Come As You Are

by Lauren Blakely

  Slowly, she raises her face, her eyes sparkling with astonishment, as if she’s found buried treasure. “Mind. Blown.”

  “Nature is actually completely dependent on math. You see these beautiful patterns all across the world. The same is true for the cauliflower spirals,” I say, running her fingers across the florets in the vegetable. “And the artichoke too. Sunflowers follow the same pattern. Math is literally all around us.”

  She shakes her head in amazement. “I had no idea.”

  “It’s cool, isn’t it? Math doesn’t dwell in a quiet little separate space, but it can intersect with nature and ideas.”

  “Evidently.” Her eyes drift down to my hand still on hers, and maybe because I’m amped up on the Fibonacci sequence, I don’t analyze what I do next.

  I do it.

  I thread our fingers together, and a spark of pleasure rips through me. From that. From that bit of contact. From the thrill of holding her hand.

  A quiet gasp escapes her lips, and then she tightens her fingers around mine, grasping. She nibbles on the corner of her lips, something she did the night we spent together, and it shoots me back in time to those seconds before we kissed in the library.

  I swallow. My throat is dry. Somehow, I manage to keep talking. “Math is the foundation of my business, in a lot of ways. Numbers serve as the core, and I build ideas on that. I’ve always taken that approach. That’s what excites me in business—taking patterns and numbers and then marrying them with what people might want next.”

  “I know what I want next,” she whispers.

  Her sultry tone is like a dart of lust straight to my chest. It stokes the fire in me. “You do?”

  “I can’t have it, but I want it.”

  She laces her fingers tighter, running her thumb along my skin, triggering a fresh wave of sparks within me.

  From her thumb stroking my flesh.

  One simple touch and I don’t know if we’re talking about the interview, or business, or math, or what we like. But I don’t care, because talking to her is what I like.

  “You,” she whispers, her honeyed voice like a caress. “I probably shouldn’t say this, but it turns me on to no end that you’re this math god and that’s your foundation, and then you layer T.S. Eliot on top of it, or you put Gatsby on top of it, and you think about whether random things are art or ethics.”

  I lean closer. “If it’s any consolation, you’re not the only one turned on.”

  She draws a breath, then lets it out in a sexy, needy moan.

  “Sabrina,” I warn. “This is dangerous.”

  She squeezes my hand. “So dangerous,” she says, lowering her face, averting her gaze. “I’m trying not to launch myself at you right now.”

  “I suppose I ought to be a gentleman and say I’d resist you . . . but I wouldn’t.”

  She looks up and lets go of my hand. “Okay, you’re too tempting. You practically seduced me with a pineapple and the Fibonacci sequence.”

  I pump a fist. “Nerds for the win.”

  She laughs and turns off the recorder. “Okay, hot nerd. Let’s get out of here before you seduce me with a cauliflower next.”

  “Don’t forget the artichoke. It’s willing to offer services for seduction.”

  “And the artichoke would probably render me helpless to resist too. Ergo,” she says, pausing to press her hands against the table as she rises, breaking the moment for good, “we should go. I have one more favorite place for us today.”

  I don’t say no. I want this next non-date, artichoke or not. “Take me where you want to go.”

  “I’m going to take you to the locksmith in the Village.”

  It sounds quaint and provincial, but when we arrive I see it’s more than that. The front of the shop in the Village is covered in a replica of Van Gogh’s Starry Night made entirely of keys, forming swirls and spirals like the famous painting.

  “The guy who owns this shop recreated Starry Night with twenty thousand keys that he kept over the years,” she explains as I step toward the wall, raising my hand.

  I run my finger over the bumpy metallic surface. “It’s like he wanted to leave his mark on the neighborhood.”

  “Yes,” Sabrina says. “That’s what I think too. The Village has become home to condos and fancy restaurants, but this is a sort of homage to days gone by, when this place was an artist’s enclave. And this craftsman, whose business could have been kicked out or shut down, has turned his storefront into a sculpture.”

