by Amiee Smith
Both of Lynn’s parents abandon their phones. Their smiles fall by the way side and concern moves in.
“You’re going to take time off?” Evelyn asks.
“You’ve been so consistent with your deadlines. Is that wise?” Dr. Scott says.
“My copyeditor is sick. I won’t get my manuscript back until next Monday,” Lynn says.
“So, you can take some vacation time?” Evelyn asks.
“Well, no. Not really. I’ll work on some stuff. What’s the quote? Being a writer is having homework every day for the rest of your life,” Lynn chuckles nervously.
“But you’re not on deadline?” Dr. Scott inquires.
“Technically, yes. But I’m in a holding pattern until I get my manuscript back,” Lynn says.
“You don’t have anything to do next week?” Evelyn asks.
“No. I guess not,” Lynn says quietly.
“Stay in L.A.,” Lynn’s parents say in unison, echoing my thoughts.
“You’ll get to spent time with your friends. We’ll have dinner together. You can go to the beach. Make it a vacation. You work so hard. The Universe is clearly encouraging you to take a break,” Evelyn says.
Lynn’s mom delivers her argument with a gusto more appropriate for the courtroom than her daughter. But since I’m on the “stay in L.A.” side of the table, I’m grateful.
“Didn’t you say you may not visit next month because of your book launch?” her dad asks.
Shit. That’s new information. While Lynn ran in to pick up the food, I mentally planned the next month. Though I haven’t shared it with her, I thought I could visit her in SF in two weeks and she’d be back in L.A. two weeks after that. A short-term solution, while we figure out what’s going on between us. Now, I’m really in the “stay in L.A.” camp.
“Yes, but…” Lynn starts.
Dr. Scott interrupts, “The timing is perfect for you to have an extended trip. I’ll call American to change your flight.”
“I’ve already checked out of the Westin, Daddy. I think they have a conference going on next week. I may not be able to get a room. I don’t want to stay at the Four Seasons. Also, I didn’t bring enough clothes.”
Lynn is trying, really trying, to pose an argument.
“Stay here. You’ll have a whole fifteen hundred square feet to yourself in the south wing. That’s bigger than your flat in San Francisco. You can go with us to the Pasadena Club tonight. They’re hosting a dinner and dancing event for charity. Nick can join us,” Dr. Scott says.
“I’m already attending the event at the Pasadena Club tonight,” I say with a subtle smile.
Lynn shoots me an unfriendly glance.
“Martin, Lynn prefers to have her own space. I will book you an Airbnb. You can use my Macy’s card and buy some new clothes. You’ll need a dress for dinner,” Evelyn says, batting down all Lynn’s objections.
“No, Mama. I’ll buy my own clothes and book my own room,” Lynn blurts out.
Clearly, she didn’t think her response through, because she’s back herself in a corner.
“So, you’ll stay?” both her parents ask the question, designed as a statement.
“Sure. A few more days. Assuming, I can get a room,” Lynn says.
“Why don’t you stay with me?” I offer with a giant grin.
CHAPTER 15:
LYNN SCOTT
Thirty minutes later, I’ve cancelled my flight home. Daddy insisted on calling the airlines himself to ensure I would be credited back properly. Mom solved my dinner attire issue— a green vintage dress I bought on eBay in college for a sorority event. I was so excited about the dress, but when it arrived, it was a size six instead of a sixteen. My mom recently had it dry cleaned so she could donate it to a charity auction. While the vintage look is no longer my style, the dress and my beige flats will suffice for tonight.
My parents can be really overbearing. However, I’m grateful for the help. The last thing I want to do is spend my afternoon calling airlines and trying on dresses at Macy’s.
“Thank you for letting me stay here,” I say, entering Nick’s house.
“This is a business transaction,” he says.
Nick leaves my suitcase in the entryway. I drop my laptop bag on the entry table.
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“Consider this your Airbnb,” Nick winks.
“Would it be cool if I lie down in the guest bedroom?”
Exhaustion is setting in and I need some time to myself.
