“Marley…”
“I know it’s cheesy, but I’m painfully sincere and sometimes that makes cheese. You’ll have to let it slide if we start seeing each other.”
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 stand on my tiptoes and spy a gorgeous black woman stroking my wishbone necklace. She looks like she’s smiling could be a trick of the light. Or she could be smiling because she’s about to call her friend at 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—beautiful men in tuxedos, androgynous women in long glittering dresses. I wanted to be known by people who love art, who expect things of art. I wanted them to come and see my work exclusively. Or I used to. 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 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 way more comfortable with a DJ or a Spotify playlist coming through a portable speaker, but no one 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 try to smile. “I am so close to wetting myself it is not funny.”
Anna doesn’t smile. Instead, she holds up her iPhone, opened on the notes app. “You have no fuckin’ 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 completed 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 was financially and ethically sound, which I did by hiring three separate entertainment and art lawyers to look over it. Enquiry number three was ensuring—”
I hold up a palm. “Okay, I get it, I’m sorry for questioning your professionalism and insane list making ability.”
“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 seems to be on that vibe.”
“Could be the music,” Anna says wrinkling her nose. “Is that like…depressing chopsticks, or what?”
“It sounds like it.” I close my eyes and 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 I feel my chest loosen slightly. 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 nearby?”
Anna extracts her phone from her tits and checks it. “Nothing, but he can’t be far. He won’t miss this. Not if he’s interested in still having a face.”
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 won’t be a disaster from start to finish. He called Anna while I was getting my make-up done to say he had an urgent last-minute errand. His car repair business has hit a few bumps lately, so I didn’t think twice about it, but now people are arriving I wish he was here.
“Can you call him?” I ask Anna.
“You know 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 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 the 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.
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 grew up in 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 they started eating, but I fell for William Faulkner from the moment 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 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, why is he making me feel all these shitty insecurities all over again?
I put my face in my hands, they’re clammy and still smell like the Koran fried 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 we’re gonna go up and tuck her intro bed.”
Tia is Anna’s daughter and the sweetest thing in the universe. I nod and my head feels like it’s stuffed full of ball bearings. “Okay, I’ll go to the bathroom to rewash the sticky wings off my fingers and then I’ll come back and we’ll head out together.”
Anna smiles, replacing her phone between her boobs. “Good girl, make sure—”
She frowns at the raised voices gathering in front of the curtain. Not anger, excitement. We both stick our heads through the curtain and see a commotion at the front of the building, cameras flashing and people crowding close. I stand on my tiptoes, trying to see what’s going on. “Who is it? Is someone super important here?”
“I don’t know,” Anna whispers. “We couldn’t get any celebrities. Not any big ones.”
I grit my teeth. “Don’t remind me.”
My work has celebrity fans, just not huge ones. And not anyone who I could convince to attend the event tonight. I got close to convincing Sophia Bush, but she got invited to a wedding last minute. When I told the exhibition organizers that I couldn’t guarantee any ‘influencers’ they almost cancelled my fucking event. Not because they value influencers opinions, but because they want buzz.
That’s the state of modern art right now. Dependant on buzz, like some fucked up beehive.
“Hang on, I know that girl,” Anna whispers, craning her neck. “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 shit. 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 clacks my Mary Janes are making on the floor. “Can you call him? Can you make him come over here?”
“I…”
A couple of women brush past the curtain, staring at the same place Anna and I are. “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 that movie.”
That’s true. But that’s not all Jessop Taylor is. Not even a little bit.
Anna squeezes my hand. “This is amazing, bella! Jessop Taylor, she’s like…the biggest deal. She’s going to make you famous; we’re going to be famous…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, one of the organisers 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 watercolours of celebrities.
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. And he’s going to pay.
Chapter 2
Will
I think I might be in trouble. I can’t see Marley, but I swear I can feel her presence. Feel that she’s not happy about how things are playing out. I look around but the people crowding Jessop are blocking my view. I know it’s risky 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.
And while it feels sleazy showing up together, 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.
I turn, looking around for my gorgeous, elfin-faced girlfriend. One of the journalists around me withdraws his proboscis from Jessop and jabs it in my direction. “And who are you?”
“No one,” I say quickly.
“You’re not no one!” Jessop beams at the journalist. “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 void. Unfortunately, I don’t have that power. I have shareholders and a co-inventor who are determined to wring ever last cent out of that shitty piece of tech.
“And how do you two know each other?” The mosquito journalist asks.
Jessop’s smile crystallizes. She still looks friendly, but her walls are up, the way they always are when people ask about her personal life. “Will and I are old friends. I’m actually here because I love Marley Ellis’ work. I’m so excited to meet her!”
The journalist looks disappointed, but obligingly asks Jessop what she likes about Marley’s art. I scan the room, trying to find my girlfriend. It’s impossible. I glance at the huge crowd of people trying to talk to Jessop. She’s going to be busy for a while and she’s a fucking media pro, she won’t mind if I get out of here and find Marley. She won’t be able to meet her if she’s fucking AWOL.
I peel away, unnoticed by anyone. My heart is starting to pound against my ribs. I really didn’t want to fuck up Marley’s event, but every second I can’t find her the worst I feel. Calling her to explain is the obvious solution, but she won’t have her phone on her—it makes her too nervous. I could have called Anna, ex-sugar baby and Marley’s PA, but Anna can be a bit…dramatic.
A hard tap on the shoulder makes me turn. Speak of the devil. Anna glares at me, her dark brown eyes full of the same loathing that inspired her to pitch a drink into my face the night we met. I raise my hands to head height. “Don’t kill me. Where’s Marley?”
“Hiding, so no one makes her take a picture with your supermodel, influencer ex-girlfriend.” Anna punches my shoulder. “The fuck were you thinking, Hat Boy?”
“I thought it would be good for Marley’s career!”
Sweeter Page 6