by Amiee Smith
“I’m clean. I was tested seven months ago during my annual.”
“A lot can happen in seven months, Lynn.”
“You’re the first to happen in the last seven months.”
Nick leans back against my chest, nuzzling his head in the crook of my neck.
“I don’t want children either,” he whispers.
CHAPTER 16:
NICK WILLINGHAM
Amazingly, Lynn and I finished our bath and went to our respective rooms without fucking.
I add a little more pomade to my hair before putting on my white dress shirt, black neck tie, and black suit jacket. There is a soft knock at my door as I put on my shoes.
“Will you zip me up?”
Lynn stands in the doorway wearing the short, black, A-line dress Raquel picked out. The dress is tight up top, shaping Lynn’s stunning rack like second skin. It dips low in the front, revealing the pink crystal, always nestled in the valley between.
“You chose modern over vintage,” I say.
I pull up the zipper, resisting the urge to press a kiss on the nape of her neck.
“I rarely wear a dress, but this was too precious to go unworn, and I may not have another opportunity in the near future.”
Lynn steps a way to admire her appearance in the full-length mirror in my room. She has styled her hair in a purposely messy side bun. Her makeup is so well done, most would think she’s not wearing any. I only know because I’ve spent the entire day staring at her bare face.
“Raquel picked out shoes to go with it,” I say, putting my wallet and phone in my pocket.
“I wonder how she guessed I’d want black Tory Burch flats.”
“I pay attention, Lynn.”
“Thank you, Nick,” Lynn says, her stare connecting with mine in the mirror.
“The car will be here soon.”
I leave the bedroom. If I stay any longer, I’m going to strip her naked. While the dress reveals very little, it suggests everything and poetically describes the exquisite woman wearing it.
Spending time with Lynn today has made me forget the importance of the meeting tonight. I’ve attend hundreds of client dinners. Except this is the first time my design is being considered for a project.
This could be a turning point in my career. I haven’t completed my licensing exams for architecture, so I’m hoping this project will be the kick in the ass I need to get them done. I’ve had four years to take the six-part exam, but I always find a way to avoid studying. My design is good, but I still feel like a hack. I had to get my buddy with his architecture license to sign off on the work.
I sit on the sofa. My workout, the few hits from the joint, and the glass of wine barely touched the nerves treading under the surface. As life seems to go, I need to give my best pitch in the middle of a party while Lynn floats around the room.
“Alexa. Stop.”
I need some quiet time.
Ten minutes later, Lynn enters the living room in a black short-waisted leather jacket with her pink purse in hand. Her lips, a matte red. The heels of the flats clack against the hardwood flooring, her stride revealing smooth, toned, brown legs.
“You’ll wear animals, but you won’t eat them?” I tease.
“Shh. Don’t tell PETA,” Lynn jokes.
She sits next to me on the sofa.
“Is there anything I need to know for tonight?” she asks.
“No. Enjoy your parents. When I’m done with my meeting, I’ll find you.”
If the meeting doesn’t go well, I don’t want her to feel she needs to console me. When I get back to the house, I might need a bag or three of OG Kush, and to take Lynn from behind, but I plan to do that no matter how the meeting goes.
“Cool. Can we revisit the protection conversation?” she asks.
“Would you prefer that I always wear a condom?”
“I never have sex without one. The IUD is a back-up. At some point, there probably will be another weekend like this, but in between those times…”
“I always wear a condom.”
“Good. So, it’s settled. We will always use a condom with each other and with other people.”
“No. I don’t want you to have sex with other people.”
“But you can?”
“I’m willing to wait. Until we’re together.”
“Nick, after this visit, I may not be back until the end of November. Do we want to put ourselves through… the waiting?”
“You went the last seven months without having sex.”
“Yes, but that was to keep myself focused. I want to get back out there. Maybe meet someone new.”
“Even if you’re dating me?”
“Nick, we need to call this what it is. We’re friends who hook-up. Let’s have fun while I’m here without making it more than that.”
