Instant Attraction

by Blakely, Lauren

He cups my cheek. “I don’t just want to fuck you. And I don’t just want to be your friend. I want more.”

  I tremble at his forwardness. My heart and my body want to give in. But my head knows better. “But we can’t have more. I’ve worked hard to be where I am. I’ve built this company myself from the ground up. And I need to take care of it and my employees.”

  “I know. I do understand. Your reputation matters. I respect you too much, and that’s why I will leave you here with this most friendly of unfriendly thoughts.” He steps closer, his soulful eyes locked with my gaze. “I want to kiss you. I want to touch you. I want to fuck you all night long. I want to make love to you in the morning. And I want to spend the day with you.” He exhales. “But I understand your wishes, and I respect that we can’t do that, so now, I must insist that we remain friends.”

  I shiver as I answer. “Yes.”

  It is the hardest yes I’ve ever had to give.

  * * *

  Enzo calls me the next day at work.

  “Just calling as a friend,” he says.

  I don’t have time to chat, but that’s what we do.

  He asks me how I started Wu Media. I tell him how I won a scholarship for college in the United States, then for graduate school in business, and how I grew the company to where it is today. It took long hours, intense focus, and fierce dedication.

  “I imagine it’s the same for you,” I say. “I’ve read articles about your background. You worked hard to break into the business.”

  “I did, and I want to keep working hard every day. In fact, I just booked a job with Gigante. To be the new face of the brand.”

  I laugh, sensing an opportunity to tease him. “Enzo, I’m not so sure it’s your face they’re after.”

  He laughs too. “No? You think it’s something else? My, how do you say it, booty?”

  “Yes. I imagine they like that quite a bit. And now I’m imagining you modeling underwear, and that’s simply unfair. You can’t plant these pictures in my head.”

  “Where should I plant them?” he asks ever so innocently.

  “In a garden. In the backyard.”

  “Ah, of course. I’ll work on watering a garden of naughty images for you.”

  “We’re friends,” I remind him. “Just friends.”

  “Ah, right. Of course. Then, as a friend, would you like to attend a private showing of the new Miller Valentina collection at the Blue Light Gallery?”

  My heart skips a beat. I twirl the phone cord and kick my heel back and forth. There is something delicious about old-school phones. They’re excellent for playing with when it comes to flirting.

  Except flirting is what I really shouldn’t do with him. “Let’s see. Miller Valentina, as in one of the most coveted modern artists?”

  “The one and only Miller Valentina,” he says. “How did I know you would be a fan of his?”

  It’s not a question. It’s a statement. Even so, I turn it around on him because I’m intensely curious. “Yes, how did you know?”

  “Because you’re a woman of discerning taste. And he is one of the finest artists of our generation. I took a stab. Was I right?”

  I kick my high-heeled foot back and forth. “I am indeed a woman of discerning taste.”

  He hums. It’s an enticing sound, especially because it’s almost as if he hums with an accent. “Yes, you do have excellent taste.”

  Butterflies seem to swoop in my chest, a sensation I haven’t felt in years. It’s not as if I’ve put matters of the body on the back burner. It’s that running this business can be all-consuming, so I haven’t had time to feel a thing for anyone for years. But I feel something for this man who is so persistent and who seems to know me so well, from my motivation to make something of myself to my taste in art. “I’ve been in love with Valentina’s work for some time. I assume you can handle my adoration of him?”

  Enzo seems utterly amused. “Not only can I handle it, but I look forward to seeing you delight in his work. As a friend, of course.”

  There’s a wink in his voice, and I grin from the other side of the city. “Yes. As a friend. Since we are friends.”

  “We are only friends,” he says with a note of longing.

  It feels a little sad, but I’m hopeful at the same time too, as if we’ve found this terrific loophole and we plan to exploit it.

  * * *

  I don’t doll myself up as if it were a date. But I do make sure I look absolutely fabulous a few days later when I find him waiting outside the gallery, looking head-to-toe lickable in charcoal slacks and a polo shirt that shows off his terrifically toned arms.

  His eyes roam over me, eating me up. I’ve never felt so wanted in my life. Dropping a kiss onto one cheek then the other, he whispers in a husky voice, “I’m only saying this as a friend, but you look absolutely stunning.”

  I give him a lingering once-over. “You’re not too bad yourself.”

  He holds open the door. I go inside, and he follows me, his hand barely dusting the small of my back as he guides me to a painting he wants me to see.

  It takes my breath away.

  It’s overwhelming, the kind of canvas that takes up more than an entire wall with its size and stature. Twelve panels of people kissing, pop art kisses, all of them making my damn heart flutter.

  Enzo leans closer to me, whispering, “Those kisses? What do you think of them?”

  “I think they’re incredibly alluring,” I say, my voice feathery, then I look at him. “And not in a friendly way at all. You’re so sneaky.”

  He brings a hand to his chest as if affronted. “You assume I’m sending you subliminal messages?” He wags a finger at me. “Such a naughty woman.”

  I run my thumb along his cheekbone. “I would never assume such a thing. Not with such an innocent face.”

  “I do have an innocent face at times. But I’m not so innocent.”

