Birthday Suit

by Lauren Blakely

  She tells me she’s living in Chelsea, has joined a new women’s kickboxing class with her friend Mariana, and plans to connect with a local rescue so she can foster small dogs again, like she did in California for the last year or so.

  “I can do that now. Tripp was allergic.” She says it with a mix of apology and promise.

  I run a finger along the rim of my beer glass. “We can do this now too.” I take a beat. “It’s still weird though.”

  “It is,” she says softly.

  “I can’t remember the last time we went to a bar.”

  “Or the last time we went to one and didn’t have to worry. It’s freeing, in a way.”

  “Yeah, it is.” I hate admitting that, but it’s also a massive relief.

  But even though it’s freeing, the flip side is that the knot of guilt that started to loosen is tightening again.

  Because I’m here with her, and he’s gone, and there’s a part of me that’s truly enjoying his absence right now.

  I’m enjoying it so incredibly much.

  9

  Lulu

  A few weeks later

  * * *

  I’ve been concocting truffles with pistachios and cherries, been crafting buttery caramel with dark pecans.

  I’ve flown to Miami for a quick meeting with my business partner.

  I’ve been working like a madwoman in the shop.

  Now I’m heading to the office, and it feels like the first day of school.

  Nerves flutter up my throat as I turn in the mirror, FaceTiming a suit-wearing Cameron in his Miami hotel room, since he’s on the road for a few weeks – Miami, Vegas, Chicago. I adjust my collar and tug at the waistband of my pants. “What do you think? Good first-day outfit?”

  When I meet the team today at Heavenly, I want to make a great initial impression. My contract started three weeks ago, and since then I’ve been working on the recipes. While I won’t be debuting them this morning, I’m eager to share some details of what I hope to make for the chocolate giant.

  Cameron gives me a cheesy thumbs-up. “You have my vote.”

  I arch a brow. “Do I detect a note of sarcasm in your tone?”

  “Me? Nah. Never.”

  Huffing, I stare at him. “Why are you being a hater?”

  He rolls his steel-blue eyes. “Two reasons. One, you called me for fashion advice. I’m the guy who has reduced his wardrobe to minimalist business basics, and when I’m not wearing a suit, I think jeans are acceptable for everything. Also, I wear Crocs.”

  I wince. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

  “But you can’t unsee them.” He points his phone at his shoes, and garish, horrid green Crocs fill my screen.

  I slam my palms over my eyes, my right hand pressing the phone to my face. “La la la la la.” I yank the phone back in front of me, wagging a finger at him. “Next time I see you, I’m taking all your Crocs and donating them. Wait. No one wants them. They will need to be burned as an offering to the gods while you ask for forgiveness for ever having worn them.”

  He cackles. “They’re comfortable. Also, when women dig me, I know it’s for me and not for how I dress.”

  “That’s for damn sure.”

  “Second, you want to know why I’m being a hater?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Because . . . wait for it.” He wields his imaginary drumsticks and performs a drumroll, then gets up close and personal, shoving his face against the screen and shouting, “YOU’RE WEARING A PANTSUIT!”

  I glance down at my outfit, royal blue with slim, tailored, high-cut cuffs that show off my heels. “But it’s a trendy pantsuit.”

  “There is no such thing. I know nada about fashion, and even I know that. How do you even own one?”

  “I borrowed it from Mariana,” I mumble sheepishly, caught in the act of having stepped in sartorial mud.

  “Well, un-borrow it. You are seriously getting me down. My mojo is at an all-time low. Seeing you in a pantsuit is like seeing a unicorn giving traffic tickets. That shit isn’t right.” He waves his hand dismissively at the screen. “Now, I’d say go burn that, but Mariana might need it to scare people when she’s in court or doing depositions. So return to sender, and let us never speak of this again, unless it is to mock you for that day you went temporarily presidential-candidate on me.”