“It’s your room,” he says, with a smile.
“Thanks. What time are we leaving for the Pasadena Club?”
On the drive to the house, Nick shared he is attending the event tonight with his parents to meet with a prospective client. We will go together, but he will sit with his parents and I will sit with mine.
He scrolls his phone, “Between 6:15 and 6:30.”
“I do better with exact times,” I say.
“6:20.”
“I’ll be ready.”
I go into the bedroom. Like the rest of the house, it is clean and immaculately furnished. Modern. Minimal. A king-sized bed, with a tall, black, wooden headboard covered in fluffy white linens dominates the room. I resist the impulse to inspect and touch everything. I slip off my sneakers, sweatshirt, and bra. Pulling the covers back, I sink into the plush bedding. Curled up, I get some much-needed rest.
• • •
I awake refreshed with the urge to go for a run. I go to the front room to get my suitcase. Nick is talking to a tall, thin African American woman with long, chestnut brown hair, and dressed in a black pantsuit and heels so high she almost stands at his height. She could be a stand-in for Naomi Campbell in the George Michael “Freedom” video.
I probably borrowed her shower cap last night.
Averting my gaze, I focus on getting my bag. I hope they act as though I’m not here. This is freakin’ weird.
“Lynn.”
Nick looks over from his conversation with the Amazonian lady. Both smiling.
“Sorry to interrupt. Just getting my suit case.”
I reach the place where Nick left my bag earlier and it’s open. Ah, did the zipper break?
“Lynn, I’ve heard so much about you. I’m Raquel.”
Oh, great. Why is she talking to me? I didn’t agree to be her eskimo sister.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, not meeting her eyes.
She’s so pretty and my inner fat girl feels like pond scum. My jaw clenches. What is this sensation? Jealousy? I’m breaking my hook-up rule number one. No jealousy. Ever.
The door is right there. All I have to do is grab my suitcase and run. Except the zipper is probably broken, I don’t have a bra on, and I still need to put on my running shoes. I try not to imagine myself running barefoot down the hill with my clothes scattered behind me. My inner fat girl high-fives the fact I easily could run the hill. Even barefoot. Focus. I gotta focus. Shoot. Raquel.
“Raquel is my personal shopper at Nordstrom. I asked her to pull some things for you.”
Several bags rest on the sofa.
“I must go. Lynn, my card is in one of the bags. Call me if you need to exchange or return anything. Bye, Nick.”
“Thank you, Raquel,” Nick says.
The door closes behind her.
“I hope it’s okay, I checked the tags in your clothes. I didn’t want to guess at sizes,” Nick says.
Walking over to the sofa, I glance inside the bags. There is at least a few grand worth of the most stunning attire— dresses, jeans, tops, lingerie, bra and panty sets, workout clothes, and even a pair of shoes.
“Nick, you did not have to do this.”
“You’re right. I wanted to do it. I thought I’d… what did you say last night? Go all Christian Grey.”
Nick’s face is sincere. Kind. Incredibly sexy.
“Thank you. I… need to get a run in before we leave.”
I gather the Nordstrom bags, my laptop bag, and my su
itcase, and hustle to my room. I’m overwhelmed by his generosity and thoughtfulness. More so, I don’t know what he is to me. Are we friends? Something more?
I change into yoga pants, a bra, and my running shoes. I grab my phone and earbuds and head out the door. Nick is nowhere in sight. I get out of the house without distraction.
I’m nervous I may get lost running in an unfamiliar area, but the need for space is more urgent than my fear. I’ll run and turn around when I’m ready. I put my phone on DND and select music for my workout. Pearl Jam’s “Vitalogy” album is always my default when I need to think. The music kicks in. My legs start moving and so do my thoughts.
Why did I stay in L.A.? Not for my parents. Not for my friends. Because I want to spend more time with Nick. I like him. More than I want to admit. But these feelings are outside the boundaries of hooking up and friendship.
The breeze against my face is energizing. Maintaining my regular pace, I jog up and down the hilly terrain. The neighborhood is still in transition, so some houses are remodeled and tricked out, like Nick’s, and others are in poor repair. It’s an interesting juxtaposition that mirrors my emotions.