  “I doubt you’re innocent at all.”

  He sets a hand on my elbow, making my skin sizzle. “Let’s go look at more art,” he suggests, and it sounds like foreplay.

  Perhaps it is.

  * * *

  Over the next few weeks, he takes me to more galleries, more shows, more museums, knowing this is my weakness, this is what delights me. Or maybe it’s simply that he delights me.

  As we wander the halls, we talk, and I learn about his life growing up in Madrid and what brought him to this country. I share my stories too, telling him about where I was born and raised in Shanghai and what lured me to America—schooling and opportunity.

  “We’re not that different,” he muses as we wander through the Cloisters.

  “I suppose we’re not. Both rising up, making something of ourselves from humble beginnings.”

  He nods. “We are bootstrappers.”

  I smile, loving that word, then I decide to take a bigger risk. After all, my stomach is rumbling. “I’m starving.”

  “What are you in the mood for? I can check the Michelin app for a fantastic restaurant, or we can go to that new sushi place that everyone’s raving about.”

  I wiggle a brow and lower my voice. “Pizza. I want pizza. This is New York after all. And aren’t you becoming a New Yorker?”

  “I am indeed, and I read somewhere once that a New Yorker folds his pizza.”

  “A New Yorker definitely folds a slice of ’za.”

  “Let’s go fold some slices, Valerie.”

  We head to the nearest Famous Ray’s, where I order two cheese slices. We stand at the counter, chowing down on our folded pizzas, watching the city go by, and sharing more stories of life, then and now.

  I rather like my now.

  I like it a lot.

  When we’re done, I clear my throat, drawing up all my confidence. “I have to go shopping next week for a gift. It’s my good friend Kingsley’s birthday, and I have a bit of a dilemma.”

  He tilts his chin. “I love dilemmas. How can I help you solve it?”

  “I like to ge
t chocolate or cake as gifts for my friends. But Kingsley runs a chocolate company.”

  “You can’t get her chocolate. We need to find something else for your friend.”

  “I know. But what? Every year I try to find something new for her. Cupcakes. Old-fashioned sweets. Last year I even sent her Famous Ray’s, since she, too, is a woman of excellent taste who loves pizza.”

  “Never trust someone who doesn’t like pizza,” he says, his lips quirking into a grin.

  “Exactly. But I can’t do pizza again this year.”

  He taps his chin, thinking. “Wait. I know. I’ve always loved macarons.”

  I grin at the perfection of his answer, and at the idea it sparks. “Perhaps you’d like to shop with me? Since I’m helping a friend, of course.”

  “And I’ll help you. My wonderful new friend.” His smile is devilish and not the least bit friendly.

  Everything about the shopping date feels risky, but it feels like a risk I can’t keep from taking.

  16

  Enzo

  A man should always be early when he is courting a woman. Of course, I’m pretending it’s not courting, but I can’t fool myself.

  In my mind, I am absolutely courting her.

  After I meet my agent to discuss the next phase of a campaign, I make my way to the macaron shop on the Upper East Side, planning to arrive early.

  I stop at a crosswalk as the light turns yellow. A blonde woman hurries to cross the street from the other side, and just as she reaches the curb and sees me, she does a double take and stumbles.

  Into a manhole.

  Instinct kicks in, and I rush over, grabbing her waist before she drops all the way down.

  She gasps as I pull her up to safety. “Oh my God, you saved my life.”

  “I couldn’t let you fall.”

  She raises a hand in front of her face, breathing hard. “I think I already have.”

  “Let me help you to the sidewalk,” I say, steadying her until she recovers her footing.

  “I was ogling you, I must confess.”

  “Then it’s all the better that I rescued you, because we can’t have you die from ogling. I hear that’s a terrible way to go,” I say with a wry grin.

  “You are too kind. Please, will you have drinks with me tonight? Maybe I can ogle you safely then?”

  I shake my head. “I am honored that you asked. But I’m a taken man.”

  When I arrive at the macaron shop, I’m already late. I find Valerie quickly, and she arches a brow. “Forgive me for my tardiness,” I say, then tell her what happened.

  She studies me quizzically. “You saved a woman who was staring at you?”

  “I did.”

  She shakes her head as if amazed. “You are too much. I bet you made her day.”

  “And then she asked me out.”

  Valerie’s shoulders tense, her whole body stiffening. “What did you say?”

  I smile at her, grinning like I have a secret. “I said that I’m a taken man.”

  She studies me, then asks, “Are you?”

  I nod, confident in my choice. “I am.”

  “Who is this woman?”

  I move in close, brushing her dark hair behind her ear then whispering, “This woman who says we’re only friends.”

  She shivers, another telltale sign that I’m breaking her down. She swallows then, and it seems to clear her head. “Have an orange blossom macaron. It tastes like heaven melting on your tongue.”

  She offers it to me, but I don’t take it with my hands. I lean in and take it off her fingers with my lips, holding her gaze the whole time. “I love dessert,” I tell her after I finish it.

  “You look too good eating it.”

  “I bet I look better eating other sweet things.”

  Her eyes widen in mock surprise. “You’re very naughty. And you’re making me think very unfriendly things.”