  Oddly enough, I breathe a little more easily thanks to his dressing down. Truth be told, this outfit isn’t me. I’ve known it since I buttoned the slacks—hell, since I checked out my reflection and called Cameron for a second opinion. Still, I want today to go perfectly. I’ve lined up all my ducks in a row—I’ve staffed up at the shop to ensure my partnership with Heavenly gets off to a flying start. I want Kingsley to be proud of me, and I want to do right by Leo for recommending me, and I thought looking more corporate, less candy, was the way to go. “You’re right. Let me find something else. I love you for being so . . . diplomatic.”

  “Yeah, that’s me. I was so easygoing in my assessment of the worst outfit you’ve ever put on. Now go grab something dope, as the kids today say, and look like a boutique chocolatier, not like a politician. No one likes them, no matter which party, but everyone likes chocolatiers.”

  “Except Willy Wonka. He was kind of a perv.”

  “He is the poster child for pervs.”

  I say goodbye to my friend; rummage through my closet; rip off the suit that isn’t me in any way, shape, or form; and slide into a cute purple dress with white polka dots, adding a chunky red belt.

  I snap a selfie, send it to Cameron, and am rewarded with a return text full of clapping emojis.

  * * *

  Cameron: Lulu and the Purple Crayon!

  * * *

  Lulu: Is that good? Do I want to be Lulu and the Purple Crayon?

  * * *

  Cameron: We have reached the end of your allotted questions, thank you very much. You may now proceed to the corporate offices of Heavenly. Please send a report by the close of business. PS I am on my way to meet a mystery woman. Do you vote Crocs or no Crocs?

  * * *

  Lulu: NO CROCS! ALSO, I WANT ALL THE DETAILS!

  * * *

  Cameron: You will get them in due time.

  * * *

  I stretch my neck from side to side, take a breath, and send a wish that things go well with his mystery woman. Then I visualize my day unfolding perfectly. I’ll meet the team, share some of my plans, pose for a few marketing pictures, and be on my merry way.

  * * *

  Lulu: I am Lulu and the Purple Crayon, and I am going to look so dope in photos in my purple polka-dot dress.

  * * *

  Cameron: I know how hard you’ve worked. Go kick ass. You deserve it.

  * * *

  But do I? Does anyone deserve anything? I’ve never bought into the life-is-fair or life-isn’t-fair debate. I don’t believe certain people deserve bad things and others deserve goodness.

  As far as I can tell, life is about how we play the cards we’re dealt.

  Today, I’ve been dealt a pair of queens. The last few years, I was playing with a three of clubs high, at best, and bluffing my way through everything. Now, I have something worthwhile, and I’m going to treat it like the precious hand it is.

  I’m thirty-two, but in some ways, I feel younger. Perhaps because my twenties feel like missing years. Back then, I was stretched thin and pulled in so many different directions and none of them were the direction of my dreams. I would work on recipes late at night, wait up for Tripp, then fall asleep at the kitchen table, worried and wondering what else I could do to help my husband. I’d rise at six in the morning, crick in my neck, cocoa bean on my face. Money was tight in those days, my focus was narrow, and my emotions were spent in one store and one store only—my marriage.

  I was running on fumes, and there was nothing left in the tank to build a business. Now that I’ve worked through the pain and the heartache, I’m a dog chasing a Frisbee with my c
areer. I won’t lose sight of it or let it go.

  And as I look into the lobby mirror at Lulu and the Purple Crayon, I feel like a new woman with a new chance.

  I head to the food labs inside the corporate offices of Heavenly and work with my colleagues there on the recipes I’m mapping out.

  Later that morning, Leo texts that he’s at a business meeting, but he recommends the edamame salad for lunch and he’ll see me before the meeting starts.

  I reply: Edamame rocks, and so do you.

  As I send it, I smile, loving that he’s looking out for me in his way. I lose a little more of the first-day-of-school jitters, knowing I have someone in my corner backing me.

  At lunchtime I pop into the company cafeteria, where Ginny waves, motioning for me to join her. I wave back, indicating I will, then walk past a pack of guys discussing a call in last night’s Yankees game.