Continuing to stay at his house, having sex with him, and receiving all his gifts is disrespectful to both of our hearts. I’m going to fall for him and he’s going to fall for me too. But he’s going to fall for the woman who pops into L.A. once a month to spend time with the people she loves for a few days and goes back to her real life.
The real me lives in San Francisco. I’m not sure Nick would be interested in the real me. The crazy writer who works all the time and only leaves the house to run and meet up with friends and flirt with dudes on Friday and Saturday nights.
But Nick is amazing. I enjoy being with him. He’s kind, fun, and doesn’t trigger all my ADHD baggage. Oh, and he’s incredibly sexable, making it difficult to leave him. Men like Nick don’t show up in my life. I know a lot of great dudes, but he’s truly the best of the best. I pray every woman gets to experience a guy like Nick at one point in her life. I’m so lucky to have had these last few days with him.
For the rest of my run, my mind bounces all over, trying to unpack this Nick thing. I turn around and sprint back to the house, PJ’s “Corduroy” bumps in my ears. I know what I have to do. I know what I have to say.
• • •
I arrive at the house, focused and clear-minded. Running heals all that ails me. Shoot, I don’t have the code for the door. I click the text app to drop Nick a message, but he has already sent one.
Sunday, 3:26 p.m.
Nick Willingham (Favorite Hook-up): Door code: 912537. Call me if you get lost.
Why does he have to be so magnificent? All the time?
After opening the door, I roam through the main level before going downstairs. Nick is in the gym. I hear the clanking of weight training equipment and the low thumping of Kendrick Lamar’s “Alright.”
I pause at the closed door. My fitness time is sacred, and I hate disturbing him. But if I wait any longer, I’ll chicken out. I enter the gym. Nick is doing barbell squats. Shirtless. In gray shorts and black low top Nikes. Sweat is dripping off him like he’s posing for a CrossFit advertisement. Really, Universe? He really has to be this hot, right now?
“Hey,” he says after setting the barbell loaded with weights on the rack.
“Hey.”
I try to avoid eye contact, but he’s giving me one of those smiles that makes me want to strip off my clothes and beg him to take me against the wall. I breathe deeply, trying not to think about the image. Or how it would feel to have my body wrapped around his sweaty torso. Or how our moans would echo off the walls during orgasm. Or how his skin would taste as I suck and nibble his neck and earlobe. Or how…
“I need to pay you for the clothes, my Westin bill, and for letting me stay here tonight. I’ll check into the Standard or somewhere tomorrow,” I blurt out, trying to slow my NC-17 thoughts.
“No. No. No. And no,” he says, returning to his workout.
“Nick, I really need to create some distance between you and me,” I say honestly.
“Lynn, what were the three words I used to describe myself last night?”
Nick launches into some insane pull-up exercise. I gawk in awe of both his athleticism and demigod physique.
“Do you have to be so hot all the time?” I mutter, toying with my earring.
“Stop deflecting. Answer the question.”
He lifts his chin above the bar again and again in a controlled, continuous motion. My mouth, open in admiration of his strength and power.
“Competitive. Patient. Hedonistic.
“Good, my horny girl. You can put as much distance between us as you want. I’m going to get what I want.”
Nick continues doing pull-ups.
“And what do you want?” I ask.
“You.”
“Why? I mean, I know I’m a great lay. And cute… and funny. But I live in San Francisco, Nick.”
I’m being honest. I may not be an Amazonian, but I’m an awesome lady.
“Let me enjoy you while you’re here,” he says, dropping to the ground.
“So, we’re just hooking up?” I ask.
“No. We’re dating. I don’t do hook-ups,” Nick says before taking a drink from his water bottle.
“You hooked up with me on Friday night!”
“I think of it as a precursor for our date last night.”
He smiles that grin. My heart skips backwards, disrupting my focus. I glance down at the laces in my running shoes to collect my thoughts.