  I slide my hand down her back. “Good. Then it is working.”

  She turns to me, that serious expression on her face again. “It is working. It’s working all too well, and it’s becoming too dangerous. As much as I want this, we can’t while we’re working together. And if I see you again, I fear I might cross a line I shouldn’t.”

  When the shopping ends, I fear, too, that this is the last I’ll see of the woman I’m falling for.

  She can’t risk the ruin of her reputation.

  And I can’t keep asking her to.

  17

  Enzo

  Frustrated, I head to a bar that night, enjoying the 1920s Great Gatsby theme, and sit at the counter, perusing the drink specials.

  When the bartender sets down a cocktail napkin, she declares, “You look like you need something to quench your frustration.”

  I shove a hand through my hair. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Bartender special talent. Something isn’t going your way?”

  I heave a sigh. “That’s one way of putting it. There is a woman.”

  She smiles. “When a man is frustrated, it’s usually about a woman.”

  I sigh, thinking of Valerie. “I saw her again this afternoon. I even asked her out on a date. But she said we couldn’t be involved if I’m working with her, which I am. And until I no longer work with her, I can’t have her the way I want to have her.”

  “You could quit,” she offers, mixing my drink.

  Perhaps she’s onto something.

  Interlude

  Spencer

  Well, lookee there.

  It seems all sorts of couples think they can be just friends.

  But can a relationship that ignores half your feelings ever last? Do you flip the switch of desire from on to off and focus on friendship only, like Enzo and Valerie are trying to do? Or do you dial up the heat from friends to lovers?

  Many have tried.

  Many have failed.

  But not all.

  Which brings me back to my pals Jason and Truly. There might have been a bit of instant attraction that first night, but they’re both grown-ups and they’ve been able to table it with no problem at all for a few years now.

  What? You don’t believe me? Then maybe it’s time to check in and see exactly how they’re doing.

  18

  Truly

  Like a soldier running drills, I take the next leg of the obstacle course, alternating jumps in tires then leaping over a plank.

  Jason remains right by my side then lunges for the rope ahead. “Faster, faster, faster,” I encourage him.

  “Woman, I’m going as fast as I can,” he says in that yummy voice that entertains me so much. We climb down the rope and reach the end of the course before anyone else in the class. I raise a hand to high-five my teammate.

  “We are killing it,” I say, panting.

  “That is because you are absolutely ferocious. I’m terrified. Have I mentioned that before?”

  “Only every time we work out together.”

  That’s become our thing in the last few years since we met. After punk rope, we couldn’t stop. We signed up for everything, from bike races to mud races and even jujitsu.

  It’s funny because the first night I met Jason, I was wildly attracted to him for those five minutes at the bar. And look, he’s a handsome-as-hell guy. But I quickly shut down those romantic notions, and now we’ve segued into this wonderful friendship.

  A friendship that I love and cherish. A friendship that I don’t want to do a damn thing to destroy.

  Because now, not only is Jason’s relationship with my brother at stake, but so is mine.

  I like him as a friend, and I want to keep him in my life. And I see him as part of my life, an important member of my social circle. So I don’t think of him romantically anymore.

  I simply don’t.

  When we finish class, we make our way to Chelsea.

  “Hey, I had an idea for your bar,” he offers. “What if you did signature drinks that you named?”

  Color me intrigued. “Go on.” />
  “I was thinking you could make up recipes, give them fun names, and maybe give each of them a story.”

  My brain whirs, immediately latching onto the concept. “That’s kind of a brilliant idea. Like, I could do Hush Money and devise a little story about the drink you need when you have to keep something quiet.”

  “Another could be Last Word, and you’d tell a tale about getting the final word in.”

  “Or Devil’s Teeth, and that’s the drink for when you’ve made a daring escape.” I beam at him as we turn the corner toward Gin Joint. “You’re brilliant.”

  “Nope. You are a wildly clever bar mistress.”

  I give him the side-eye. “I think it was you who just came up with that idea.”

  “Then I am wildly clever too.”

  “Obviously, the way you seem to juggle everything.” I shift gears. “Speaking of, how are all your endeavors going?”

  As an entrepreneur, Jason keeps irons in both the best-man-for-hire world and the men’s advice one too. “Soon I’m going to have guys coming into my bar asking, ‘Do you happen to know a best man for hire?’ And I’ll say, ‘I’ll tell you. He’s the best best man in all of Manhattan.’”

  His amber eyes twinkle. “Yes, that’s exactly what I want. I can picture it now.”

  “And when they ask for grooming tips or dating tips or job tips, I’ll reference you too. I’ll say, ‘Have you read it in The Modern Gentleman in New York? Because I have.’” I pause for a second, then add, “I’ve been enjoying your column. You should do one on how men and women can indeed be friends.”

  “And wherever would I find the perfect example?”

  “Hello? Us! Every day.”

  He draws a breath as if he’s weighing my suggestion. “So you want me to do a column on how men and women can be friends? What would I say in it?”

  I tap my finger against my lips, diving into the idea well. “You say, ‘Find common interests, find things to talk about, and then make sure to make time for each other.’”