Pucker Up: (Kiss Talent Agency Series, Book Four)

by Virna DePaul

  My purse vibrates against my side and I drag it out expecting a client’s text and instead see my brother’s name on the screen. I haven’t talked to him since he left for Japan even though I left him a couple of messages.

  “Bryce!” I hold the phone against my shoulder as I struggle with my purse. “Bryce, hey, can you hear me?”

  “How’s my favorite sister?” his voice comes in a little staticky, but clear.

  I duck into a doorway that at least provides a little bit of privacy from the busy streets of New York City.

  “I’d be flattered if I wasn’t your only sister.”

  “Busted.”

  I roll my eyes despite knowing he can’t see it. “You must be enjoying Japan,” I say, laying on just a little sisterly guilt. “Because you haven’t called back, Bryce.”

  “I’m here on business, remember? Plus I thought you’d have your hands full anyway.”

  He must mean with work. “Right. That’s me. All work. All the time.” I sigh. Or at least I thought it was going to be a sigh, but it sounded closer to a sob.

  “Jenna, what’s wrong?”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s just that… well…”

  “Please tell me what’s going on so I can stop freaking out.”

  I bite my lip. Hesitate. Then say, “I know you’re going to be super mad and all, but I might as well say it while you’re thousands of miles away, right?”

  “Jenna.”

  “Fine. Lee and I, well, we may have… we…”

  “You two are dating?”

  “Look I know you’re upset, but—”

  “Why would I be upset?”

  “What do you mean? Aren’t you booking a ticket right now so you can come beat on Lee’s ass?”

  Bryce laughs.

  “You’re not plotting how to drag him out of his apartment and relieve him of his manhood?”

  “Not particularly.”

  I hesitate. “You’re not secretly dialing his number to call him a ‘motherfucker’ and permanently end your life long friendship with him?”

  “Nope. I love Lee. And obviously, so do you given the blog you wrote.”

  I close my eyes. Right. I’d completely forgotten that he knew about that. And suddenly, the fact that he hadn’t called me seems really significant. “Is that why you haven’t called me? Because you figured out I was in love with Lee and wanted to give us time to work things out?”

  “Yeah. But given how miserable you just sounded, I’m assuming you haven’t? Worked things out?”

  “We crashed and burned in royal fashion. I have a date with William tonight.”

  “You hate William,” Bryce says immediately.

  “I don’t—”

  “Look, Jenna, I don’t know what happened with Lee and you’re obviously an adult that can make her own choices.”

  “I—”

  “But don’t run from your feelings again. Don’t make up a fake internship. Be honest. Whether that means you and Lee end up together, who knows, but he cares about you. He always has.”

  I close my eyes and lean my head against the exterior of the building.

  “Did you hear me, Jenna?”

  “Yes,” I manage.

  “I love you too, Jenna, girl.”

  “I know. Love you.”

  “I’ve got to go but I’ll call you soon.”

  “Okay,” I whisper. “Bye.”

  I hang up. It takes me a while to get going after that, but thirty minutes later I’m walking toward the restaurant where I’m meeting William. I think about the life Lee was trying to offer me. For months, I’ve imagined walking into my boss’s office at the firm and throwing my own published book right down on his desk. Then I’d turn right around and walk out without a single word. I can even picture my idiot, horrible boss opening the cover in confusion and on the first page I would have written: I quit.

  Lee did for me what I was always far too afraid to do for myself. He reached out to publishers to turn my blog into what could be a full-time job. By doing so, he offered a path of passion for me to follow.

  I could focus on food. I could write about food. I could travel the world and write about food. I could travel the world and write about food with someone.

  With Lee.

  While he certainly offered me an opportunity for a major career path change, he also offered me something far greater: a new path for who I am and who I want to be. One where I don’t have to hide behind the blog or hide behind anything. With Lee, I could be brave and bold.

  Brave and bold.

