War and Love

by Winter Renshaw

  Taking a seat in one of the onyx leather guest chairs, I cross my legs wide and glance at the gold-plated clock on the edge of his oversized mahogany desk. A cup of platinum pens emblazoned with Blue Stream’s logo rests in a shiny gold cup next to his iMac monitor.

  His office is boastful and unoriginal, everything I’d come to expect from someone whose Wikipedia page appears to have been written by the subject himself. I’d never seen anything so braggadocios before, so filled with the kinds of personal and specific things only those close to him would’ve known. His bio alone was twice as long as Dr. Dre’s, and Hunter’s only been around a few years.

  The double doors burst open, damn near making me choke on my heart as it leaps into my throat, and Hunter LeGrand strides across his expansive corner office, his left hand smoothing down his black silk tie. Unbuttoning his gray suit coat, he hangs it on a gold rack in the corner before taking a seat at his desk.

  “Jude,” he says.

  “Hunter.”

  “What do you have for me?” He leans back in his seat, the corners of his mouth turned down as he studies me.

  “Everything’s … going well.”

  His frown deepens.

  “Just … well?” he asks, leaning forward and pushing a hard breath through his flared nostrils.

  “It hasn’t even been a month,” I say. “We’ve been spending some time together, but I’m not going to come on too strong.”

  And I’m not a fucking miracle worker …

  Hunter’s steely gaze flicks away for a moment and he does nothing to hide the displeasure in his groan. I didn’t much care for this Napoleon-complexed douche the first time I met him, but now all I want to do is punch his stupid face and tell him to go fuck himself.

  “Is Love being difficult?” he asks.

  My nose wrinkles. “Love” and “difficult” don’t even belong in the same sentence.

  “Not at all,” I say. “But this needs to happen naturally.”

  Hunter may be used to snapping his fingers or slapping down his AmEx and getting what he wants without having to wait, but his expectations are impractical here.

  “Can I ask, why the six-month deadline?” I scratch my brow. “It just seems a little … unrealistic.”

  “Unrealistic for a guy who’s got no game, maybe?” Hunter says with a smug chuckle, adjusting his tie. His teeth are fake as fuck. Bright white, perfectly straight, and obviously veneers. Imagining Love with Hunter is somewhat satirical to me.

  He’s so plastic.

  She’s so real.

  “Insulting me isn’t necessary,” I say, stuffing my irritation down so I don’t accidentally clock his ass.

  “Take her to a romantic getaway or something,” he says, like the solution was so simple and right there in front of me all along. “Women like that shit. Take her on a shopping spree. I gave you that credit card for a reason.”

  “I’m actually going with her to her sister’s wedding in a couple of weeks,” I say, “but as far as the shopping goes … I don’t think she’s into that. She doesn’t seem that materialistic to me.”

  Hunter slaps the table and laughs. “You’re going to West Virginia? Have fun. And of course she’s into material shit. How do you think I kept her around so long?”

  “I feel like we’re not talking about the same person here …”

  His brows furrow, as if I’ve insulted him, but he deserves it. The Love he described in that ridiculous binder is nothing like the Love I’ve been getting to know.

  The way he described her when he first prepositioned me, made it a little easier for me to say yes. I’d walked out of his office already of the opinion that she was a horrible person and I was simply hired because Hunter was tired of waiting for karma to do its job.

  Their story isn’t uncommon around here. Wealthy Manhattan men get into ugly divorces all the time, losing half their wealth or more, and their ex-wives walk away with smugs on their Botoxed faces and enough money to buy private islands and French chateaus many times over.

  To a self-made man, I can understand how infuriating that would be and how a man with little self-restraint and a bottomless bank account could be driven to actually go out and buy revenge.

  “People change,” I say.

  Hunter’s chin juts forward and he tilts his head to the side, like he knows I’m right, but he doesn’t want to admit it.

  “But back to the time frame here…” I continue.

  He exhales. I knew he was trying to circumvent my question before. “What about it?”

  “Even if she was madly in love with me, I don’t think I could get her to marry me six months in,” I say. “She’s pretty level-headed, and she’s not afraid to say no.”

  “Love?” He asks with a laugh.

  “Yes. Love.”

  “Look, if you’re getting cold feet about this, just say so. We can go our separate ways and forget this whole thing,” Hunter says, rising and hunching over his desk. His gaze tightens, squinting. “Just remember, there are two very distinct paths for you here. The first path? All your dreams come true. You’re a millionaire. You’re famous. You never have to want for anything the rest of your life. The second path? You’re right back where you started. You’re some schmuck struggling to pay his rent and working dead-end jobs and playing in coffee shops and bars hoping to be discovered—but you’ll never be discovered. I’ll make damn sure of that.”

  My jaw clenches.

  “Take her to fucking Vegas and get her drunk for all I care,” he says. “Just … get it done.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Love

  “What’s her wedding dress look like?” Tierney asks from the seating area as I change out of my bridesmaid dress. Cameo will be happy to know it just needs to be hemmed. The seamstress said she can have it done in three days.

