“Guess you’re buying me a drink, then.”
I shook my head and smiled. I couldn’t stop smiling at this guy. “Guess so.”
We put the cues away, and he led me back through the crowd. I squeezed my way into the bartender’s line of vision and signaled for two more.
When the drinks arrived, I turned and saw him mouthing, My tab, to the bartender.
“Hey, that’s not fair!”
“What?” He looked innocently at me.
I sipped from my straw and handed him his beer. “I was supposed to—”
He shook his head and came closer to me. “I couldn’t hear you, what?”
“You were supposed to let me buy your—”
His eyes were close to mine again, and I noticed once more how nice they were. He shook his head again and looked at me. “Still can’t hear you.”
“Yes, you can!”
He laughed and came very close to me now, and spoke into my ear. “I still can’t hear you.”
I looked him in the eye and mouthed, Liar.
He looked at my lips, which had just formed the word. His clever grin faded a little, and he put a hand on my waist. I felt my breath catch and sipped from my drink for something to do other than throw myself at him.
He glanced around. “Do you … Do you want to go back to … to my place? For a drink?”
I never did that. Okay I never did this at all. Growing up near one of the most dangerous cities in the country had taught me to always be careful about invitations like this. Even when it was this guy.
But I wanted to. “Um…” This was foolish. I knew this was foolish. I didn’t even know this guy. “I guess that would be okay for a few minutes. Maybe one drink.”
He nodded. He shot a hand out to get the bartender. “I need to close my tab. Do you—?”
“Oh, no, my friend and I were on the same one. I’m gonna go tell her I’m leaving.”
“I’ll meet you at the door in a second.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
I slithered through the crowd and made my way to Lynn.
“I’m…” Suddenly I was embarrassed. “Going back to his place for a drink?” It sounded like a question.
Maybe a request for permission.
“Gemma! Are you crazy?”
I was a little startled by her accuracy. Because once again, this was not a normal thing for me. “It seems possible.”
“Hm. I don’t like him having a home advantage, just in case he’s a weirdo.”
“If I thought he was a weirdo, I wouldn’t be going!”
“I know, but still…”
“You think my home advantage is better?”
“Of course not! You can’t let him know where you live!”
I sighed. “Well, a hotel seems like overkill.”
She looked back at Jared. “How would you like an overnight guest?”
For one startling moment, I thought she meant me, but then I realized what she was doing.
Jared nodded with a smile, and she reached in her purse and produced her keys. “Mi casa es su casa.”
“But—”
“Tell him you’re going to your friend’s place. Tell him yours is too far away or whatever. If he knows it’s not your place, he’s not going to go looking for you there.”
It made sense, though I really doubted he was anything other than what he seemed to be—a really nice, normal guy. “Thanks! Close out our tab, will you? I’ll just get my card tomorrow.”
“Of course! Have fun! Bet you’re glad you ran over that peacock now, aren’t you?”
Jared looked puzzled, and Lynn launched into an explanation as I left. I didn’t need to relive that yet again.
I walked over to the door and then stepped outside. He was there. It might have been awkward, but somehow it just wasn’t.
He gave me that smile one more time and we left side by side in silence.
Twenty minutes later, we were crossing Lynn’s lobby, past the security guard, and into the tiny elevator. I never would have guessed I would be the one back here tonight with a guy. But he didn’t give me much time to think.
We got to the apartment, fumbled with the key, and finally got the door open. I turned on the light switch, illuminating a small hall that opened to a modest sitting area. I paused. Was there any point in going in there? Were we just going to end up in the bedroom anyway? Just how far did I need to take this charade if we were both adults with the one intention and we knew it?
I never got the chance to really ponder the answer. No sooner were we in the hall than he had my back against the cool door, and his lips on mine. He pulled off my shirt, and I started to unbutton his. Underneath it was a toned, solid physique. I ran my hands along his stomach and up his shoulders as his shirt fell to the floor.
He unsnapped my bra with one quick, easy motion, just as he’d sunk the eight ball only minutes before. His hands felt strong and a little rough on my skin, and he let one trail up my spine and into my hair. I was glad I’d worn it down. When I wore it up and let it out of its band, it always came away looking like a crumpled umbrella.
When you have gone a long time without any kind of intimacy—as I had—this kind of touch was like a drug. Better than a drug. It was the kind of bliss that made foolish people weaken and make compromises they shouldn’t. Compromises that maybe they wouldn’t consider if they were of sound mind.
But it’s hard to be of sound mind when your body is in such a state of ecstasy that it feels like your whole soul is being soothed. Under his touch, I had the strangest disconnect from the rest of the world. It was as if, for the first time in quite some time, I felt I didn’t have a worry in the world.
That’s the trick sex plays on us, I guess. It erases really important things from our consciousness. Things like, Maybe I don’t know this guy well enough to be doing this and I’m not prepared for this and Maybe this is a chance I shouldn’t be taking.
Instead, I listened to my body, which was all, Woooo-hooo! This is awesome! Let’s go!
So I did.
My fingers ran along his waistband and fumbled with his button. His skin was hot against my knuckles when they grazed his abdomen. As soon as I unfastened them, his pants fell to the ground and he kicked them off along with his shoes.