  I sigh as I wait at an intersection for the light to change. I turned him down, though. I said no. It’s hilarious really. I wrote a terrible, potentially damaging blog, and when Lee finds out it’s me, he doesn’t get mad and yell and slam doors and leave.

  No, he used it as a way to reach out and help me. He took advantage of really the only way I would have let someone into my inner life like that. And what does he get for his forgiveness and kindness?

  A stinging rejection, a screaming woman, and a broken wine glass.

  Oh great, I can see the restaurant. My steps grow slower and slower to the point where the guy who hurriedly passes by me sends a nasty glare over his shoulder. Fuck him.

  No, fuck me.

  William gives me a chaste kiss that contrasts so painfully with the passionate ones I shared with Lee. He holds out my chair like a gentleman and orders a lovely bottle of wine like a gentleman and tells me I look beautiful like a gentleman. And it’s all so gentlemanly, and all I keep thinking is he isn’t Lee.

  “I’m surprised you asked me out for another date, Jenna.”

  Lost in thought, I look up from the wine I’m swirling in my glass, and try to manage a smile for William. He’s right. I did ask him for this … I guess it’s a date. I shouldn’t act like a moody brat.

  “Why are you surprised?” I ask him, forcing myself to rub his hand across the table.

  I can do this. I can move on and move forward, and William is a gentleman. A gentleman who is not Lee. Stop fucking thinking about him, for starters.

  “Um, well, maybe it isn’t my place to say this,” William begins, giving my hand a squeeze that doesn’t send jolts of excitement down my arm the way Lee did, “but you seemed to be more into your brother’s friend than me the night of your birthday.”

  Well, great. It’s hard to not think about Lee when my fucking date wants to talk about him. I laugh what I hope is a casual laugh.

  “Lee just knows how to push my buttons,” I say. “That’s all.”

  “Knows you a little too well, huh?”

  I laugh again, a genuine one this time. “Yes. He knows me far too well for his own good.”

  William refills my glass. “He didn’t strike me as your type, anyway.”

  I raise an eyebrow at his comment. “No? How so?”

  He shrugs and skims the menu as I wait for his answer.

  “You and I, Jenna. We’re more alike. We’re in control of ourselves, you know? We’re not impulsive. We like to know where we’re headed, not just follow whatever whim strikes us. We play it safe.” He looks up. “So, I think I’m going with the special. What do you want?”

  I mumble some random dish I’m not really sure is even from this restaurant. Is that how he sees me? Is that how my office sees me? Is that how everyone sees me?

  No. It’s not.

  Not everyone.

  William walks me to my apartment building. In the glow from the lobby, he lingers by the door. My doorman peers out at us like he’s got a bag of popcorn and a large Coke, ready for the show of his life. I shuffle over a little so we’re out of his sightline.

  “Thanks for a nice evening, William.”

  He’s expecting to get asked if he wants any ‘coffee’. But I don’t want ‘coffee’. Not with William. He slips his hand against my waist, and I might as well have been sitting in a fridge all day, based on how numb I am to his touch.

  “Jenna,” he s
tarts, “I think we can get along together.”

  Get along together? I roll his words over in my mind. I can get along with my mailman or the barista at Starbucks or my grandmother. I can get along with the doorman ogling us from five feet away. Get along together? Is that it?

  “We can be good companions for each other,” William continues.

  Like a dog is a good companion, right? Are we just going to be fluffy, comforting things for each other to pet and stare at? ‘Good companion’ doesn’t exactly scream passion and intensity and thrill. Rather, it whispers floral print sofas and cups of tea with honey. That’s what ‘good companion’ means to me.

  “A nice match.”

  Of course, he means match like a pair, a team. But I’m thinking of a different kind of match. The one that strikes and burns. It needs friction to light. Without it, a match is useless. It needs that rough, uneven surface. Strike a match against something smooth and flat and it won’t light. But give it friction, give it something to work against, something different and the result is a hot flame. Scorching fire.