  “You know those holiday Barbies?” I ask. “With all the tulle and lace and sequins?”

  “Yeah?”

  I tug my shirt over my head and fix my hair in the mirror of the changing room. “Like that.”

  “I’d expect nothing less from your sister.”

  Sliding into my cut off shorts, I zip the fly and fasten the button before grabbing my bag and the dress and stepping out.

  “At least the bridesmaid dresses are cute,” Tierney adds, eyeing the strapless rose gold number draped over my arm. “They’re simple. That’s good.”

  “Of course they’re simple. She’s terrified of being upstaged at her own wedding.”

  “With a Holiday Barbie dress, the only thing that could upstage her would be if Oprah showed up at the reception.” Tierney rubs her belly, which seems to have doubled in size since I saw her the other week. “We almost done? I’m starving.”

  The seamstress returns to our area, taking the dress from me. When she turns to leave, she glances at Tierney and smiles.

  “Looks like you’re about to pop,” she says. “How many weeks?”

  Tierney’s expression fades and she gives the woman a pregnant lady death stare. “Eighty-nine.”

  The woman’s smile disappears and she clears her throat before walking away.

  “I’m sorry. She’s hangry right now,” I call out, though I don’t know if she hears me. I shoot Tierney a look, wordlessly trying to reason with her.

  “You don’t tell a pregnant lady she looks like a freaking elephant,” Tierney whisper-yells.

  Throwing my hands up, I can’t say that I disagree. “You ready?”

  She reaches for me, and I pull her up from the cushy velvet sofa she’d been waiting on ever so impatiently.

  “Did I tell you I’m bringing Jude to Cameo’s wedding?” I ask when we leave the tailor shop.

  Tierney grabs my arm, her jaw dropping. “No. No you did not tell me you were taking Jude to Cameo’s wedding. When did this happen?”

  “We were texting the other night,” I say. “It just sort of came up in conversation—the wedding did—and he asked if I had a date. And then he offer
ed.”

  “That’s … amazing.” Her hangry face turns into a wide, crazy eyes and an even crazier smile. “Good for you for getting back out there.”

  “I’m not ‘getting back out there,’” I correct her using air quotes. “We’re just friends and he’s just my plus one.”

  “Whatever.” She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, what do you think your sister’s going to say when you roll in there with El Supermodel on your arm and she’s walking down the aisle about to marry Doctor Saggy Balls.”

  “You’re so bad.” I bite my lip to keep from laughing.

  “Seriously though … Jude might upstage your sister at her own wedding.”

  “Plot twist.”

  Tierney laughs as we round the corner. The café she picked is only a block away, but I’m glad her sense of humor has been restored given her starving condition.

  Before we reach the restaurant, Tierney takes a phone call from her husband, Josh, and I take a minute to check my phone. Pulling up my messages, I scroll down to Jude’s name. The last time we texted was about Cameo’s wedding. He’s been quiet since then, giving me space I think. I love that he doesn’t come on too strong. Intensity and perseverance would turn me off. Hunter was intense. He wanted everything yesterday, and if that wasn’t possible then he’d settle for one minute ago.

  He rushed everything, always … especially our relationship.

  We slept together the first week we started dating. Became exclusive by week two. By the end of our sophomore year, he’d purchased me a gold ring with the tiniest diamond and proposed marriage, and within a month of graduation, we were officially Mr. and Mrs. LeGrand.

  God, I was naïve then.

  I didn’t know anything about anything, and that included relationships. But I’m free now and I’ve never felt more alive or ready for whatever life throws at me next. I’m not that simple, trusting girl I used to be. I’m not that agreeable “yes” girl who put everyone else before herself.

  I wouldn’t even recognize my old self if I ran into her on the street.

  Slipping my phone into the back-right pocket of my faded Levi cut offs, I follow Tierney into the café and try to pay attention as she rambles on about her baby registry, but all I can think about right now is Jude and how nice it would be to run into him again soon.

  It’s the strangest thing, but right now … I kind of miss him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jude

  The date I “won” fair and square is tomorrow night, and I’ve spent the better part of the evening trying to plan something that marries what I think Love would like to do with something from this ridiculous binder Hunter made for me.

  Hunter claims her interests include the opera, fine dining (Butter and Tavern on the Green are her favorites), trips to the MoMA, French cooking classes, and wine tasting (he claims reds are her favorite despite the fact that I’ve only ever seen her drink white).

  I can’t picture Love doing any of those things, but the man was married to her for all those years. I doubt he pulled these ideas out of his ass, not to mention he wants this to work—needs this to work.

  Rising from my living room sofa, I stretch my arms over my head and make my way to the kitchen to grab a bite. It’s been storming most of the day, so I’ve been cooped up in this place, though I’ve reminded myself there are worse places I could be.

  I’m elbow deep in the fridge, looking for something less frou-frou and more regular-dude, when the lights flicker and the inside of the thing turns black. Backing out, I realize my entire apartment is without power.

  Heading back to the living room, I glance out the rain-slicked window to see most of our block is dark. Every window, every street light … extinguished.

