“Grammy,” I said quickly. I knew her well enough that she wasn’t going to give me the G-rated version of the story if I let her continue. “How do you know which type of guy it is?”
"Well, you sleep with him. If you're a toy, he'll back off with all the lovey-dovey talk because he mostly has what he wants. Maybe he'll buy you some gifts or whatever he thinks it takes to get you back in the sack if he liked it, but you'll see the difference after the first time you sleep with him. That's when they start to let their guard down and get off their best behavior."
“And let’s assume I don’t want to just throw my body around like a measuring stick?”
“Then we can first question how my daughter passed so few of my genes on to you, and then, well, I suppose you could also see how he responds to you holding out on him. Boys will only wait so long for a toy they want. If he’s looking for a partner, he’ll be more patient.”
I thanked my grandma for the advice, endured a highly detailed story about how she’d managed to get Earl to lose his entire yield of tomatoes from the garden outside his room. The short version of the story was that Earl never suspected my sweet old Grammy of being a cheat at poker. His loss, according to her. She had really enjoyed the fact that she hated tomatoes, so she was planning on trying to sell them back to him to turn a profit.
In the end, I didn’t feel like I’d actually learned much. Grandma sometimes helped just because her advice was generally so crazy and impractical that it made me feel like whatever I’d already been thinking was extremely rational and logical by comparison. To that extent, my conversation with her had helped, I guessed.
William had called to leave a quick, clipped message on my work phone. He gave me his home address and reminded me to be on time. That was it. I wasn’t sure if he kept it cold to make me nervous, or if he was really planning on acting professional about the arrangement. Whichever it was, I had fresh butterflies in my stomach the whole ride over.
He lived in the East Village. Given the area's reputation for a lively nightlife, I wasn't entirely surprised. He lived in a large apartment complex, and of course, he had the penthouse suite. The building was apparently fancy enough to warrant a doorman and a staff member behind a front desk. Both were dressed like they worked in five-star hotels, and I immediately regretted dressing down for the night. I'd purposely gone with the aggressively casual route to send William a message: I’m not trying to impress you. I’m just going to take the ridiculous opportunity you gave me and nothing else. At least that was the plan. But now I felt like I might get tackled and mistaken for a homeless woman before I made it to the elevator.
“William Chamberson?” I asked the woman at the front desk.
She nodded and gave a Vanna White gesture toward the elevators.
“Thanks,” I said, wondering how much they had to pay her to point people from the front doors to the elevators, which were clearly in front of said front doors. Probably more than I made, I thought sourly.
There was a short man with a silly little hat waiting for me inside the elevator. He stood from a small stool with perfect posture and an air of “I’m better than you, even though I run an elevator for a living.”
“Floor?” he asked in a prim and proper, nasally voice.
“Penthouse, please.” I may or may not have injected a little bit of satisfaction in the declaration. Yeah, that’s right, you tiny little elevator man. I’m going to the penthouse.
He made no show of caring as he pressed the “P” button and then waited with eyes half-closed. Then, he unexpectedly turned to me and tapped his ear knowingly. “Best to keep it quiet. They listen when the elevator is stopped.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Your bosses?”
He blew out a dismissive puff of breath. “The government.”
When the elevator thumped to a stop at the top, he wiped the expression from his face and made a “lips are zipped” gesture at me, then winked.
Instead of polished metal doors like all the other floors we’d passed, the top floor opened straight into a view of a huge living area sealed off only by a pair of wrought-iron gates. The elevator man put a key into the gates and then lifted it up, kind of like those gates they pull down when stores at the mall close.
Without another word, he closed the gate behind me and descended back down, leaving nothing but a brick elevator shaft and a trembling bunch of cords and wires that the elevator must’ve relied on.
I had expected William to be waiting for me, but the place almost seemed empty, except for the sound of running water. He told me to be here at six, and when I checked my phone, it looked like I was right on time. Maybe he expected me to have dinner ready for him when he got out of the shower?
There was a scampering, unmistakable sound of tiny paws on the wood floors. The puppy—Gremlin—came skidding around the corner. It was a clean, fluffy ball of brown puppy fur, almost to the point of ridiculousness. There was no way he did that without professional help, but I guessed I couldn’t fault him for paying a groomer to do a good job. It thumped into a wall, straightened, and then charged me. I knelt down to pet the adorable little dog, even subjecting myself to a flurry of puppy kisses.
“Okay. Okay. I get it, you’re clean now. And you’re super cute. Is he being nice to you?”
The only answer she gave was to pant at me while she wagged her tail. I stood back up and looked around. I felt a little bit like an intruder, even though I knew he was expecting me. I was a little worried he'd thought I would wait outside or something, but it wasn't like there was a hallway or a door to knock on.
“William?” I called. “William!” I tried, projecting my voice a little more the second time. When no answer came, I eventually convinced myself that he wanted me to find my own way to the kitchen. I passed through the main living area, which was situated underneath a modern industrial style catwalk that was welded to the exposed brick walls. The place had billionaire bachelor pad written all over it. Admittedly, it was in the impressive category of bachelor pads instead of the sad and creepy category.
