Private Internship

by Kitsy Clare

He shudders visibly, but nods.

  ***

  He’s a total mess in the cab, white-knuckling the hand strap for all he’s worth, even though the driver is a grandfatherly Puerto Rican geezer who creeps along at fifteen miles an hour for most of the trip to Greenpoint. And it’s a simple ten-minute ride.

  When we get out, Charles’ brow is gleaming and his face is so pale I’m afraid he’s about to lose his breakfast. But, with a congratulatory hug, he calms down, and we start to shop.

  The greenmarket’s bustling with hipsters and local Latino families, and it’s fun loading our bags with veggies, fresh apples, and other farm-grown goodies together. It’s that rare late-fall day when the sun is beaming down and it almost feels like spring. He shops for dessert items and advises me on various fresh herbs.

  For the time being, I’m keeping my recipe a secret. I want to see if I can actually pull it off without him hovering over me like an Iron Chef. We choose a sparkling raspberry drink sans alcohol from an upstate NY farm stand and some handmade cheeses from another farm near Woodstock. I plunge into a whole new foodie world I’ve been missing out on just because I’ve always been too afraid to cook.

  Back at the Sugar Factory, we retreat into our respective corners of the kitchen like prizefighters, to prepare the food. Except, when it comes to cooking, my food’s no prize. I spill the flour for the breading, and dump the first round of raisins into the raw egg for the chicken dip instead of the right bowl which contains the melted brown sugar for the sauce, so I have to throw out the first batch.

  I can’t believe that, from his corner, a yummy pie scent is already starting to waft over. But I forge on—lightly breading the chicken and simmering the special sauce. Chopping up my veggie picks just so. Now it’s me who is breaking out in a sweat. I’m so nervous I’ll screw up the dinner and burn it that I neurotically check the level of fire under each pot about thirty times. Charles peeks over at me with a roguish grin, but I keep waving him away.

  Then, when he’s ready to take his confection out, he ferries me away from the oven. I’ve bought chrysanthemums from the greenmarket, so I busy myself with finding a vase for them and setting the table in the dining room. Charles has elegant taste in dinnerware and even has pressed cotton napkins. I suspect that his personal assistant, Tommy, was involved in that purchase. Topping off the effect with some earth-tone candles that I stuck in my shopping bag as an afterthought, I stand back from the table to admire the effect.

  My part of the dinner is done and, by some miracle, I haven’t burned it. First, I dash off to the bathroom to wash the flour off my face and hands. Then, I ask Charles to take a seat while I present my part of the meal. He oohs and ahs at all the right times, and I must say, my heart is soaring with pride.

  I’ve cooked lightly breaded chicken with a buttery sauce of apples and raisins in brown sugar. And my veggie side dish is sautéed Brussels sprouts with slivered pecans, onions, and a dash of peanut butter. I’m a little unsure of the meal until I see Charles wolfing it down. “You like?”

  “Oh, my god, it’s delicious!” he says between mouthfuls.

  Before long, it’s his turn to serve dessert. He presents nothing less than a triple-berry pie with freshly whipped cream on it.

  “Holy moly, I haven’t eaten this well…um, ever?” I blurt before digging in.

  “Is it okay?” he asks.

  “Love much!” I say.

  He slides his chair close and feeds me a spoonful of pie.

  “Mm, it’s even better when I get it this way,” I murmur, and feed him a bite.

  When we’re finished with our pie, we lean close and gaze at the glowing candles. “Your dinner was amazing,” he says, and runs his palm tenderly over my cheek.

  “Thanks for making me cook,” I tell him. “Finally, I know I can do more than burn tea water.”

  “Thanks for forcing me to ride in a cab,” he says. “I might’ve gone for the rest of my life without stepping in another death tank.”

  “Vehicle,” I correct, gliding my finger down the slope of his nose.

  “We did good.” He leans over and, taking my face between his palms, kisses me. His tongue tastes of berries. It’s a lazy, sexy kiss of satisfaction from a lovely day spent outdoors and then cooking together. We cuddle closer and kiss some more.

  “What do you want to do tonight?” he asks when we take a break.

  I chuckle. “You know, I kind of miss your games, Charles Mitton.”

  “Really?” He throws me a sardonic look. “I thought you hated my game-playing.”

  “There are games and then, there are games,” I say mysteriously.

  “I’m lost,” he confesses.

  “I mean, yes, I hated your tricks and tests,” I start, “but I liked the tag, at least until the blackout.”

  “Come on, you liked warming up against my back. I know you did.”

  I grin. “Well, there was that. And I really liked playing hide and seek in your sugar packet pile.”

  “Did you?”

  I nudge him. “In fact, I’d love to play a new game in there.”

  There’s a flash of heat in his eyes. “And what game might that be?”

  “Making love in the stacks,” I purr.