  Collapsing across the sofa and wondering if it’s possible to die of boredom, I realize I haven’t talked to Love in a couple of days. I’d been giving her space, but I don’t think it’d hurt if I confirmed that we’re still on for Friday night.

  The battery on my phone reads forty-three percent, so I should be good for now. Tapping out my message, I press send, place my phone on the coffee table, and wait.

  Something like five minutes later (I tried not to count), she responds with, “Thought you’d forgotten.”

  My lips curl at the sides as I reply with, “Never” and then I add, “What are you doing right now?”

  The bubbles fill her side of the screen for a few seconds before her message comes through, “Sitting in the dark, letting my face mask dry and doing some research for Agenda W on my phone.”

  “I’ve got some ice cream in the freezer about to melt,” I text without giving it a second thought. “I’d hate to let it go to waste.”

  The sky flickers and a moment later, thunder rumbles the glass. I’ve always found storms to be sexy, provocative almost, with that hint of danger and satisfaction of being safely shielded. And if I’m going to sit in the dark, I’d rather sit in the dark with her.

  “Keep the door closed. It should be okay,” she writes.

  I reply with, “I could. But I don’t want to. So … your place or mine? And mint chocolate chip or strawberry?”

  Love sends me “Whatever” followed by “Yours. And strawberry. Just give me ten.”

  Sitting my phone aside, it finally hits me.

  Sound Underground. That’s where I’m taking her for our date. I think she’d like it, and it’s different. It’s this hidden bar you can only enter through the back of a Korean BBQ joint, and you need that night’s password. Lenny, the owner, has an ear for finding the best budding talent, and he’s discovered some of the biggest musical acts long before anyone else took notice.

  Grabbing my phone and dialing the bar, I speak with Maureen, Lenny’s wife of thirty-six years and dedicated personal assistant. A minute later, she puts me on the list and gives me the password for tomorrow’s show: karma.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Love

  I wouldn’t have said yes, but I really, really hate storms.

  Okay, I’m lying.

  Maybe I would have said yes, but it’s a lot easier for my psyche to blame this all on storms and not the fact that I secretly enjoy spending one-on-one time with my neighbor.

  Hoisting myself up onto Jude’s marble island, I watch as he retrieves a pint of strawberry ice cream and two spoons. A moment later, he props the softening carton open.

  Flickering candles line the coffee table as well as the kitchen island, and I can’t help but wonder if he lit them long before he started blowing up my phone about that stupid date he won or after he invited me over for ice cream? I honestly thought maybe he’d forget about the date, and I’d convinced myself I’d be okay with that, but I couldn’t deny the small flip in my middle when his text came through earlier.

  Swiping a spoon across the top, he hands it over, and I wait for him.

  “Should we toast?” I ask, teasing.

  “Do people toast with ice cream?”

  Lifting a shoulder to one ear, I say, “Pretty sure you can toast with just about anything.”

  “If you say so.” He digs his spoon into the melting pink cream.

  “Should we toast to something specific or should we just toast?” I ask.

  “I think most people toast to something specific, but you’re the kind of girl who throws coins into fountains for no reason, so you could probably get away with toasting to nothing.” Jude flashes a pearly smile that lights the dark and I clink my spoon against his his.

  “There,” I say before gliding the chilled metal between my lips.

  When I showed up tonight, Jude answered the door in jeans and a t-shirt, his hair free from product and his skin barely scented with remnants of his morning shower. I think I almost prefer him this way—unbuttoned, undone, unpretentious. He isn’t trying hard. Or maybe he isn’t trying at all? Either way, it’s working like some kind of reverse psychology trick on me because my heart is racing a million miles per hour and all I can think about is what his mouth tastes lik
e.

  “I have a question,” I say, poising myself in his direction.

  “Ask me anything.”

  “How can you act so laidback but look so hoity-toity?” I ask.

  He almost chokes on his ice cream. “You think I look hoity-toity?”

  “You’re always dressed to the nines,” I say. “And you work from home most of the time, so I don’t get that.”

  “I have video conference calls sometimes,” he says. “It’s not exactly good for business if I look like a slob living in his mom’s basement.”

  “Okay, but you don’t have those all the time,” I say, eyeing the way his jeans straddle the line between straight leg and skinny and fit him like they were personally sewn for his perfect physique. “I guess what I’m trying to say is …”

  What am I trying to say?

  “I’m sorry. You remind me of someone else,” I say. “Your style anyway. Not your personality. I even think you might wear the same cologne as him. I must associate those things or something.”

  Jude says nothing, listening as if this actually interests him.

  “But you’re so much nicer than he ever was. And you’re authentic. That’s something he never really knew how to be. Didn’t realize it until much later, but everything about him was fake.” I sigh, glancing to the side and remembering one night where he asked if I’d ever thought about getting breast implants “just to even things out a bit.” And the fact that we’d just made love and his semen was literally dripping from between my legs only made the moment that much more cringe-worthy. “The world has enough fake people with their Instagram-perfect lives and their self-centered, ego-centric decisions. You’re not like that, and I can’t tell you how refreshing that is.”