“Why can’t it be more?”
“Do you want to be in a long-distance relationship? I don’t.”
“No, but I’m willing to work something out.”
“What is there to work out? I live in SF and you live here.”
“I think this is new and we need to give it time. We’ll figure out the details,” I say.
“What? You think you’ll razzle-dazzle me with gifts and hot sex and I’ll move back to L.A.? I’m not that girl.”
Without being fully conscious of it, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing. Maybe I’ve taken the Willingham Effect too far, too soon. But I still want her.
“We’re good together, Lynn,” I say.
“I think we’re great together. But I don’t want to put myself through the emotional messiness of living in the City and dating one of L.A.’s most eligible bachelors.”
Lynn doesn’t want to deal with jealousy. Ah, Horny Girl, welcome to my box. I’ve spent the last several hours trying not to think about her flurry of booty calls.
The chauffeur ringing the doorbell halts our conversation.
• • •
“Lynn Scott!”
Our presentation to billionaire Michael Ahmed is interrupted by him calling out to her as she flutters across the dining room of the Pasadena Club. Thankfully, Nathan, another project executive, has done most of the pitch tonight. My mind, elsewhere. And elsewhere is being beckoned to our table.
I’ve spent the night watching Lynn laugh and chat with her parents and their friends during cocktail hour and dinner— floating around like a pixie from table to table.
The Club is brimming with two hundred One Percenters in the Pasadena area. People are moving out of the dining room to the dance floor on the other side of the building.
Lynn turns around. Her expression, cool and reserved. It’s the face I’ve misread as shy over the last three years. All night, she’s stayed away from our table. At the meeting is my brother, who made the introduction to Michael; Michael’s business partner, Jordan; both my parents; Nathan and his wife, Melissa; and myself.
Lynn appears to be giving me space to conduct business. But I think she might be ignoring me. Shutting me out. Limiting this thing between us to a hook-up. I wish she were by my side tonight. But it is neither the time nor the place to introduce her to my family and coworkers. We need to figure out what’s going on between us first. I want to get through this meeting, so we can spend more time together… alone.
“Lynn!”
Michael stands, buttoning his jacket. He’s tall, almost as tall as me, but lean. Impeccably dressed in this season’s Armani charcoal suit and white dress shirt. His dark hair is heavily styled in a brushed-up haircut, framing his copper-colored skin and groomed five-o’clock shadow.
While I ain’t mad at his style, he’s an asshole; spending most of the evening complaining about the food, scrolling his phone, and talking over our presentation.
Michael is Persian Jewish from family money. He’s a member of an elite class of wealthy thirty-somethings from Beverly Hills. He recently made a name for himself in real estate. I’m enduring his presence because he wants to tur
n an old piano factory into luxury condos in Downtown Los Angeles. It’s my professional dream project.
Lynn approaches the table without making eye contact with me. She doesn’t have her purse or jacket, and all I see is lots of smooth brown skin.
“Michael Ahmed.”
She accepts his extended hand, engaging a cheek-to-cheek kiss. Her demeanor, formal and fitting for the culture of the exclusive club.
“Lynn, you’re lovelier than ever,” Michael says through a glowing grin.
“Thank you, Michael. It’s great to see you. I want to catch up, but I need to get back,” Lynn says.
“Back to whom?”
“My parents. They’re members here. I’m visiting for the weekend.”
“You don’t live in L.A.?”
“No. San Francisco.”
“I own several buildings in the City.”
“Of course, you would.”
“What neighborhood?”
“Hayes Valley.”
“I own two buildings there. Maybe you’re one of my tenants.”
“How presumptuous of you. I own my place.”
“Really? With your husband?”
“No. I’m not married.”
“Did your father buy it for you?”
“Ah, Michael, you must have missed the memo. Single women can own property now.”
Her quick wit causes my usually stoic dad to crack a grin.
“I’m trying to figure out why such a beautiful woman lives in San Francisco alone.”
“I got the same fancy education you did. And an MFA in writing from SF State.”