  One of them looks my way, then flashes a friendly smile. “Am I right or am I right?”

  I doubt the shouter needs my affirmation that he’s right, but I shoot him the thumbs-up, giving it to him anyway. “Totes. That was one hundred percent infield fly rule.”

  He jerks his gaze sharply at me, his hazel eyes widening in admiration as I head in the direction of the edamame.

  Thirty seconds later, the shouter strolls over to the salad bar. He’s tall and toned, and he sports a neatly trimmed goatee, the same chestnut shade as his hair. “Hey, you’re new, right?”

  I smile, eager to make friends here. “Yes. I’m Lulu.”

  “And you’re like a play-by-play analyst. Whipping out that infield fly rule.” He snaps his fingers with gusto. “Damn. Can I call you SportsCenter? Wait. No way. I’m calling you the Color Girl, like the color commentator. Scratch that. You’re the umpire. I’m Noah Rivera. Want to join my fantasy baseball league, Umpire?”

  Holy crap. He’s already bestowing nicknames and asking me to do corporate-y stuff. “I’m not that good with fantasy leagues, but I can— ”

  “It’s just something we do for fun. You should do it. You should absolutely do it. It’s awesome. In our league, we go head to head with the guys and gals from Frodo’s Snacks, Wine O’Clock, and Violet’s Dry Soda,” he says, mentioning a big packaged goods company, a vino distributor, and one of those hip, trendy soda companies. “The league is literally the definition of awesome.”

  He’s the Energizer Bunny dipped into a vat of espresso, then pumped up from a session at the gym. “Sure. I can give it a shot.”

  “Email me. I’ll hook you up. I promise it’ll be rad.” He shifts gears lickety-split, nodding at the chicken spinach salad on my side of the salad bar. “I’m training for a 10K. I intend to finish in first place, and my times are awesome. You know what that means?”

  “You’re going for a run the second you finish your salad?”

  “After work, you bet I am. But right now? I need a helluva lot more protein with my greens. Do me a solid and toss me some of that chicken salad, will ya?”

  “Sure.” I deposit some greens on his tray.

  He lifts his eyebrows like I’m the stingiest bastard in Salad Land. “A little more? I’m a growing boy, and I burn a lot of calories.”

  “Of course. Here you go.” I serve him a heaping dose of salad, amused by his one speed—sixty miles an hour.

  Then he surprises me, dropping his voice. “Put in a good word for me with the Gin-meister, will you?”

  He’s such a guy, angling for a girl through her . . . friend? I guess I’m Ginny’s friend. “Should I tell her you’re excellent at burning calories?” Then my eyes widen. “Wait, not that.”

  He laughs. “Tell her I’m supremely friendly.”

  “You’re definitely extraordinarily friendly.”

  “So are you. Great to meet you, Umpire Lulu. Catch you later,” he shouts as he speeds across the cafeteria to join his fellow Yankees fans. That right there is why energy drinks should be banned. That man likely has a secret stash in his cubicle and mainlines them in between spreadsheets.

  I find Ginny again. With a neat red ponytail cinched high on her head, she points to the empty seat across from her at the end of a table. Like she’s a taste tester, she has food spread out before her—a plate of carrots, a bowl of blueberries, and a tray with three different salads in the divider sections.

  “Hey there.” I sit, plucking at the strap of my dress. “It might be tough to trade shirts today. I’m afraid it’d be rather difficult for me. But I’d consider it for that necklace.”

  She eyes the heart-shaped necklace that dangles against her chest. “Difficult, schmifficult. I want a purple polka-dot dress. It’s totally a fair trade.” Then she smiles. “I’m glad Kingsley nabbed you. I was hoping it’d be you for the Rising Star line. I have to admit, I had an awful premonition it was going to be a male chocolatier again. Too many of the stars in the food field are men. We need more chicks. More girl power.”

  I take a bite of my salad, nodding. “I’m all for that.”