  “Found art, like found math in nature,” I say, musing on the possibilities.

  “Or maybe a reminder of change? The artists who used to live in the Village can’t afford it anymore. Hardly anyone can afford to live in Manhattan.”

  Her observation raises another question—how can she afford it?

  I don’t even have to ask. The question must be in my eyes, because she jumps in. “If you’re wondering, I can only afford to live in Manhattan because I’m staying in my cousin’s apartment. She’s gallivanting around Europe, and she lets me stay there for basically a nickel, and God knows I need her generosity.”

  The money talk again. I tense, a bolt of worry slamming down my spine as she mentions the very thing that often separates people. Money is a dividing line. Is she trying to figure out how it divides us? How money changes what people want from you?

  Once again, I’m left wondering if it plays a part in her wants. That warning voice speaks louder, a reminder that trust must be earned.

  Fully.

  “I love that you’re kind of obsessed with what New York was. Its past,” I say, so I can dodge the thorny subject of incomes, and how I can afford to live in New York twenty times over and how she’s living off her cousin’s kindness.

  “I am, and it’s probably a pointless obsession. We can’t really cling to the past. God knows I’ve had to move on from so many other things.”

  That’s an issue I don’t want to dodge though. I want to know what holds her back, beyond work. I want to understand where that sadness comes from. “Do you mean ex-boyfriends or family?”

  “Both,” she says heavily. “My ex was pretty much the worst, and my mother is pretty much the worst too.”

  “The ex—he’s totally out of the picture?”

  She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “He’s so far out of the picture he lives in China. We were supposed to be married, and he left me two days before the wedding.”

  “Jesus,” I mutter. “He’s not fit to pick up the potato chip bags you walk on.”

  She smiles. “I know. And I’m glad I’m over him.”

  A warm, golden feeling spreads through my chest, blatantly ignoring my concerns about trust, overtaking them, even. “I’m glad you’re over him too.”

  The next day, Jennica pops into my office. “Any chance you’d want to talk to Kermit?”

  I remember the halo from the party, and him hard pitching me on an interview, then commenting on the halo, like he knew what had happened.

  I shake my head. “I’d rather not.”

  She presses her palms together in a plea. “He’s pretty insistent, and he does have a great reach. Will you reconsider?”

  Sighing heavily, I lean back in my leather chair, thinking. I need to make sure my focus remains on Haven—always on Haven. These people depend on me. As much as the guy irked me with his offhand comment, if I have to sweep it under the rug, I will, and keep my emotions out of the equation. “Will it help the marketing? Is it important to the company?”

  “I think it’ll help our rollout. The more publicity we get, the better. His network is expanding. His work is getting great pickup—not just the shows he hosts, but all his shows. His podcasts and reports are carried everywhere.”

  When I started the interview with Sabrina, I promised myself I wouldn’t let my feelings for her get in the way of that piece. While she has more on the line than I do when it comes to this story, I can’t afford any missteps either. Not with her, and not with
anyone. It would definitely be a misstep to piss off Kermit.

  I look at my watch. “I’m pretty focused on this piece with Sabrina right now. It takes up a lot of time. Could we set something for when it’s done?”

  She bounces on her tiptoes. “I can do that.”

  “Glad I could make you happy.”

  She smiles. “I know he’s a pain in the butt, but he’s also a rising star, and he’s somebody we can’t overlook.”

  That’s what irks me. I feel like he has something to lord over me. Something he’ll whip out at any moment. That’s another reason why I personally can’t afford to ignore him.

  18

  Sabrina

  * * *

  This is cruel and unusual punishment.

  The icing calls to me. It speaks to me in sweet, sugary tones. Lick me, take me, touch me.

  “This isn’t fair. This is like going to a shelter full of big-eyed pups needing homes. I want to give them all a home,” I say to Courtney as I gawk at the polished glass case in the Sunshine Bakery on the Upper West Side.