“You did become a writer?”
“Yes.”
“Forgive my manners. I’d like to introduce you all to Lynn Scott. Her sorority was the sister to my fraternity at USC. Lynn helped me pass my writing class. I still use the proofreading trick you taught me.”
“Read it backwards?”
“Yes, it has saved me from many embarrassing emails.”
“I’m glad I could help.”
“By any chance, are you Lynn Scott, the… ah, author?” Melissa asks from the other side of the table.
“I am.”
“Oh, wow! I thought I recognized you. I’m reading ‘The States of Love & Trust.’ It’s riveting. I had to drag myself away from my tablet to come here tonight,” Melissa says.
“Thank you. I’m so glad you’re enjoying it.”
“Did you write ‘Lowlight’ too?” my mom asks.
“Yes. I did,” Lynn says, her hands folded in front of her.
“It was magnificent. I couldn’t put it down.”
“Thank you. I’m so glad you enjoyed it,” Lynn says.
I have a feeling the phrase, “I’m so glad you enjoyed it” is a part of Lynn’s public persona. She’s successful, and with that comes a degree of fame. While Lynn doesn’t have to deal with paparazzi or gossip mags, she still must adhere to a code of conduct for someone in her position. My time alone with her, when she speaks freely… now much more precious.
“You really are a writer,” Michael says as if he didn’t believe her the first time.
I want to be pissed at dude, but I thought the same thing when I scrolled her Facebook page on Friday. I spent three years sharing a cigarette with this woman, and had no idea when she said she’s “been busy writing” it meant she was penning bestsellers and building an audience of super fans. Of which, I am one. But my admiration extends past the stories she creates.
“Hmm. I really must be getting back to my table. It was good to see you, Michael.”
Lynn pats his arm, pivoting to leave.
“Please, stay a moment. We’re in the middle of a meeting on a development I wish to do. I would appreciate your opinion on which design I should choose,” Michael says.
“I imagine you pay professionals to advise you on such matters,” Lynn says plainly.
“Yes, but I want to know what you think,” Michael says, smiling at Lynn.
“Do you really want my opinion, or do you want an excuse to continue staring at my breasts?”
She smiles. Her light tone and razor-sharp wit causes everyone at the table to chuckle. Lynn is well-aware all eyes are on her. All of which seems to be flying over Michael’s voluminous hair. His entranced gaze triggers my protective instincts.
“I’m admiring your crystal. Rose quartz. The stone for attracting love.”
Towering over her, Michael reaches for the stone, but Lynn takes a small step back.
Her voice is saccharine sweet, “Oh, Michael, didn’t your mother teach you to look and not touch?”
She’s still smiling, but the sparkle is missing from her gaze.
“My apologies. Please have a look at these designs. I promise I just want an outside perspective.”
Michael hands her the tablet we’ve been using for our presentation.
Lynn swipes through the designs. Two belong to architects we collaborate with and one belongs to me. She takes her time reviewing the images before handing the tablet back to Michael.
“I like this one the best. Modern. Elegant. Yet, it preserves the history of the building.”
“Would you live there?” he asks.
“No, because it’s not San Francisco. I’m rather fond of my place. But if I were someone else, I would definitely live there.”
“It’s settled. We’ll go with this design. Jordan, have the attorney prepare the contracts for my signature,” Michael drops the tablet on the table.
Lynn attempts to leave again.
“Lynn, thank you for your time. Please give my apology to your parents for keeping you away.”
“I will. Have a good evening.”
“Lynn?”
“Yes, Michael?”
“How would I reach you if I want to invite you to dinner the next time I’m in the City?”
“Try Facebook.”
Lynn doesn’t wait for his response, disappearing into the crowd herding from the dining room into the dancing area.
I glance at the tablet.
She chose my design.
• • •
I find Lynn doing a high-energy shimmy on the dance floor with her mom. She’s waving her arms and singing along to Beyoncé’s “Run the World (Girls).” I can’t go to her, because it is clearly a ladies-only dance.
