She’s only wearing the chef jacket and heels.
“Are you . . .?” I gesture to the outfit, the end of my words making my meaning clear. Are you naked under that?
She rolls her eyes. “Please. I have on my alpaca panties.”
“Alpaca panties?”
Her eyes twinkle. “I couldn’t resist. There was a sale on cute animal print undies with faces, you know, right here.” She gestures to her pelvis. “A six pack of giraffes, zebras, dolphins, and llamas too.” She casts her eyes down. “Wait. I have on the llama ones. I always get them confused.”
“Alpacas have shorter ears. Llama ears are banana length.”
She snaps her fingers. “Yes. Exactly. I’m wearing the big-eared animal undies, so it’s totally fine.”
Great. Now I’m thinking of her in underwear. In fucking llama underwear. Precisely the visual I’ve assembled way too many times without help, thank you very much. Minus the llamas, of course.
She tugs at the hem of the jacket, revealing the bare flesh of her thigh.
“Lulu.” It comes out like a warning.
She laughs at me. “Relax. I’m tiny; this jacket is huge. It’s like a short dress on me.”
“A very short dress.”
“I can handle a short dress. I’ve worn shorter.”
“Shorter as in ass-cheek length, Lulu?”
Her eyebrows wiggle. Her eyes—green and not so green—sparkle. “Yes. I’ve worn ass-cheek length, Leo. But I’m still decent. And you’re still my hero.”
She leans closer, rises on tippy toes, and moves her lips close, closer, closest. She dusts those lips across my cheek, and it’s like she’s an arsonist.
In one swift move, I’m on fire.
She grabs the plastic bag from my hand, stuffs her ruined dress in it, and hands me back the bag.
When she swivels around and walks toward the demo stage, “decent” isn’t exactly the word I’d use.
More like decadent.
The jacket hits the top of her thighs. Her legs are toned from kickboxing—and I know why she boxes, I know why she started, I know why she doesn’t miss her kickboxing sessions with her girlfriends, and my heart squeezes from knowing this.
Llama panty–wearing Lulu makes it to the cooking stage at master food critic James Carson’s booth, steps up, slides on a lapel mic, and smiles.
As if it’s the most natural thing in the world to do a chocolate demo dressed like the sexiest chef in the world. Looking like the woman I fell in love with ten years ago.
Mad, crazy, unrequited love that required years to get over.
And seeing her now, commanding an enrapt audience, wearing a Heavenly jacket, having concocted a chili pepper chocolate truffle that made my taste buds sing the “Macarena,” it hits me.
Lulu should be our next rising star.
4
Lulu
Earlier today I was swimming in a sea of chocolate.
Now?
I’m shaking hands with the woman who runs Heavenly Chocolates. Kingsley goes by her last name only, like the badass businesswoman she is. She doesn’t simply nab honors as a top female CEO or a top Asian-American female CEO—she’s plain and simple a top CEO. She’s become renowned for her market acumen, her fabulous holiday parties, and her tastemaker skills.
The company launched its Rising Star line last year to highlight, market, and distribute artisan chocolate alongside its bigger, mass-produced treats, and it was a huge hit. It never occurred to me I’d be in contention for a role as Rising Star chocolate-maker, much less chosen in one freaking day.
But Leo had marched her over to my demo, and when I finished, Kingsley stared at me over the top of her red glasses, asked for some chocolate, and then rolled her eyes in a sign of unmitigated pleasure. Seriously, those food-induced eye rolls are literally the best thing ever.
Now, Leo’s gone, and Kingsley has offered me the coveted post as we chat behind the demo stage. She grabs my arm affectionately, her swath of silver bracelets jingle-jangling against each other. “Just the other day, I was in your shop, gorging myself on those new Earl Grey creations. They are sinful. Positively sinful. Look what you’ve done to my hips.”
Kingsley gestures to her hips, and they’re not tiny, but they aren’t an ox’s width or anything.
“You look lovely.”
“And I wear Earl Grey chocolate so well.”
I laugh. “You wear everything well.”
She smooths a hand over her belly. “And sea salt, and caramel, and lavender, and raspberry, and strawberry, and so on. But no regrets, right?”
“As I like to say, I never put anything in my mouth that I’ll regret later.”
She chuckles, squeezing my arm tighter. “Aren’t those some words to live by, sweetie.” She clears her throat, her expression turning serious, her dark eyes staring intently at me through the glasses. “Now, listen. I want you to make something amazing for us. I want it to light up the night sky. I want it to be so good Aretha Franklin would sing a tune about it, may she rest in peace.”
Nerves slam into me. She’s asking for the moon, the sun, and the stars.
I’ve been shooting that high for years. Shooting and missing by miles. I need to be able to deliver the solar system to her, starting now. I give the nerves the heave-ho, raise my chin, and aim high. “Do you think Aretha might have sung about a milk chocolate ganache with peanut butter and toasted corn? Or truffles with pistachios and cherries? Perhaps even a buttery caramel with dark pecans?”
Her eyes widen, and she lets her tongue loll out of her mouth. “Oh, I believe she’d be hitting the highest notes.”
