lick someone’s cutlery before serving them food, but I fell for William Faulkner the second I heard his ridiculous, non-literary inspired name. I love him from the tip of his golden head to the soles of his overpriced sneakers. He’s my boyfriend. My best friend. My sex daddy. He’s also my greatest supporter. I was simultaneously starving and freezing before we fell in love. He pulled me over the poverty line and gave me a fighting chance as an artist, not because he loves my pussy (though he surely does) but because he thinks my work is exceptional.
That was the deal. It’s not a handout if we both believe in me. So, where is he? And after two years of straight-talking support for my artistic career, why is he making me feel all these shitty insecurities?
I put my face in my hands, they’re clammy and smell like the Gami chicken I ate for lunch. “I think I’m freaking out, Anna. I’m not saying I can’t do this. I am saying I’m going to need to throw up before I head out and meet the art dictators.”
Anna puts a hand on my shoulder. “You’re going to be fine. I know Will’s not here, and he didn’t say where he’s going, and he might never come back—”
“What?!”
“But that doesn’t matter,” she continues determinedly. “I’m here, and Tia is waiting for us at our hotel room and after this exhibition is over, we’re gonna go tuck her intro bed and remember that life is good and everything is fine.”
Tia is Anna’s daughter and the sweetest thing in the universe. I nod but my head feels like it’s stuffed full of ball bearings. “Okay, everything is fine. I’m going to the bathroom to wash sticky wings off my fingers, then I’ll come back and we’ll head out to face the art freaks together.”
Anna smiles and replaces her phone between her boobs. “Good girl. Just make sure—”
She frowns at the raised voices gathering in front of the sheer curtain. “What’s all that about?”
“No idea. They don’t sound angry, do they?”
Anna cocks her head. “No. It’s like...someone’s handing out free champagne. Only they were already doing that, so what the fucks going on?”
We both stick our heads through the curtain and see a commotion at the front of the building, cameras flashing and people crowding close.
“Someone’s here,” Anna whispers. “Someone super important.”
I crane my neck back as far as it will go, but I still can’t see shit. “Who?”
“I don’t know! We didn’t accept any invites from celebs.”
I grit my teeth. “Don’t remind me.”
After two years of well funded showcases, my necklaces and cups have celebrity fans, just not huge ones. And not celebrity fans that were willing to attend this event. I got close to convincing Sophia Bush, but she got a last-minute invite to a wedding. When I told the exhibition center organizers that I couldn’t guarantee any influencers they almost cancelled my fucking event.
“But none of my celebrity followers know anything about art,” I argued in the final management meeting.
“That doesn’t matter.” Amanda, the PR manager told me. “We need buzz and I don’t mean to be rude, but unless your work brings in buzz, this will be your first and last show with us.”
So yes. That’s the state of modern art right now. Dependent on buzz, like some fucked up, attention-seeking beehive.
“Hang on, I know that girl,” Anna gasps. “How do I know her?”
I push myself up higher on my toes, but Anna is six-two in heels and I’m short as fuck. “I can’t see dick. Who is she? What’s she doing?”
“She’s blonde and hot and strutting her stuff like she’s on a stripper platform and...Will!”
“Will’s here?” I jump, ignoring the loud clacks my Mary Janes make on the floor, I jump again. “Can you call him? Can you make him come over here?”
“I...”
A couple of women brush past the curtain. “Oh my god,” one of them says. “That’s Jessop Taylor!”
My heart stops.
“Of course!” Anna breathes. “The Instagram girl from that tv-show. And all those angel movies! And the beeswax stuff!”
I clench my fists, swaying on the spot. What Anna said is true, but that’s not all Jessop Taylor is. Not even a little bit.
But my overexcited PA doesn’t notice my distress. Instead, she squeezes my hand. “This is amazing, bella! Jessop Taylor is like...the biggest deal. She’s going to make you famous; we’re going to be famous...This is all the buzz we’ll ever need. Holy shit, I need to call my mother!”
She stumbles away, looking dazed. I still can’t see shit, but I can feel the mood of my event shifting. It was nervous and maybe a little stuffy, but now the venue is bubbling with excitement. There is a celebrity in our midst. A celebrity with clout and good looks and her own line of beeswax-based beauty products.
Completely unnoticed, I step through the chiffon curtain. I spot Amanda in a black power suit and pearls, looking beside herself with glee. This is a boon for the venue. Jessop Taylor is an A-lister, and everyone knows she runs in a girl squad with Taylor Swift and Lily Rose Depp. Maybe they’ll come too. Maybe every celebrity in the world will come and Amanda can retire to Aruba and paint nude watercolors of celebrities all damn day.
I feel sick. I feel silly. I feel very, very alone.
Jessop Taylor finally comes into view. She is, as Anna stated, a hot blonde with a sexy walk, waving and posing for selfies. She’s a professional beautiful person in a barbie slip dress and fluffy pink heels. And at her side, looking impossibly handsome in his charcoal suit, is my boyfriend William Faulkner.
Also known as Jessop Taylor’s ex-boyfriend. He brought his goddamn celebrity ex to my first New York art show. I stand for a second, considering whether I should woman up and go talk to him; embrace my jealousy, my insecurity, the crushing sense that I belong in a dehydrated field selling ceramic cups to strangers. And I duck behind the curtain and head upstairs alone.
Chapter 2
Will
I think I might be in trouble. I can’t see Marley, but I swear I can feel her presence. Feel how pissed she is about
the way things are playing out. I look around, trying to spot her, but the journalists and photographers crowding Jessop are blocking my view. “Jessop! Over here! How are you tonight? What are you wearing?”
We’re never going to get away from these people, I think and wonder if I’ve made a huge mistake.
I know it’s risky move, bringing my ex-girlfriend to my current girlfriends first New York art show, but it’s too big an opportunity to pass up. Jessop is a huge fan of Marley’s work and her being seen here tonight is going to launch Marley’s art into the stratosphere. It feels sleazy that we’ve showed up together, but my hands are totally clean. Jessop and I hooked up three years ago and we’ve barely talked until tonight when she DM’d me asking for an invite to Ribbons and Bones. I didn’t even know she liked Marley’s stuff. Apparently, she’s been stalking her through my Instagram for ages. The only problem was she couldn’t get a driver for the night and the cabs were having trouble getting through the sleet. I agreed to drive to her place and pick her up, a task that took way, way longer than I thought it would.
“Jessop, give us a turn? Can you tell us where your shoes are from?”
I step away from Jessop and her fans, looking around for my gorgeous, elfin-faced girlfriend. One of the journalists withdraws his proboscis from Jessop and jabs it in my direction. “And who are you?” he asks with a sharks smile.
“No one,” I say quickly.
“You’re not no one!” Jessop beams at Shark Smile. “This is Will Faulkner, he invented Hellfire!”
I wince. I know she’s being nice but I fucking hate Hellfire. If I had a big delete button, I’d send that app straight into the infinite void. Unfortunately, I don’t have that power. I have shareholders and a co-inventor who are determined to wring every last cent out of that shitty piece of tech.
“And how do you two know each other?” The Shark Smile asks.
Jessop’s smile crystallizes. She still looks friendly, but her walls are up, the way they always were when people ask about her personal life. “Will and I are friends I’m here because I love his girlfriend, Marley Ellis’, work. I’m so excited to meet her!”
Sweeter Page 6