I was tempted to snoop a little bit for pictures, mostly out of curiosity to see what a young William had looked like, or maybe a glimpse of his parents, but I kept it professional.
The view was amazing, the floors were a deep, antique style wood, and he had an eye-catching array of paintings along the walls, along with a full-sized sculpture of a man who looked like he was exploding into pixelated squares of metal. I paused for a minute in front of the sculpture, running my fingers over the little squares and marveling at how they seemed to float outward in an expanding cloud, even though the effect was a trick of perspective. From the side, it was clear that the burst of tiny metal squares all connected to the square behind them in some way and eventually to the sculpture.
I decided to give him at least one bonus point for good taste. In movies, it seemed like the mega-rich always had provocative art pieces of six-foot vaginas, naked women, and phallic objects littering their mansions. I guess once you had enough money, that sort of thing stopped being seen as trashy and started being visionary. Unless you asked me, then it was just weird. Who wanted to walk into a vagina hallway before bed and be metaphorically reborn every day? Or who wanted to bump their forehead on a twelve-foot-long erection when they were trying to sneak to the fridge in the middle of the night.
The kitchen was beautiful. Windows let in an amazing amount of natural light, and the second floor of the penthouse was open above the space, giving it an incredibly spacious, natural vibe that I wasn’t used to feeling in New York City. I found the pantry fully stocked with just about anything I could imagine needing, so I started planning out a menu.
And that was when I heard the sound of whipped cream being dispensed from a spray can. I turned around to see William standing in the doorway wearing nothing but a white towel around his waist. He was just finishing adding whipped cream to his nipples when I saw him.
"Oh hey," he said in a mock-seductive voice. "I
was just putting something decent on."
I covered my eyes with my hand, even though it was admittedly hard not to gawk. I’d only caught a glimpse of his bare torso, but even a glance told me he was built like something straight out of my dreams. Every single muscle on his body had stood out in perfect definition. Slabs of muscle on a lean torso without an ounce of fat, and just the right balance between bulky and thin. He could’ve passed for a professional athlete, easily. If only the package came with less cocky and obnoxious.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I said. “Haven’t you ever heard of workplace harassment?”
“Workplace? This is my home,” he said, sounding offended.
“A home you asked me to work in.”
He sighed. “Fine. If you want to be a wet blanket about it, I’ll go grab—shit! Gremlin!”
The outburst made me peek from behind my hands just in time to see the towel getting stripped off his waist as the little puppy yanked on it with all its weight. I clapped my hands back over my eyes. My cheeks burned with embarrassment. “This isn’t happening,” I said.
“Hold on.” There was that sound of whipped cream dispensing again. Two more times. Then one last little burst of it. “Okay. We’re good. You sure you’re not craving something sweet? I’ve got cherries in the fridge if you aren’t into banana sundaes.”
“You couldn’t just get the towel back from the five-pound puppy?”
“You told me to be nice to her.”
I turned my back to him. “Can you please just go put on clothes?”
“What am I supposed to do with all this whipped cream?”
“Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you acted like a two-year-old.”
He sighed. “You know, words hurt, Cherry. You just remember that.”
I grinned, rolling my eyes as he walked off. Gremlin trailed after him. I wanted to dislike him. I wished it was easy. Instead, he had this kind of natural carefreeness that I'd never seen in anyone else, like he wasn't even breaking the rules in his mind—he'd just never bothered to learn half of them. From any other man I'd ever met, his little stunt would've sent me running for the hills as soon as he left. With William, I honestly didn't even feel surprised, or threatened. He was so easy-going about everything. I was pretty positive he knew exactly how I'd react to his whipped cream trick, but he did it anyway just for a laugh.
By the time he came back, he was thankfully dressed, which meant my brain was functioning again. Seeing him half-naked had made my brain feel like it was in between two stations on the radio.
"I have to ask," I said as I worked on his dinner—a simple stir-fry of veggies and chicken, but with my secret blend of seasonings and sauces that I knew would blow him away. "Is this all a joke to you, or are you serious?"
“Huh?” he asked. He was sitting at the table, flicking his thumb across his phone while I cooked. He had put on a black dress shirt and some gray pants, but apparently decided shoes weren’t important. His dark hair was still a little wet from the shower, and the way it sat messily on his head made me want to run my fingers through it, to try to tame it.
“Well,” I said, steeling my nerve. I wasn’t going to just play meek church mouse. I was a grown woman, and I deserved to know what the heck this was supposed to be. “Are you just trying to sleep with me, or is this something more?”
“Woah there, killer,” he said, looking up from his phone. “This is the workplace. Haven’t you ever heard of sexual harassment? Honestly, I feel threatened right now. Uncomfortable, even.”
I planted my fist on my hip, feeling every bit like my grandma at that moment as I rounded on him. "Don't even start with me," I said, jabbing the spatula at him. "You're lucky I don't—"
“What, go to HR? I’ll make myself go through sensitivity training if you just admit you didn’t think it was funny. One word and I’ll do it. Swear to God.”