  Marble cakes and slices of tropical coconut pies whisper sweet nothings to me. Pink strawberry-shortcake cupcakes wink in my direction. A mouth-watering seven-layer bar talks dirty to me—eat me.

  Oh yes, I believe I will.

  Courtney taps her finger against her chin. “We’re having a celebration today since one of our start-ups hit a big milestone, and I need to bring cake to the office.”

  “Cake is the universal currency.”

  “It’s also the universal motivator. People will do anything for cake.”

  “You’re going to use cake to tell your team you need them to work sixty-hour weeks? You’re a cruel mistress.”

  “Ha. Not quite. But you know what else cake does?”

  “Tell me.”

  “It weeds out the animals in your office. I brought a sheet cake in once, left it in the break room, and when I went to get it ten minutes later, it looked like a family of bear cubs had come through.”

  “Cake transforms people into bear cubs. It’s a proven fact.”

  She returns to the glass, perusing the offerings and stopping at a vanilla cake with confetti frosting. “Ohh, look at the celebration cake.”

  I do, and my eyes pop out. “It’s eight dollars a slice. It better give me celebratory orgasms at that price.”

  The woman behind the counter laughs. “It just might. I’ve been told my cake is quite orgasmic.”

  I laugh, but I can’t bring myself to shell out that much dough for a slice of dough.

  “Too pricey for my pauper budget,” I whisper to my friend.

  “I’ll get it for you.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. I’m not taking your cake handouts. Besides, I’d rather come to the office and act like a bear cub in your break room without you knowing.”

  My friend places her order for two-dozen cupcakes, and as the woman packs the box, Courtney smacks her forehead. “I can’t believe I forgot to tell you.”

  “Forgot to tell me what?”

  “Your name came up the other day.”

  “Was it for a fabulous job at a tech publication?”

  She laughs, shaking her head. “It was just in passing. I had my regular check-in call with Kermit, and he mentioned you.”

  My spidey-sense tingles with suspicion. “What did he say? It can’t have been good since he told me he thought I was a hack.”

  “I don’t think he thinks you’re a hack. I think he’s jealous of you.”

  I scoff. “For what?”

  “He wanted to know how your story with Flynn was going. He heard through the grapevine that Up Next was doing a feature, and that you were writing it, and he said, ‘That angel investor stole my scoop with Flynn.’”

  I arch a brow. “Stole his scoop?”

  She waves a hand dismissively. “You know how boys are. They’re so territorial. Peeing on everything. Marking it like it’s theirs.”

  “It’s not his scoop. It’s my story.”

  She pokes my shoulder. “You’re like a bear cub with a cake when it comes to that piece.”

  “Damn straight.”

  As she finishes her purchase, my attention wanders to a mini pink cupcake for a dollar fifty.

  “I’ll take that one,” I say, and the woman drops it into a bag for me.

  Later that day, I head to Flynn’s office. Even though we’re doing most of the interviews off-site, I do want to see a demo of Haven in action. As I walk to midtown, I toggle over to my podcast app and cue up one of Kermit’s shows.

  Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.

  With my earbuds in, I listen as I march across town. I catch a snippet of Kermit interviewing a CEO at a search giant, then tune in to a piece of another show about the top ten companies to watch. Next, I try a segment on trends in consumer technology.

  I grit my teeth, frustrated.

  Because they’re good.

  All of them.

  They’re compelling, fascinating, and I can’t believe how much I’m learning as I listen to Kermit and his team of reporters.

  How much I’m enjoying their work. It’s irksome.

  And so is the name that flashes on my screen.

  Maureen.

  Tension floods every molecule in my body.

  My mother.

  As I stop at a red light, I briefly weigh whether to look at her text now or later. But it’ll nag at me during my time at Flynn’s office, so I slide my thumb across to view it.