I breathe a sigh of relief, chased by giddiness. Holy shit. This is a huge opportunity that could do wonders for my fledgling brand. “Thank you again. I’m truly thrilled.”
“Also, this look you have going on?” She waves a long red fingernail at my ass-cheek-length jacket. “It’s hot as hell. But maybe consider some pants next time.”
My face flushes beet red. “There was a chocolate fountain incident.”
She furrows her brow. “What?”
“Never mind.”
Now isn’t the time to talk about what went wrong. A few years ago, my life was upside down. I was a pastry chef working in someone else’s struggling bakery in the East Village and fighting to find a few free hours to design and create my own chocolates. It wasn't enough time. My dreams were tabled indefinitely.
Now, thanks to Leo, my dreams—the ones I clutched to my chest even in the darkest of times—are racing to the stratosphere. I can’t wait to tell my mom and my best friends and so many other people.
When Kingsley is done, I look around for Leo to thank him, but he’s gone.
I head to my shop, roll up my sleeves, and get to work making recipes.
I feel the slightest bit intrusive when I send Leo a text later that night, asking if I can take him out for a drink to celebrate. I imagine he’s at home, curled up with his fiancée on a dark leather couch, watching Netflix and chilling while ignoring his phone.
The image should make me happy.
I was rooting for that for so long, hoping he’d find someone who fulfilled his heart.
He doesn’t reply right away, so I send a text to Cameron, my best friend and business partner at Lulu’s Chocolates, the guy who is handling our expansion plans.
* * *
Lulu: We’re partnering with Heavenly!
* * *
Cameron: So much goodness it’s like great balls of fire!
* * *
Lulu: Not too shabby, right?
* * *
Cameron: That’s the stinking definition of un-shabbiness. Wait? Heavenly’s the company where the dude you’ve been friends with since culinary school works?
* * *
Lulu: Leo. Yes.
* * *
Cameron: Interesting . . .
* * *
Lulu: Why is it interesting?
* * *
C
ameron: He was best friends with Tripp, right?
* * *
Lulu: Yes! You know that! Why is it interesting?
* * *
Cameron: You know exactly why it’s interesting.
* * *
I’m about to reply when Leo’s name pops onto the screen with a text telling me to meet him tomorrow at The Pub.
I picture him in his apartment near the park, the one with the green awning and the doorman who always called me Carrie Bradshaw.
I can see the elevator, and with sharp clarity, I remember all the times we took it, heading upstairs to a fifth-floor dinner party. Dinner, wine, dessert, Scrabble, Cards Against Humanity, riddle books.
Now, I imagine Leo is setting down his phone, turning it to silent, and giving all his focus to Amy for the rest of the night.
That’s the way it should be, and I decide that image must make me happy.
5
Leo
As the Arctic Monkeys warble at their usual Mach speed from the speakers overhead and some guy in shorts kicks some white-and-black ball on a TV screen in a sport I will never like, my buddy Dean pours me a pale ale, chuckling the whole time.
“Wait. Tell me again the part where you had the brilliant idea to partner with the woman you’ve been in mad love with for a decade.”
I shoot him the sharpest of sharp stares. “I’m not in love with her. That ship sailed long ago.”
Dean nods solemnly. “Right, of course, mate. The ship sailed around the world. Is that where it went?”
“Precisely.”
“Or was it more like around the world and right back in the harbor?”
I sigh. “That would be stupid. Do I look stupid?”
With intense brown eyes, as dark as his skin, Dean meets my gaze, parking his hands on the bar. “Do you want me to answer the question seriously?”
Thinking better of it, I wave him off. Dean would answer me seriously. “No. Don’t answer. But I have moved on.”
He nods again and stage-whispers as he slides the glass of beer to me. “I get it now. We’re pretending for the cameras, right? They’re here somewhere. And you want me to go along with this ruse.”
“You do know there are a million bars in New York City, right? I could frequent any of them.”
His lips quirk up in an evil grin. “And yet you always come back to mine. Admit it. You can’t resist the call of The Pub. Nor can you resist the call of me.” He pats the wood proudly.
“It’s only because you have good beer.”
He scoffs. “It’s only because I am the most extraordinary bar owner on this side of the pond. Also, because I tell it like it is.”
I lift the glass, tipping it in his direction. That is indeed Dean’s strongest trait, but he’s wrong on this count. “Look. I freely admit I had it bad for her when we met. I had it bad for her for a couple years. I’ve never denied that. But the reality is I had to get over her, and I did, thank you very much. I couldn’t spend my fucking twenties mooning for someone else’s girl. I’ve dated plenty of other women. I’ve been serious with plenty of other women. Hell, there’s Amy too.”
He wipes down the bar. “Yes, Amy. Great example.”
“She is a good example.”
“Fine. You got over Lulu. You found the occasional woman to throw dinner parties with.” He pretends to wretch violently, reminding me why I never invite him to dinner parties. “And, evidently, you’ve swung your dick around and fa la la la la.”
I flip him the bird. “That’s not what I’m saying, and you know it.”
“I thought you were saying all the ladies loved you? Is it your broody, growly charm that wins them over, or your dinner parties?”