One hand still wrapped around me and holding me steadily, he slid the other one up my thigh and under my skirt. I sighed. He pulled down the black, lacy Victoria’s Secret thong I was glad I’d chosen, and pulled it down my legs and I stepped out of them.
I was still wearing my heels.
Things were moving really far, really fast. And I couldn’t wait for more. My body cried out for it. I think I cried out for it. I arched toward him, pressing against him, willing him closer, willing him in, never wanting this moment of exquisite anticipation to end, yet dying for the satisfaction of feeling him inside me.
Then it happened. He entered me and I gasped. It was familiar, even though it was new, and welcome even though it was crazy. Suddenly I didn’t care that we were pounding against the door and that anyone could walk by. I didn’t care that I could probably be heard through the walls and probably out the window and down to the parking lot. All I felt was him.
“We need,” I gasped, “protection.”
He drew back, looking a little shamed. “Of course … You’re not—?”
“No. Maybe Lynn has some…” I went into the bedroom and scraped open the bedside table drawer. After a little digging, I found a three-pack of non-latex condoms, exactly where I would have kept them at my place. Relief filled me. I grabbed the box and went back to the hallway.
We didn’t make it back to the bedroom. Even those few moments it would have taken between the hall and the bedroom felt too long. I needed to be with him now. My body moved toward his like steel filings to a magnet. He kissed my neck, and I let my head fall back against the door, unable to do anything but hold him tightly around his shoulders.
I took a condom out and opened it
with hands that felt weak. It was a drag to stop and worry about it, but this was one thing I was absolutely vigilant about. Sex with a stranger was apparently okay, but not without protection.
I had my limits.
And, I’ve got to say, I didn’t regret it.
He was amazing. His touch was perfect; it was as if he were inside my head as well as my body and he knew exactly what I wanted. Honestly, I can’t even find words to describe it. It was … perfect. It was just what sex should be; it felt just how passion should feel. It was hungry and devoured and then, finally, satiated.
I caught my breath, or tried to, and looked at him.
He opened his mouth to say something, but instead just closed it and whispered, “Wow.”
I was just about to respond when there was a hard knock on the door.
We both exchanged a look, and then he laughed and said, “Yes?”
“There was a noise complaint,” a crisp female voice said from the other side. The security guard from downstairs, I was sure of it. “Just want to make sure everything’s okay.”
He stifled another laugh and said, “Yes, everything’s fine.”
There was a hesitation on the other side of the door, and the voice said, “Sir, could you open the door?”
“Um, yeah, one second.”
I grabbed my clothes and dashed into the bathroom. He slid on his pants and opened the door.
A small dark woman in a light blue cop uniform—the kind that real cops never actually seem to wear—stood in the hall. She was the same one who had been behind the desk when we came through the lobby, but I made a point of coming into her line of vision anyway, just to make sure she wouldn’t hold this against Lynn.
She took one look at Mack, his shirtless body, and then my face, which went hot the moment she glanced my way, and then she nodded.
“Quiet down, lovebirds.”
She said it without humor, then left. He closed the door and came back over to me.
I could not help bursting out laughing. He did, too.
“That was really rude of us,” I said, grimacing.
“Probably.”
“Couldn’t be ruder.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know that that’s true. We could try.”
I shrugged. “It’s not like she can kick us out. It’s my friend’s apartment, not a hotel room.”
“She’d need to get the police involved.”
“That would be embarrassing.”
He bent down and kissed my neck. “It’s unlikely.”
Before I knew it, he had his arms around me and his mouth on mine, and suddenly—unstoppably—we were doing it all over again.
Thank goodness the condoms came in a three-pack.
Chapter 5
Monday night.
The Van Houghten house in Chevy Chase, Maryland.
“I want to be raw.”
I looked at Angela Burns-Van Houghten, who was sipping a large glass of chardonnay in her recently remodeled kitchen, and involuntarily took a step back. If she was going to get raw with me, that couldn’t be pretty. She was the most abrasive person I’d ever met.
In the mid-’90s she’d been sort of a sub-supermodel. Not quite at the level of, say, Kate Moss, but she’d had a name and a lot of people knew her when they saw her still, partly because of that, and partly because she was a frenemy of Marie Lemurra and had made the final cut of several episodes of the reality show, though her screen time was never as much as I think she hoped it would be, based on the amount of loud laughing and broad movements I’d witnessed her making at one of the dinner parties I’d catered for Marie on the show.
So Angela was relegated to the netherworld of D.C. subcelebrities—not quite interesting enough to be famous but just famous enough to be interesting. Here in “Hollywood East,” our celebs didn’t tend to be attractive so much as powerful. Thus attractive-and-famous ruled supreme, and attractive-and-semi-famous came in at a very close second.
Close enough for someone like Angela Burns-Van Houghten to feel absolutely free to be an imperious bitch with a lowly servant like myself.
I braced myself for whatever “raw” truth she might be preparing to tell me. “Okay, go ahead.”
She frowned slightly. “That’s what I have you for.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t”—have any idea what the fuck you’re talking about—“understand.”