I pursed my lips, but couldn’t help smirking. “It was unbelievably immature and childish.”
He made a “go on” gesture, circling his hand in the air.
“But it was kind of funny.”
“Knew it!” he declared, pumping his fists into the air. “I saw it in a movie once and wanted to do it ever since. Just had to wait for the right girl.”
Pause.
“You know,” he said a little too quickly. “Someone who wouldn’t get their panties in a bunch over it. You’re cool like that. You’re not so uptight. I have enough of that in my life with Mr. Banana.”
“Who?” I asked. I had to make a mental effort to focus and stop from asking more about his whole ‘right girl’ comment, even though I was dying to grill him on it and see exactly what he meant.
“Bruce. The guy is religious about his banana intake. He likes them a certain way. Has them at a specific time every day. Hell, that’s even how he met Natasha. The girl ate his banana on the day she was interviewing for a job. I’m pretty sure he only hired her to punish her, as dumb as that sounds.”
“So you skirted around my question,” I said. “What is your plan with all this? What is this, even?”
He grinned, raising his eyebrows. “I don’t actually know. Whatever we’re doing is a little bit new for me.”
“What? Come on. You must be with a new girl every week.”
“Not that part…” he looked down, flashing a rare moment of self-consciousness. “Let’s just say I’ve never offered a woman I liked a job. I also don’t usually have the patience to wait around for someone to give me what I want. I either get it when I want, or I walk away and move on. Not with you, I guess.”
“A woman you liked?” My heart immediately set to pounding like I was back in middle school and just got a note from my crush.
“Don’t go getting that look in your eye. You could probably fill a room with people to tell you what a piece of shit I am. Maybe you had it right when you were trying to ghost me, after all.”
I waggled an eyebrow. “Maybe I’m just after your money.”
He laughed. “Doubt it. I’ve been around enough women to smell that particular note from a few miles off. Hell, you didn’t even compliment my badass apartment. You also are the one who tried to talk me out of seeing you again, which isn’t exactly a gold digger move.”
“Maybe I’m just more crafty than the golddiggers you’ve met in the past.”
He stood, walking closer to me until I had to bump into the counter to avoid being pressed against him. The vegetables and chicken sizzled and popped. I knew they needed a stir, but somehow I couldn’t focus on that. All I could think about was the way he smelled and the fact that I’d just seen him topless and shimmering wet from the shower a few minutes earlier. All that perfection was only separated from me by a few layers of clothes and some air.
A shiver ran through me.
“Crafty, are you?” he asked. His breath was warm and minty. Each syllable blasted me with a gentle puff of air. “Not from what I can see.” He ran his eyes over me, almost lazily, like being this close and having this effect on me was nothing to bat an eyelash at. “So,” he said, looking down at something in his hand. “Who is ‘G-rizzle’?”
“What?” I asked. My eyes followed his. He was looking at my phone—which had somehow mysteriously worked its way into his hand. A notification was on the screen. Unfortunately, the portion of the text shown in the preview was enough to do plenty of emotional damage. G-rizzle: Bag the boy yet? Need deets…
“G-rizzle is actually my grandma,” I said slowly. “She thinks it’s embarrassing to try to act like an out of touch old lady, so she usually studies the urban dictionary and pulls out some weird slang to make me cringe. She’s eighty-five, and she changes her name to something embarrassing in my contacts every time I see her.”
A grin spread across his lips. God, he had nice lips. I caught myself staring and then flicked my eyes back up to his, hoping he didn’t notice. “Got it. G-rizzle is the grandma. And this boy you’re trying to ‘bag.’ What’s that? Like a
body bag? Should I be worried?”
“About getting put in a body bag, or about another boy?”
“Well shit. Both? Maybe we could just put the other boy in the body bag.”
I laughed. “There’s just one. One boy,” I said, feeling silly. There was nothing boyish about William, except maybe the glint of mischief that always twinkled in his eyes. “And I think she means—well, actually, let’s just pretend that yes, it’s a body bag.”
“Ahh,” he said, nodding his head. “So you told your grandma you were hoping to get me in the sack did you? Liar. I’ve practically lit the path to my bed with neon signs and you’ve been walking past every last one like you’re Stevie Wonder.”
“That’s so insensitive,” I said, but couldn’t help laughing a little.
“Insensitivity is one of my many talents. But let’s not change the subject. Why does G-rizzle think you’re trying to bag me?”
“Because she’s borderline insane?” I tried. “I didn’t even tell her your name. I’ve been careful to avoid bringing you up more than I have to.”
“I see. So it’s a struggle not to talk about me. Do you often find yourself having to fight off the temptation to think and talk about me? Especially at odd hours of the night?”
I opened my mouth to say something—who knew what—but the smell of burning food caught our attention at the same time.
“Shit!” I hissed.
William had to step back to even give me room to turn around. I moved the skillet off the heat, but the damage was already done. I turned the vent fan on high and then leaned my palms on the counter, sighing at the charred food.
“Cajun style it is,” said William.
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