“No, it’s my huge . . . personality.”
Laughing, he raises an imaginary glass to me. “Well done.” His tone shifts to serious now. “Level with me. Are you prepared to work with her?”
“She’s a contractor. We’re not going to be in the same offices.”
“You completely dodged the question.”
“It’ll be fine. We’re friends. We’ve been through plenty. And plenty of people who have history work together.”
Laughing, Dean slaps his palm on the bar. “That is the best understatement among all the understatements in contention for Understatement of the Century.”
I grin, shrugging. “Who doesn’t have history?”
“You two have so much history you could write a new textbook.”
“Look, I’m in chocolate and she’s in chocolate. It was inevitable we’d wind up working together in some capacity. I saw her at the show, and I chose to introduce her to Kingsley. It’s that simple.” I point to the bar. “It’s a choice you’re here, right? And not in London still?”
“Sure, it’s a choice. Or it might be that I’m simply a stunning sex god and completely irresistible to hot, inked, bearded professional hockey defensemen.”
“My point exactly. You made a choice to move to the States and follow your guy.”
“Ahem, my husband. I’m no fool. I didn’t move without a ring.” He waggles his ring finger, showing off his platinum band.
“You made sure he wasn’t getting the cow for free.”
“Exactly. This cow has a fantastically high price tag and is so worth it.” Then, he makes sure I’m looking him in the eyes. “I’m only pulling your leg. I know you two went through the mill together. You love each other like we love each other.” He points from me to him, then furrows his brow. “Wait. Maybe not at the beginning, because try as you might, I just wasn’t that into you.”
I groan, dropping my forehead into my hand. “Why do I bother talking to you?”
Laughing, he slaps my shoulder from across the counter. “Listen, all I’m saying is, once upon a time, you were in love with her. You kicked the habit, you moved on, you got over her. Which is fantastic. Hell, you went on to get your sorry arse engaged. Good on you. Now all you have to do is keep it on the level as you work with her. It ought to be easy, right?” Dean looks at me with an intense earnestness that’s his hallmark along with the cheeky bluntness.
“I can do that.”
On that note, the woman in question breezes in and drops a kiss on Dean’s cheek, then on mine, smelling like coconuts and a summer breeze that stirs up memories.
6
Leo
Ten Years Ago
* * *
“Coffee. I need coffee.” I muttered it like a mantra at six thirty in the morning as I opened the door to the Audi Tripp’s father gave him when he earned his bachelor’s degree. It was a gift that served double duty—a present and a dig at his mom. “Why did anyone ever think waking up early was a good idea?”
As we peeled away from the curb in front of our apartment, Tripp glanced over, his quarterback-in-the-huddle energy too much for the hour. “You can do it, man. You did it in college.”
I shot him a dubious look. “Hello? Have you met me? I famously took no classes before eleven a.m.”
“Except for one. You powered your way through Business Strategy at nine. Remember that?”
I scratched my jaw. “Admittedly, that was my favorite class.”
“Or maybe it was because you had my cheery, happy face to keep you going at that hour. Remember my daily wake-up dorm room knocks?”
“Yes. It was like a rooster cock-a-doodle-dooing in the morning.”
He raised his chin skyward as he drove. “Cock-a-doodle-doo!”
“Stop. It was hard enough to take in college.”
He laughed as we drove from Hoboken, where we’d opted to live after graduation, toward the Path station.
He reached behind to the back seat console. “Do I know you or do I know you? I popped out early to grab this.” He produced a cup of coffee, the deli kind with the blue-and-white writing and a beautifully curling plume of steam coming from it.
“Dude.”
That was all I needed to say. He knew what I meant—thank you so fucking much. Gratitude flowed th
rough me as I drank the life-sustaining beverage.
“All right, so you’re finally going to master more than boiling an egg?” Tripp pulled into the parking lot at the Path station.
“Please. I refuse to master that. Hard-boiled eggs are the worst. But the more apropos question is this—will you ever learn how to balance a checkbook?”
Tripp cracked up. “Why do I need to? I can always lean on you for that side of the business.”
When we reached campus a little later, he went his way to his culinary courses, on a fast track to become a chef, and I went mine, to a program that was mostly on the business side of food management, but with a few food classes too. The candy company I’d snagged an internship at during my senior year wanted me to learn the business from the ground up, and it was paying for my additional school, now that I’d graduated.
I grabbed a spot at one of the kitchen counters, and as I was sorting ingredients, I smelled coconut. I leaned in closer to the chocolate in the silver bowl. Was there coconut in it?
“It’s so good it should be criminal.”
That voice. Pure and sweet and confident.
I straightened and looked into one blue eye, one green eye. A straight nose. Bow-shaped lips with a hint of gloss. A green sweater the color of an emerald. Everything about her was bright. It energized me more than the coffee had.
“But no one should ever outlaw chocolate.” I spoke quickly. Usually I was the thinker, waiting a beat or two before weighing in. This time, I jumped.
“Can you even imagine a world where chocolate was outlawed?” The woman with the wild mane of hair moved closer to me.
Birthday Suit Page 3