“I don’t know a lot about dating, Nick, but I do know it involves feelings.”
I look up to find Nick doing another set of barbell squats.
“I have feelings for you. Do you have feelings for me?” he asks all easy-breezy, as if he’s lifting a bag of potatoes.
“Yes. Therein lies the problem, Nick.”
This conversation is not going as planned.
“So, you agree we’re dating?” he asks, resting the barbell on the rack.
“Talking to you is… infuriating.”
Nick laughs, wiping the equipment with a towel. The conversation isn’t so bad. But trying to be serious, while my smutty mind runs interference, is maddening for someone with an attention disorder.
“Let’s take a bath instead. Go fill the tub.”
“Fine,” I say.
I attempt to pout my way up the stairs, but the excitement of soaking in the tub with Nick makes it difficult to be annoyed. I stop by the kitchen for a glass of water before filling the tub in the guest bathroom. I find bubble bath and Epsom salt in one of the drawers, adding both to the water.
I go to my room and undress. After untwisting my braids, I wrap my hair in a bun on top of my head. Since I’ll be in a dress tonight, I grab my razor to touch up my legs.
Chet Faker’s soulful voice streams from the speakers in the living room. I nakedly stroll to check the water. The lights are off in the bathroom and three large candles on the stone vanity countertop illuminate the space. I aah and sigh at the romantic gesture. Dammit, Nick doesn’t play fair. Turning off the water, I jump in the tub to shave my legs before he arrives. Nick shows up as I finish.
“Wine. Weed. To take the edge off.”
He hands me a glass of red wine. Taking a sip, I easily identify the jammy fruit-bomb as a very expensive Zinfandel. He stands by the tub in nothing but a white towel, smoking a tiny joint. If there was a Stoner Lady Magazine, he’d be the centerfold for this month.
“Aren’t you driving to Pasadena?” I ask.
“No. The company provides travel to and from business dinners,” Nick says, passing the joint.
He sits between my legs in the bath, and glides a real-man hand over the now super smooth skin of my calf.
“Is this a sativa?”
“Yes. Sour Diesel. I rolled it a few weeks ago.”
“I’m a fan of Sour D. Thank you.”
I hit
the joint. A few draws will enliven my senses without baking my mind so that all I want to do is chill at home, write, and listen to music. After another drag, I pass it back to Nick. He takes another draw before extinguishing it with his wet index finger and thumb. He sits the remains on the side of the tub.
The extra-large bath perfectly accommodates his height, even with me joining him. His feet barely graze the edge on the other side. Of course, he designed it to fit his frame. Everything Nick does is purposeful.
I have another sip of wine, the Epsom salt and the weed soothing all my rough edges. Nick soaps up my legs and his arms and torso with my lavender body wash. Moving just enough, his back skates over my nipples causing them to perk up and yearn for more. I rest my head against the edge of the tub, sighing. Nick massages the arch of my foot. Yes. Yes. He’s all parts amazing.
“Lynn. We have to talk.”
“I tried to talk downstairs.”
“Not that. We didn’t use protection in the shower last night.”
“Or this morning.”
“So, you were aware?”
“Of course. I’m a thirty-three-year-old woman. This isn’t my first go-round.”
“You’re on birth control?”
“I have a ParaGard IUD.”
“I’m unfamiliar.”
“It means my baby-maker is on lockdown for ten years at a time.”
“Ten years? When will you have kids?”
“I have five years left on this device. And since I don’t plan to do motherhood, I’ll have another re-inserted.”
“You don’t want children?” he asks, massaging the other foot.
“No,” I say plainly.
“What if you met the right guy?”
“He’s not the right guy if he’s got procreating ambitions.”
Revealing this part of myself is slamming a steel door on any future we might have together. Guys with Nick’s genes get married and have kids. It’s a prerequisite for middle age.
For a moment, the only sound is Chet Faker singing “No Diggity” from the speakers in the living room. The scent of pot and rose water bubble bath, drifting around us.
Nick breaks the silence.
“I’m clean. I was tested three months ago.”