Hot Stuff

by Kim Karr

  He was late for class, and the only seat open was the one next to mine. I looked up. He looked down. When our eyes met, we both knew we had to have each other. I always said he charmed me from his very first ‘bonjour’. Not only was he hot, but his French accent left me breathless.

  We quickly became an item, and before I even blinked, the year was over. That was when we became business partners. You see, after graduating, Ansel convinced me to stay in the city, and then he convinced me we should open Gaspard together. “With mind and talent, we can’t go wrong,” he’d said.

  Unlike most businesses, startup expenses weren’t an obstacle for us because Ansel came from money. Gaining attention, notoriety, establishing ourselves, now those were obstacles. The first two years of Gaspard being in business were tough, both physically and emotionally. Ansel and I worked seven days a week, usually different shifts to keep management coverage. I opened at two and usually left by ten. He came in at four and stayed until closing. Our relationship had always been easy and I didn’t think the lack of quality time we spent together mattered. The fact was, I was independent, and I never relied on anyone.

  So, I did my thing. He did his. I thought it worked.

  Things started looking up for the restaurant after Ansel earned his Michelin star. So much so that two years later, four years after we opened the doors, we were considered one of the best French restaurants in the city, and we had done it together.

  Together.

  We were a team. At least I thought we were.

  Bastard.

  My phone rings and the sound jars me from my hostile thoughts. Reaching across the passenger seat, I slip my hand into the front pouch of my purse. When I check the display, I can’t help but smile. It is my best friend, Fiona Miller.

  She’s the girl who moved next door to me in the Chicago suburb of Elmhurst when we were both five. Ever since then we have been stuck together like glue. We’ve seen each other through so much, and I can honestly say I love her like no one else in my life, except maybe for Max, her son.

  “Hi, Fiona,” I answer.

  “Tessseee,” she greets. “You’re never going to guess what I’m doing right now.”

  I glance at the clock on the dash of my new car. Well, new to me. It is only six in the evening. Is she drunk this early? That’s not like her at all. “Making dinner?” I guess to appease her. And drinking too much wine, I want to add but don’t. Not yet anyway. I need to feel the situation out. See what’s up.

  “Beeeeeppppp . . . no. The baby already ate, and there will be no further food preparations in this household for anyone by me tonight. Try again.”

  Okay, I think, something happened, and hence the wine. Just then I hear a noise in the background that sounds like splashing. “Giving Max a bath?” I guess again.

  She laughs, but it doesn’t sound sincere. “Well, yes, but no. Hell, forget the guessing game, I’ll just tell you. I’m walking around the bathroom in my brand new bikini with a giant glass of wine in my hand trying to keep it together. I’d lock myself in here for the next two weeks if the doorknob wasn’t broken.”

  “Fiona, what happened? What’s going on?” I ask with concern.

  With a sigh, she whisper yells, “Ethan wants to postpone the trip.”

  I stop at a light. “Oh, no, Fi, why? Did he chicken out about spending the money?”

  She gives me a slight laugh. “Believe it or not, no.”

  “Did something come up at work?”

  Ethan has recently become junior partner at his firm and seems to work all the time. “No, believe it or not, it isn’t work either,” she replies with a sniffle this time.

  She’s been crying.

  “Then why?” I ask. “You’ve been planning this trip to Fiji for months. It’s your dream honeymoon, and Ethan knows it.”

  Fiona and Ethan are both attorneys. They met while working on a case, on opposite sides. It was not love at first sight. More like hate at first sight. Fiona was an associate at one law firm and Ethan was an associate at another. They spent a lot of time together over a thirty-day period, and somehow ended up between the sheets. Just once, she insisted. Still that was enough for her to accidently get pregnant. Shortly after the discovery, they married, she took a leave of absence from her job, and now almost four years later, they are finally going on their honeymoon. Fiona has been looking forward to this trip for a quite a while.

  “Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy.” Max is on repeat again and I have to suppress my chuckle. This is a new phase and Fiona goes mad when he does that.