She sighed. “Do you know what raw means?”
It meant several things. “Yes. Of course. But I don’t know what you mean by it.”
“That’s the way I want you to cook from now on.”
“Raw?”
“Correct.”
“In other words, uncooked?”
Uncertainty flashed across her features for just a split second. “Well, it’s not really uncooked, is it?”
“Raw is, yes.”
“I’m talking about a kind of cooking.”
The raw food movement, yes, I got it. But still. “Yes, that is essentially uncooked food. Nothing is prepared at higher than something like a hundred and twenty degrees. Which means no more grilled turkey burgers.”
She was undaunted. “That’s just fine, we don’t want the carcinogens.”
The Van Houghtens had a gas grill—something I, personally, don’t consider real grilling—which meant there are no carcinogens in gas grilling.
Her kohl-lined hazel eyes narrowed at me. “Do we need to argue about this, or can you just do it?”
I had the bad feeling it might end up being both. “We’ll need to sit down and talk about your food preferences again.”
“You already know my food preferences. No onion, no nuts, no garlic, no dairy, no cinnamon, and so on. Oh, and I’m starting to think about no herbs at all. The pesticides are just too prevalent.”
Oh no. No, no, no. If she cut all herbs out of her diet, in addition to the no dairy and no dairy derivatives, no soy, et cetera, it was going to be impossible to cook for her.
Or at least seriously unfun.
“Let’s back up a minute,” I said quickly, hoping to derail that train before it picked up too much speed. “Let’s get the basics down first. Are you looking for a very vegetable-heavy diet?”
“Yes.”
“But you realize that things will be served at a cool temperature, right?” She would take that as condescending—I knew she would—so I added, “I only ask because I remember how much you enjoy things like turkey chili and lentil soup in the cold weather.”
She paused. “But it’s a very healthy diet.”
“It is.”
The front door opened and closed. Peter was home. Angela’s husband. He was a former Olympic decathlete and current local sports radio host, playing the “good cop” to his cohost’s shock jock “bad cop” persona.
“And I do have Stephen to consider,” she added, though it sounded like it was an afterthought.
Stephen was her six-year-old son who could have used a fucking cheeseburger, if you asked me, but no one was asking me for my opinion on the Van Houghten diet. At least, the Van Houghtens weren’t.
“Well, of course, a healthy diet is important for children, as well as variety—”
Her phone rang and she glanced at it. “Ugh, it’s the nanny. Excuse me.”
I was 100 percent sure if she had been standing here with the nanny and I had called, she would have looked at her phone and said, Ugh, it’s the cook. Which, in a way, spoke better of her. She was nondiscriminatory in her discrimination toward anyone she felt was in any way lesser than she was.
We were all lesser than she was, in her view.
I’d heard her complain about the maids putting the pillows on the bed wrong, the nanny arriving fifteen minutes late in a blizzard, the babysitter going to a funeral and leaving Stephen to deal with a different caretaker … and so on. Angela was one of those people who felt entitled to everything, preferably at the expense of everyone else.
I didn’t like working for her.
&n
bsp; She put her finger in her free ear and walked away from me, as if concerned that I would eavesdrop on the super-private stuff she had to talk to the nanny about.
I returned to the task at hand, making cooked pasta sauce—no oil, no onions—for steamed vegetables. No noodles. No Parmesan (only a nutritional yeast substitute).
No fun.
Peter came into the kitchen and draped his jacket over the back of one of the chairs at the kitchen table. “Hi, there,” he said, and came over to the pot I was stirring.
“Hi.” I stepped aside as he bent down and sniffed the sauce.
Peter Van Houghten was a good-looking guy by almost anyone’s definition. Tousled dark brown hair, dark blue eyes, and a tall, trim body, thanks to a painfully lean diet and the fact that he worked out regularly and ran a few marathons every year.
Under other circumstances, I might have found him attractive, but not under these circumstances.
I swear I have never had a romantic relationship of any sort with any of my clients. And I never would. Though with one bad almost-engagement behind me, it would figure if I did fall for a guy who was both attractive and unavailable. Whatever small appeal Peter Van Houghten’s looks held for me, it was probably based mostly on the fact that nothing could ever happen.
With a chilling rush in my chest, I thought of Mack at the bar on Friday. This happened every time I thought of him. Right about now, I was feeling like I could just relive that night like Groundhog Day, over and over, and never get tired of it.
But then there’d been the Morning After, when I’d awoken, bleary-eyed and my head in a vise—and alone. For a horrible moment, I wondered if it had even happened. I fumbled for the bottle of water by the bed, but knocked it over. I muttered a curse word, and then flew to the bathroom for a washcloth. I came back and started sopping up the wet mess. I blinked the mascara out of my eyes a few times, and then saw that I’d been running the cloth over a soggy, ink-stained piece of paper. There had been words on it, I could tell. But now they were as illegible as could be.
So. I was probably never going to see that guy again. And in the meantime, I’d just have to think of him every five minutes and notice actively how different it felt to have someone else standing closely behind me.
When in Doubt, Add Butter Page 5