  I know this: I will never have a flame with William. I will forever be an unlit match. But with Lee … He is my friction. It may hurt and it may be uncomfortable, but the result is a fire. And I want fire.

  “Thanks again for a great night, William,” I repeat, gently removing his hand from my waist. I give it a little squeeze. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

  A flicker of disappointment crosses his face. But it passes quickly, and his typical, emotionless demeanor returns. He doesn’t argue or fight for me or try to convince me otherwise. Honestly, I think he’d feel the same regardless of what I’d said, what my decision would have been. And that perfectly confirms I made the right decision.

  When William turns away, I enter my building and find my doorman still staring at me, looking rather confused.

  “He couldn’t afford my fee,” I say with a shrug, leaving him gaping at me as I strut to the elevator, adding a little extra swing of the hips for the show.

  Back in my apartment, I get myself a glass of wine. As I pour, it feels like a celebratory glass. I feel, well, proud of myself. I feel stronger right now in this moment than I have been in a long time. Getting into Harvard Law and getting my firm job, as much as I hate it, made me feel like a strong, confident, powerful woman.

  But turning down William and the life he offered makes me feel a different kind of strong. Alive, joyful strength. I raise the glass and, alone in my empty apartment, give myself a toast.

  “To me.”

  Settling on the couch with my laptop, I type up the review of the restaurant William took me to for dinner. Not surprising it was average. Fine, but not memorable. Comfort food. Not spicy. Not different. Just… fine.

  I set the post to go live tomorrow morning, and, as I’m about to close my computer, I see a saved draft on my administrator’s board. I’m confused, since that’s the infamous drunken blog post about Lee’s restaurant. If it’s still a saved draft, that means it didn’t go live – and if it didn’t go live maybe all of this has just been some crazy dream and … but no.

  With a foggy reflection, I dimly remember typing up two different posts that night. I lean back on the couch and try to recall that night in my mind. I furiously typed out the first one, the one that got published. But after, and this is where my memory starts to get less and less clear, I typed another one. This must be it. Part of me is terrified to see what nonsense I wrote, and part of me knows curiosity will definitely win out.

  I give myself a little liquid bravery with a gulp of wine and then pull up the draft. It’s littered with typos and lots of fucs and fulks and foucks.

  But in between the typos was me writing what I always wanted to tell Lee, but never would face to face. How he’s smart and brilliant. How he inspires me. How he goes after what he wants with passion and life and fire. How he could be so much more.

  It’s well past midnight now. I still have work in the morning, in that sweltering, confining office. I shouldn’t stay up. I shouldn’t keep my computer screen open. I shouldn’t open up a new draft of my blog.

  Fuck what I should do.

  Chapter 20

  Lee

  * * *

  I never realized how little I really needed until it was all gone. I didn’t need the ridiculously priced art or the Italian leather sofa or the newest curved 4G TV. It’s all just stuff that I thought made me… me.

  Now I’m selling the last of my stuff, my top of the line kitchen equipment which I’d installed in my apartment for personal use. The buyer’s a young girl. She’s starting her own restaurant. She couldn’t afford new, of course. I can’t help but see myself in her.

  We talk for a while as I help her pack everything up. I see the passion and thrill in her eyes I once had, back when I was starting out. I’m going to find that again for myself. I want it. I want it more than models fawning over me or a fancy car or cameras flashing in my face. All I want is passion back in my life, and if I can’t have it with Jenna by my side, I’ll have to have it on my own.

  We load everything into her beat-up Volkswagen, and when she pulls out her wallet to write me a check I’d smile. “I’m not really a fan of littering,” I tell her.

  She pauses with her pen in her hand, checkbook on the dash. “What?”

  “Littering. I just hate it.” I’d grin at her confused face. “Don’t you?”

  “Well, yeah, obviously. But I, um, don’t know what that has to do—”

  “Hannah, you can write that check if you want. But I’m going just to rip it up and toss it in the street. And I really just don’t want to have to litter.”