  “That can be arranged, Sienna.” He jumps up. “Hide and seek, and I’m hiding. Find me, I dare you!” And, with that, he’s off.

  This time I know my way around, and I remember where his stack of sugar packets is. I run down the winding hall toward his gym, getting hot just thinking of us hunkering down in there together.

  The route takes me past his secret room, with the door ajar. He’s let me in—all the way in. No more secrets, I realize, jogging forward. The gym is dark, with the moonlight casting pale shadows, and at first I’m scared, remembering the blackout and how it felt to hurtle helplessly into that icy sugar vat.

  But, tonight, the only storm is the storm of adoring emotions in our hearts, and the moon is, in fact, shining brightly enough to clearly see the pile of sugar packets.

  I stand still for one more giddy moment, watching the pile shift ever so slightly. A low chuckle rumbles up from under it.

  And then, I dive in. Charles’ sexy growl makes me wet as I burrow down toward him, and he thrusts upward, wrapping his powerful arms around me. We collide into each other and, ripping each other’s clothes off, we make hungry, greedy love in the mountain of sweet, sweet sugar.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  A big thanks to Melissa Keir, Kate Richards and Najla Qamber.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Kitsy Clare hails from Philadelphia and lives in New York. A romantic at heart, she loves to write about the sexy intrigue of the city, and particularly of the art world. She knows it well, having shown her paintings here before turning to writing. Model Position, her new adult novella is about artist Sienna and her friends. Living in a Bookworld says: “Beautifully written! We get to learn things about art & painting, which is refreshing. A colorful story from a promising new adult author.” Private Internship is the next in her Art of Love series.

  Kitsy loves to travel, draw, read romance, speculative fiction, and teach writing workshops. She also writes YA as Catherine Stine. Her futuristic thriller, Ruby’s Fire was a YA finalist in the Next Generation Indie book awards. Fireseed One, its companion novel, was a finalist in YA and Sci-Fi in the USA News International Book Awards and an Indie Reader notable. Her YA horror, Dorianna, launches in fall, 2014. She’s a member of SFWA, RWA and SCBWI.

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  For Sienna, love and art are perilous games. Is she ready to ta
ke that gamble?

  Sienna is a beautiful, talented artist poised on the precipice of soaring into the glamorous, yet cutthroat Manhattan art scene.

  Dave Hightower is a hooked-up, handsome heir to the hippest gallery in NYC, Gallery Hightower.

  Erik is the live drawing model with his sizzling green eyes fixed only on Sienna.

  Three’s a crowd, so Sienna must make a choice: date Dave and ride the fast track to landing a show at Gallery Hightower and hobnobbing with the art glitterati, or follow her heart and take a chance with Erik, the stunning male model who’s stealing her heart. But Erik has some worrisome secrets, and who in their right mind would make live modeling their career?

  Dare Sienna throw away her chances of hitting it big to follow her heart?

  Excerpt:

  I’m arranging my paints in their canvas bag when a low voice sounds from behind me. “Nice! You have a lot of talent.”

  What? I spin around and gasp.

  It’s Green Eyes. And he’s only wearing a slippery silk bathrobe, loosely tied. Before I can readjust my line of vision, I get an eyeful of tight abs and taut loincloth underneath it.

  “Um, you r-really think my painting has promise?” I stutter, forcing my gaze upward. “It’s my first real attempt at oils. Mostly I do computer art.”

  The model smiles and reaches over me with a strong arm that emits warmth and a spicy lime scent. He points to the shoulders I worked on. “You’ve gotten the perspective just right. That’s hard with the way I was torqueing my body. Most people get that all out of whack.”

  “And you know that because what…you’re the model?” Dave demands.

  The model is nonplussed. “I paint on the side.”

  “Really?” I can’t help it; I gawk at him like a teenaged schoolgirl. He looks even better close up. He’s still leaning in. I could reach out and caress his thigh under his robe. The thought has me heating up. What’s wrong with me? Dave is sitting right here, and I’m going out with him later. Pull it together, girl. “What kind of things do you paint?”

  “Women, the most beautiful things in the world,” answers the model. As if it’s the only thing worth painting, as if everyone should aspire to it. Normally coming from a guy that answer would sound so incredibly skeezy—a greasy, obvious pick-up line. But something about this guy’s earnest tone tells me he means it. I just hope he doesn’t profess that to every pretty girl whose work he looks at. “I’m Erik, by the way. He reaches out a calloused hand. “You?”

  “Sienna,” I purr.

  Just then a classmate in a low-cut dress waltzes by. She must’ve heard Erik’s line to me because she leans in toward him and says in her husky voice, “Ooh, will you look at my drawing too? I’d love to get the model’s take on it.” She punctuates the word model with a wink. Her name is Taffy, of all things, and she’s got huge melon boobs and fiery red hair that billows around them. Totally annoying.

  “Just for a sec,” Erik says as he gives me another enticing grin. “Got to get back to the pose.”

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