  * * *

  Maureen: Hey, baby! What’s shaking? I feel like I never talk to you anymore. Call your mom now and then, would you?

  * * *

  I draw a deep, calming breath, pretending I’m a bird soaring in the sky. My wings are spread, and I’m free of her. Free of hiding, free of lying, free of any hold she might have on me. Hell, I’ve been free for years, ever since she left Kevin and me, barely making time for us when I was in high school, leaving me to be the surrogate parent for her son.

  * * *

  Sabrina: Hi. Life is good. I’ve been busy with work! I’ll call soon.

  * * *

  I won’t call soon, but it’s easier to type than telling her the truth. I haven’t called her in years, and if she hasn’t realized that, she’s the foolish one.

  As I cross the street, I kick her far out of my mind. I do the same to Kermit and his podcasts.

  Flynn meets me at reception, then guides me through the offices. As he passes employees in the hall, he peppers them with questions about school plays and book clubs, remembering their kids’ names, their wives’ names, and so on.

  When we reach his office, I say, “You planned that, didn’t you?”

  “Planned what?”

  “To wander through the halls looking like the genial, amazing boss who everybody loves.”

  “Yes, Sabrina, that’s exactly what I did. I’m really a horrible ass, but I want you to think I’m a wonderful guy, so I told my employees in advance to act like they like me. Are you fooled?”

  I wink. “Completely.” I pause then add, “Also, my job is to be skeptical.”

  He shakes his head, and his tone is intensely serious. “Don’t be skeptical about that. I do care deeply for them.”

  When he walks me through the whiz-bang features of the smart home, including a British voice that talks back to me in a sexy-as-sin accent, I have to say, I’m suitably impressed.

  “Want Daniel to make you tea or coffee?” Flynn gestures to the coffee grinder and the tea kettle on the counter of the demo home setup in the offices.

  “Daniel, please make me some green tea,” I say to the white device on the table.

  “Of course. Would you like anything with that? Some music, perhaps, as you wait?”

  Laughing, I answer him, “Yes, please play the Broadway soundtrack to Aladdin.”

  As “Arabian Nights” sounds softly through the speakers, I shrug at Flynn. “Guess I had genies on my mind.”
/>   “Or genie costumes,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows at the reminder of another private exchange of ours.

  Soon, my green tea is ready, and we head to Flynn’s office where I ask him a few more questions as I drink my tea.

  After we finish, I stand, ready to head for the door, lest I be distracted by another magnificent meandering conversation with him that stimulates my mind and my heart. But before I go, I reach into my purse and take out a white bag with a pink sticker on it. I place it on his desk.

  “Do you like cupcakes?” I ask nervously.

  He blinks. “What kind of question is that? Are you testing to see if I’m secretly an alien?”

  “Are you?”

  “No, I’m not an alien, because I love cupcakes.”

  “I picked this up for you.” I slide the bag closer.

  His smile does funny things to my heart, makes it cartwheel as my skin heats, and I wonder what compelled me to buy him a sweet treat.

  “I have no idea what you like to eat,” I say, explaining myself. “But it looked really good, so I took a guess.”

  He peers into the bag and removes the treat. “Looks amazing. Are you trying to bribe me with cupcakes to give up all my secrets?”

  “Is that all it’ll take?”

  “Depends how good the cupcake is.”

  “Then, please by all means, devour it.”

  He drums his fingers on his desk, his eyes never straying from mine. “That isn’t what I want to devour.”

  “It’s not?” I ask, feigning innocence.

  “Not in the least. But it might be a substitute.”

  “I hope it tastes as good as what you really want,” I say breathily.

  “I doubt anything tastes as good as what I really want.”

  As he brings the cupcake to his lips, he stares at me. His expression is full of rampant lust and desire, and it almost feels like a dirty promise that at some point he’ll have me. He flicks the tip of his tongue over the icing and heat flares low in my belly.