I stand on the edge of the parquet dance floor, unable to pull my eyes away from the grace and precision of each shake and whirl of her hips. I’ve seen her dance. She and her friends always put on music at parties and rock out (like on Friday night), but this is different. I now know the intimate details of each of those curves twirling in time to the music.
“She started dancing in her room at the age of five. Her mother and I always thought she could have been a dancer if her head wasn’t buried so deep in a book,” Lynn’s father shares as he comes to stand on my left side.
He’s cradling a glass. I recognize the expensive scotch by its caramel color and scent.
“She’s more of an athlete than she gives herself credit for,” I say.
Lynn laughs and whirls around the dance floor, the muscle definition in both her legs and arms visible. Her stamina and agility are apparent as she bounces on beat with the rhythmic percussion in the song.
“How was your meeting?” Martin inquires.
“Dismal. Then Lynn showed up and turned it around,” I say openly.
“She has a way of bringing sunshine to even the darkest circumstances. It’s why she’s so good at her job. I miss her light, but I have to give her the space to share it with the world.”
“Would you prefer she lived here?” I ask.
“No, son. I think you’d prefer she lived here. My concern is how you’ll handle not having sunshine in your life every day.”
Martin sips his drink, turning away to engage a conversation with another club member. I catch Lynn’s stare as the music changes. Like magnets, we move toward each other.
“Wanna dance?” she asks.
“Sure. I’ll warn you, I haven’t danced since Becky Myers cotillion.”
“I was there, but I was only invited because Becky and Jen were friends. I bailed as soon as my mom thought it was socially acceptable.”
“My mom made me go. She also made me take four weeks of dance lessons in preparation,” I say.
“So, you’ll be fine on the dance floor. Come on, it’s a slow song.”
Lynn and I rock and sway to Adele’s “Someone Like You.” I admire the way the DJ lights illuminate her face. She seems happy. Relaxed. Chill.
“Don’t laugh. A few years back, I’d get high on Purple Kush and sit in my living room and listen to this record,” I reveal, twirling her around.
“Why would I laugh? It’s a great album. Were you nursing a break-up?” she asks.
“No. That’s what’s crazy. I was dating a woman at the time, but I never listened to it in front of her. I guess it was an excuse… to feel something.”
“I get it. Superstars don’t get the luxury of feeling all their feelings.”
At the risk of being cliché— I stare longingly into her eyes, searching for the secret that makes her get it. Get me. And why it took three years for me to recognize it?
“How did you know?” I ask.
“I’ve spent time in your house. Of course I’d know your design.”
That wasn’t what I meant, but I want to know what she thinks of my work.
“Did you choose it because you knew it was mine or because you thought it was the best of the three?”
“Um… that’s a difficult question. It’s like asking me if I loved chocolate cake because of the chocolate or the sugar.”
“Well, knowing you, it’s because of the butter.”
Lynn laughs. “I do miss butter. Butter is what started my weight loss journey. I was hooking up with this guy… he was a part of the security team at Google. He shaved his head because he was balding at thirty. Only five or so inches taller than me. Think Secret Service cast-off. Anyway, he’s super fit and zenned out because he does yoga and meditates. He was over one night… I’ll never forget it… we had gone out to this wine bar in the Mission that’s too cool to serve food. I was hungry and tipsy, so I made a grilled cheese. And grilled cheese is not a grilled cheese without butter… and he says to me: ‘Lynn, that’s your problem. You eat too much butter. You’d be really pretty if you lost weight.’ So, I ate my sandwich, sexed him again— because an orgasm has a way of softening a dis— and sent him on his way. But as I was lying there, I thought about what life would be like if I were thinner and more fit. I was social. I had lots of friends. I also had more sex than most of my friends. And though I wasn’t athletic, I could tear up a dance floor and walk for miles and miles. But his comment did get me thinking about who I would be and what choices and decisions I would make if I wasn’t the cute-nice-smart-plump-girl. And so, my journey began.”