  “Max, what does Mommy say about repeating the same word over and over?” Fiona asks him softly.

  “Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy.”

  She sighs. “Sorry, Tess. Are you still there?”

  The light turns green and I hit the accelerator. “Yes. Now tell me what happened? Why does Ethan want to put the trip off?”

  “I don’t think I should tell you,” she hiccups.

  “Fi, tell me,” I demand.

  Her voice grows low. “Don’t be mad.”

  “Okay, I won’t be mad, I promise. Now tell me.”

  “He’s worried Max will be too much for you to handle in your state.”

  I frown. “In my state?” I say in question.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “In my state!” I repeat loudly.

  “Max has been a lot to handle lately, and Ethan’s not sure you’re up to taking care of Max after everything that happened with Ansel.”

  “I was going through a break up, Fi, not a break down.”

  Yes, for a small period of time I might have felt like my world ended. And at the time I thought it had. My life was Gaspard—the restaurant—and it was taken from me. Sure, I had suddenly moved back to Chicago three weeks ago and cried on Fiona’s couch for seven days straight. I felt lost. Who wouldn’t? I’d spent years giving everything I had to my job. And yes, I might have even refused to go out of the house. And perhaps I had eaten nothing but ice cream for three of those seven days. But that was weeks ago.

  Slowly, I’d slipped out of the haze and realized I could do it again. The restaurant that is, not Ansel. This time it would be my way. Simple. Easy. No show. No glitz. No glam.

  And I got my shit together.

  I moved into my own place, a very affordable studio just west of the South Side. I haven’t unpacked, or bought furniture, but those are minor details. I’ve been busy getting started on my new quest.

  Fiona thinks I’m crazy to attempt this alone. She says she knows a guy who would be perfect for me. “Why not settle down and buy a house with a white picket fence?” she has said over and over. I put an end to that crazy idea before she could even blurt the guy’s name out.

  I’m not cut out for relationships.

  I can never be what men want me to be.

  I’ve proven that over and over.

  Managing the restaurant made me feel like I mattered. Like I was in control. It made me feel like maybe that is who I am.

  So, my answer is to be me. Or a version of me that seems closest to who I am, anyway.

  That doesn’t make me crazy or unfit.

  It just makes me closer to the me I think I could be. It seems I’ve moved away from that person over the years.

  Besides, putting all of my woes aside, I had planned to watch Max for the two weeks Fiona and Ethan would be gone way before Ansel and I broke up and I moved back to Chicago. I was flying here to stay at her house. If I could handle it then, I could handle it now.

  “His words, not mine,” Fiona states. “And you said you wouldn’t be mad.”

  “I’m not mad, Fi, but you don’t think it’s a little late to start second guessing the person you both entrusted to take care of your son in the event of your death? His Godmother. His guardian,” I remind her.

  “That’s what I told him,” she whisper yells.

  “And?”

  “He said he’s having cold feet.”

  I slam th
e steering wheel. “That’s bullshit. He’s going on a vacation, not getting married again. He’s just using me as an excuse to get out of it for his own reasons, and that is completely unacceptable. Now how about you get Max out of the tub, dry that hot little bikini of yours, and get packed. You are going on your honeymoon tomorrow as planned.”

  She sighs yet again. “Tess, I don’t think I can change Ethan’s mind this time. He seems determined to postpone this trip.”

  Switching lanes, I prepare to make a U-turn. The offices of Fitz, Graham, and Wheeler are only minutes away, and I am going to pay Ethan Miller a visit. “Fi, you might not be able to persuade him, but I guarantee I can.”

  “Tess, what are you going to do?” she asks hesitantly.

  My wheels skid on the black ice as I make the illegal turn. “Why, Fi, what all unstable, broken-hearted women like me do. Put him in his place.”

  And that I say with a smile.

  Tess

  THE PRESTON SCHOOL in Lincoln Park is where Max spends three afternoons a week. Even though Fiona stays home, her and Ethan felt Max needed the socialization skills that accompanied attending preschool.