  Realization slowly crosses her face. “Are you saying …”

  “I’m saying,” I say, taking the pen from her hand and clicking it closed, “I better get an invite for opening night.”

  Hannah throws her arms around me, and I almost start crying when she pulls away and I see tears pooling in her eyes. But I’m a fucking man, so I wait until she drives off, leaning out the window and waving, taxis honking and screaming, and I’m back inside my apartment before I allow myself to tear up.

  I pop open a beer and look out my window. I have a few hours before I have to head to the airport, and I’m determined to sit here and take in the city with just me and my beer till it’s time to leave. No, not to leave.

  To start. To begin.

  My phone beeps from my leather jacket that’s flung in the corner by the front door. No more coat rack. Or hangers for the closet. No more hooks even. Everything went. So, I just tossed it on the floor for when I’m ready. It’s either a $1,200 jacket or a $2,100 jacket. And it’s sitting on my dusty floor. I laugh at the image. Once you let all your security blankets go, it’s amazing how little you care about the things you once cared about. I once paid $50 to get a tiny stain, no bigger than a pen point, removed from that jacket’s sleeve. And now it’s on the floor.

  A minute later, my phone beeps again. I ignore it and enjoy the skyline and my beer. It’s cheap beer, nothing special or that I’d ever sell at my former restaurant. Nothing I would have even touched a couple months ago.

  But, I swear it’s the best beer I’ve ever had. Better than all those high brow craft beers or fancy imported ones. My chef’s palate must be going to shit, because I like this better than the $300 wine I had for my birthday last year. How have I been missing out on this all these years? I twist the bottle around like it’s some sort of magical elixir. Damn.

  When my phone beeps again, I glance over at the crumpled mess of fine, buttery soft leather by the door. It beeps again.

  Maybe friends are saying goodbye? I thought I’d already talked to everyone. None of my friends understood, of course. They thought I was high on some bad marijuana or whatever new experimental drug the kids are doing these days. I did my best to explain the sudden change, but it was hard without mentioning the biggest catalyst. They’d all tried to sit me down, give me drinks, and convince me I di
dn’t need to decide right away. Most suggested I take a vacation.

  “Grab a few Victoria’s Secret Angels, use my private jet, and spend a few weeks naked in Monaco, man,” Jose helpfully offered.

  “Come with me to Mexico, and we’ll down tequilas for as long as it takes to get this out of your system, bro.” That was Alex. Idiot Alex. I think he still went without me.

  “Dude, let’s go to the desert and drive dirt bikes and then we’ll find some local chicks to fuck. Next day: rinse and repeat. It’s simple, Lee. Rinse and repeat. You’ll be back to yourself in no time.”

  Myself. Right. What they didn’t get, what none of them understood, was that I haven’t been myself in a long time. Which is exactly why I’m leaving. Because I want myself back. They don’t understand, but I sure as hell do. And that’s all that matters.

  Again, my phone beeps. And then again. The beeps are getting closer and closer together, and it’s really making it hard to relax with my cheap beer. I laugh again at how much things have changed since …

  After my phone beeps three times in a row, I groan, put down my beer, and plod over to my jacket and search the pockets. Of course, my phone is in the last pocket I check. Figures.

  I check whatever nonsense is ruining my peaceful afternoon. Text message after text message after text message. More just keep rolling in, to the point where I can barely focus on one.

  Dude, have you seen it?

  WTF?

  Why didn’t you tell me???

  What are you going to say?

  I squint in confusion, because I honestly have zero idea what the fuck they’re all talking about. Finally, I mute the damn thing because its beeping is driving me crazy. I can’t remember the last time my phone blew up like this. It even stalls a little as I try to pull up another text. What the fuck?

  At last, someone emails me with a forwarded link. I abruptly get to my feet when I see the name of Jenna’s blog in the link. Shit, it must have been published earlier today. I pace the floor and tap my phone against my palm.