  She plucks a blueberry and pops it in her mouth. “But that’s not to say you’re only valuable for your ovaries.”

  “Why, thank you. Though I honestly don’t know the value of them.”

  Ginny cups the side of her mouth and whispers, “I know the value of mine. They work too well. I have a ten-year-old. No dad.”

  I raise a hand. “I was raised with no dad. I think I turned out okay.”

  A whooshing sound passes my head, and I crane my neck as a paper airplane soars past me and lands next to Ginny.

  She rolls her eyes. “Noah.”

  “Is he the paper airplane maker?”

  She picks up the winged object. “He likes to send these to me at lunch. He’s such a goofball.”

  My curiosity is piqued. “Regularly?”

  “Once or twice a week.”

  “Pretty sure that means he’s into you.”

  She laughs, dismissing the idea with a fervent wave. “Oh, no. He’s just . . . festive.”

  I glance behind me, and Noah waves from his table. To Ginny. “No. He has a thing for you. A big thing. What about you? Is it mutual?”

  “I’m thirty-five. I’m ten years older than he is. Is that terrible? Does that make me a cougar?”

  “Perhaps it makes you wiser.”

  “But is dating him wise? My daughter’s in fourth grade. He’s only fifteen years older than my daughter. Fifteen.”

  “But he’s not her father.”

  “I know, but still. Robbing the cradle much?”

  “I don’t think you should worry about that.”

  “What should I worry about?”

  As I take a bite of edamame, I consider her question. I consider my track record. I consider what I knew and didn’t know then offer my best answer. “Whether he’s as good at dating as he is at piloting paper airplanes.”

  “Good point. But I’m finding it a bit hard to make that decision.” She gestures to the vast array of items in front of her. “I couldn’t even decide what to have for lunch.”

  “Dating and lunch are different beasts. For now, I guess you have a little of everything.”

  “Now that’s an excellent decision.” She drops her voice to a knowing whisper. “With lunch and men.”

  As promised, Leo waits for me outside the conference room, his back to me.

  Out of nowhere, a wave of goose bumps rushes over my skin when I see him.

  Now that—that’s the kind of man suits are made for. Screw politicians. Suits are for men like Leo—broad shoulders, strong thighs, toned arms.

  And he possesses another attribute that sure makes a suit look like it’s whistling a happy tune being worn by him.

  His ass.

  Those tailored charcoal pants seem to hug his ass worshipfully, praying at the altar of perfect cheeks.

  Tingles sweep down my chest, and absently, I lick my lips.

  Wait.

  I stop in my tracks, talking back to my wildly inappropriate self.

  Di
d I just think of Leo’s ass?

  Oh hell, I did, says Wildly Inappropriate Lulu.

  I did just think of his firm, succulent butt that’s begging to be grabbed, held on to, woman-handled.

  Stop!

  I clench my fists, my nails digging in, a mildly painful bid to wrest control of the runaway train of my libido. I shove away the errant dirty thoughts. I should not be thinking about Leo’s butt.

  But how did I never notice he had such a fine ass before? I’m not even an ass woman. I’m an eyes woman.

  When he turns around, his smile spreads lazily, taking its time. His grin is crooked and kind at the same time, reaching all the way to his eyes, his brown irises so damn soulful they seem to see inside me.

  That’s when I do a clean sweep of my brain.

  I can’t let him see inside me. He can’t know I was thinking of his . . . assets. I’m here to work, not to perv on the man. After all, I’m no female Willy Wonka.

  But, more importantly, I’m working with him. And yeah, sure, no one has asked me to sign a contract forbidding contractors like me from fraternizing with key employees like him. But hello? I’m here to work, and I need to focus on this opportunity to build my business at last. And to build it free of distractions of the male variety.

  I vow to think friendly thoughts.

  I say hi, then head into the conference room with him by my side. Once we sit down, I don’t make eye contact. Not with his eyes, nor his ass.

  Well, he is parked on it. It would be hard to check out his chiseled butt right now anyway.