  I don’t disagree that Max should attend preschool. My reason though is completely different—Fiona needs that time for herself.

  Don’t get me wrong, the school is the best of the best, and besides, Max does need to be around other children his age.

  But Fiona is having a hard time adjusting to staying home, still.

  She’s lonely.

  I know she misses her career, but there’s more to it. Something is missing from her life. Excitement. Fun. And I think she also misses the attention of a man. The attention of her husband.

  Yes, she loves Max with all her heart, but the fact that her husband works all the time isn’t making her happy. His political aspirations that take even more of his time from her aren’t making her happy. Their non-existent sex life isn’t making her happy. Her battery-operated vibrator isn’t keeping her satisfied. She really wants this vacation for them. A little me time and we time with her husband to reignite their passion and get their relationship back on track.

  And that is what I told Ethan.

  To man up and take care of his wife’s needs.

  I laid it all out on the table. He needed to know. Know his wife was feeling neglected, and not in a selfish way. She just wants a little bit of his attention. And she deserves it.

  Those words of wisdom, along with my slightly exaggerated, entirely put together plan to open the café, to prove my mental state was more than stable, was how I convinced my best friend’s husband to take his wife on her dream honeymoon.

  And it is nothing but the truth.

  How could the want-to-be senator argue with that bit of sanity?

  They left this afternoon for Fiji to drink fruity cocktails and have lots of sex for the next two weeks.

  Today is Wednesday. And on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, Max spends his afternoons with eleven other preschoolers learning his colors, letters, and even how to speak French.

  Crazy, right?

  It’s no joke.

  Very soon my godson might be able to speak better French than me, and I dated a Frenchman for six years. Of course, my Frenchman only liked to talk to me in French when he’d had too much to drink and was extremely horny. That’s when the dirty French talk emerged. I didn’t care, I found it sexy as hell.

  Still, my knowledge of the language is limited to things like, “Je veux ta bouche sur ma bite,” or, “I want your mouth on my dick.”

  Then there was, “Votre chatte a un goût étonnant,” or, “Your pussy tastes amazing.” And let’s not forget the infamous, “I need to be inside you right now,” which translated in French is, “J’ai besoin d’être à l’intérieur de toi maintenant.” In English it doesn’t sound nearly as romantic.

  Drunk or not, his words always turned me on. Something about the dirty talk turned me inside out. Too bad it didn’t happen that often. Not that I encourage drinking, but . . .

  Anyway, don’t get me wrong, Ansel liked to fuck. I did too. The problem was I only wanted to fuck him. He, on the other hand, felt compelled to fuck anything in a skirt. I just didn’t know it. Shame on me for thinking I should have been enough for him.

  Enough time wasted on him.

  After spending the afternoon at an industrial interior design center just outside the city limits, I arrive at Max’s school promptly at five forty-five.

  The teacher is wearing a very nice black pants suit and she has her hair in a perfect chignon. Geez, I thought preschool teachers wore overalls and long dresses. Guess here they break that stereotype. Anyway, I try to recall her name. It’s on the tip of my tongue, but doesn’t come to me fast enough.

  The teacher looks at me with contempt. “Ms. Winters?”

  Curious as to what the look is for, I give her a nod and glance around the room. It is then that I realize Max is the only child left. “I thought pickup time was between five and six Mrs.—?” I let the phrase hang.

  “It’s Miss Eastling. And yes that is correct,” she answers sternly.

  “Great, then I’m not late,” I reply, and dutifully gather Max and his things.

  “But you should know, all the moms pick up promptly at five,” she mentions just as I head for the door.

  “Well, my name is Auntie Tess, not Mom, so between five and six will have to do over the next two weeks,” I reply.

  “Auntie Tess. Auntie Tess. Auntie Tess. Auntie Tess.” Max repeats over and over as soon as we get in Fiona’s BMW SUV.

  Hmmm . . . perhaps I had spoken out of turn at Preston, and this is karma’s way of calling me a bitch?

  I hope not.

  Tess

  THE QUAINT TREE-LINED street of Hudson Avenue is where Fiona and Ethan’s very old East Lincoln Park home is located. Originally built in 1886, the narrow brick building with three floors has a charm that I just love.

  Easing down the street, I take a left about ten homes from theirs to circle around to the alleyway where their driveway is positioned.

  Spotting the black Range Rover parked there puts me on edge. The chrome wheels and tinted windows immediately give it away. It belongs to Nick Carrington, one of the biggest real estate developers in Chicago. Nick also happens to be Ethan’s former college roommate and best friend. Oh, and did I mention, he’s Max’s Godfather.

  What the hell is he doing here?

  Last I heard he was in Miami for an extended amount of time working on a really big real estate deal. Then again it isn’t like I keep tabs on him. He and I don’t exactly get along.

  Yes, we’ve been forced together in the same social settings at least a couple dozen times since Fiona and Ethan met. But to be honest, I’ve never really given him a second thought—other than to say he’s kind of a jerk.

  Out loud.

  So he could hear.

  Many times.

  Sure, he’s tall, dark, and handsome. And yes, he has the best ass I’ve ever seen, and I mean ever seen quite literally. You see he mooned me at Fiona and Ethan’s Fourth of July barbecue last year, which pretty much defines his personality.

  He always has to be the life of the party.

  He’s also arrogant.

  Rich.

  And a playboy.

  Every time I see him, he has a different woman on his arm. I can say this about him—he doesn’t discriminate. Tall, short, blonde, brunette, they’ve all gotten their turn with Chicago’s most eligible bachelor. From what I’ve heard, he just never keeps any of them around long enough to give them a chance.

  Plain and simple, he’s a manwhore.

  And I’ve had my fill with manwhores. So seeing his vehicle in the driveway isn’t making me extremely pleased right now.

  Again I ask myself, “Why is he here?”

  Unless.

  No, please no, don’t tell me something happened to Fiona.

  Hitting the gas, I floor it into the driveway as fast as I can. On
ce I put the SUV in park, I hurry to get Max out of his car seat.

  Rushing inside with Max on my hip and his gear on my shoulder, I take the stairs up to the main floor two at a time, and come to a screeching halt.

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  Holy shit!

  Coming down the stairs is all six-foot-two inches, and I mean all six-foot and two inches of Nick Carrington in his glory.

  Wet.

  No towel.

  Completely naked.

  He looks at me, only a little surprised, and mumbles, “Shit,” or something like that. I’m not really listening right now. There is so much white noise in my head that I don’t think my ears are working properly. Or my hat is on too tight.

  Wait.

  Ignore that two inches part because he is, well, to be blunt . . . huge.

  “Uncle Nick,” Max screams in delight, jolting me out of the trance I had fallen into.

  “Nick!” I scream in outrage, while at the same time relieved that nothing must be wrong with Fiona or Ethan.

  He covers himself with his hands and shrugs.

  “Nick! What the hell!” I yell.

  “Uncle Nick!” Max exclaims again with glee.

  My head jerks in Max’s direction. Instead of following suit and covering his eyes like me to shade his vision from the sight of Nick’s smooth, tanned, muscular chest, tight six-pack, and well, his huge endowment, the almost three-year-old reaches out for him.

  Traitor.

  “Hey, Tess. Good to see you,” Nick says, seemingly unfazed in the least by his nakedness.

  Jerk.

  “Nick!” I manage again, beginning to worry I am taking after Max now with the repeating.

  Nick lets out a chuckle that really irritates me. “Shit,” he says again. “You got up the stairs much faster than I thought you would. Let me just grab some clean clothes and I can help you with Max’s things.”

  “Uncle Nick. Uncle Nick. Uncle Nick. Uncle Nick,” Max keeps repeating, squirming relentlessly for me to let him down.

  My eyelids remain squeezed shut, but I need both hands to help with my struggle to keep Max secured to my hip because he has now started to kick his feet. “What are you doing, Nick?” I ask without looking in his direction.