Skinny Bitch in Love

by Kim Barnouin

  It didn’t end with good news for Sara, who called to report that she and Duncan had gotten into a huge argument on the way back with Eva trying to referee. Sara had made Eva stop the car miles from our apartment because she was so pissed, then was even more pissed at having to walk all the way home.

  “I am over that dickhead!” she shouted so loud into the phone that even Zach heard her.

  “I want you to know right now that I’m not a dickhead,” Zach whispered. “Never was, never will be.”

  “We’ll see,” I whispered back, shooting him another smile.

  Chapter 15

  “How is he in bed?” Sara asked the minute she walked in the door on Sunday afternoon. “I want details.”

  I’d been trying not to think about Zach so I could concentrate on my work. I let my pencil drop down on my pad. For the past hour I’d been sitting at the kitchen table with very strong black tea, making lists of vegan dinners and sides that sounded four-star-restaurant worthy. Nothing too ordinary, nothing too Cherry Seitan Napoleon. Something in between. I’d emailed back and forth with two of the three restaurant owners so far. I had a couple of weeks to come up with five entrees and three sides, different ones for both restaurants, and the third owner would probably get back to me tomorrow and want the same. But now instead of pasta and eggplant and interesting things to do with beans, I had Zach on the brain. I could feel the stupid moony smile coming.

  “That smile tells me everything I need to know.”

  “Does it tell you how complicated everything is, too? Just when I think everything’s great, everything sucks.”

  “Yeah, I know that feeling.”

  “You okay about Duncan?” I asked. “Will the class be too awkward for you?”

  “Who?” she asked. “Awkward used to be my middle name. I can handle Duncan Ridley, librarian. Can anyone handle Zach Jeffries, though? That is the question.”

  “Me and Dead Deer Sign Jeffries. Am I really doing this?”

  “Yeah, you are. And I kind of love it. He’s the opposite of you. Of course, it’s not easy.”

  “I know. Nothing about us makes sense.”

  “So he’s amazing in bed?” she asked again with an evil smile, but my phone rang before I could tell her to get out. I’d forgotten to set the timer on my vanilla chai cupcakes and was too distracted as it was. “Probably your boyfriend,” she sing-songed and darted out.

  It wasn’t Zach. It was Alexander, with another nonpaying job for me. He was teaching a class on healthy eating at the after-school program Jesse went to on Thursday and did I want to be his copilot? Paid in karma, he said with that hopeful British accent of his.

  I could always use some good karma.

  Monday night: Three dozen red roses arrived from Zach.

  Followed by nothing. For two days.

  Wednesday night: Friday night, come over at 7. I miss the hell out of you. Z

  On the way to the kiddie center on Thursday I got a call from Java Joe’s, which happened to be steps away from Zach’s beach house and a place I never went because Emil, asshole owner of Fresh, hung out there and knew the manager. Java Joe’s was one of the most popular coffee bars in Santa Monica, packed all day long. And this would be the third new baking client this week. I knew the first two were probably word-of-mouth referrals from Ty and Julia, but no way would Ty even bother trying to get me into Java Joe’s.

  I called Zach. “Guess who just got into Java Joe’s? They never take anyone new. Joe said he tasted my Chocolate Espresso Raspberry cake at his biggest competition—Julia’s—to see what the fuss was all about and bought her out of it. Tomorrow night, let’s celebrate this up-yours-Emil coup.”

  “Oh, we will. And you’re welcome. Sometimes money really does talk, Clem. So I’m thinking Napa tomorrow night. I want to show you a spot—”

  I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk on Wilshire Boulevard and a man walking two French poodles almost slammed into me. “Wait, what? You paid Java Joe’s to order from me?”

  “I just said I’d cover what didn’t sell. To just give you a try.”

  Hear someone letting out a low growl of frustration on Wilshire? It’s me. “I don’t need that kind of help, Zach. We already went over this.” Though, granted, we were naked in bed at the time, so maybe he had my body instead of my business on the brain. “That’s not how I do things. That’s not how I want to run my business.”

  “Clem, it is business. And I only did it because I know the second he puts your stuff out for sale, he’ll sell out. You’re that good.”

  Okay, he didn’t get it. And he thought he was helping. But. Still. What part of I’m-not-a-mooching-gold-digging-ass-kisser didn’t he understand? “Zach, I appreciate that you think so. I really do. But I don’t need you to cover my ass. Ever.”

  “Jesus, Clem. I’m just trying to help. Calling a friend. It’s done all the time. Give and take.”

  “So that’s how I got O’Hara’s and Bakery 310 to order from me? You got me in those two places the same way? This is bullshit. I told you I didn’t want my success to be based on favors my rich boyfriend pulls for me.”

  “Clem, calm down. And yeah, I’m going to say this: Grow up. Just say thank you and let’s move on.”

  Asshole. “Excuse me? Thank you? Move on?”

  “I think you’re on repeat, Clem. Come on, just—”

  “I have to go.” Click.

  This kind of mover and shaker kiss-ass favor-trading bullshit made me kind of sick. It just seemed so . . . fake—and condescending.

  My brother once paid a guy on the lacrosse team at his high school a hundred bucks to ask Kale’s good friend, a girl with zero sex appeal whose name I forget, to the senior prom. The girl was crazy about the guy and spent a fortune on a dress and had her hair and makeup and nails done at a spa, and when it came out on the way to the prom that the date had been bought, the girl flipped out, but went because she wanted to, then punched Kale in the stomach and never spoke to him again. Which was what I would have done, too.

  I had to plaster something of a smile on my face because I’d reached the Welcome Youth Center. Three kids dribbling basketballs almost knocked me over at the door. Was I in the mood to be here in the slightest? No.

  Alexander had told me to meet him upstairs in a room marked “Kitchen.” I found him standing in the large room surrounded by kids—eleven- and twelve-year-olds from the looks of them—all with white chef hats on. I had a feeling he’d bought the hats.

  Alexander introduced me as a famous chef and told the kids we were going to make the best burritos they’d ever had. Which was how I ended up talking fractions and measuring cups and beans and spices with half the kids at one long table. They weren’t allowed to use knives, so Alexander had pre-chopped the veggies. Each kid got a tortilla and spooned in the good stuff; trying to properly fold the burrito at the ends had them either giggling or telling dirty jokes about butts.

  The kids liked Alexander, clearly. They liked his accent. That he called the boys “blokes.” They liked how he spoke to them—kindly, even if one kid flung a tortilla at another kid and a fight broke out, which he cleared up fast. And Jesse worshipped him.

  One annoying girl who never stopped whining made a fist and slammed it down on the burrito the girl next to her had just painstakingly folded.

  “Oh, shit, come on,” I said.

  “She said the S-word!” a boy yelled.

  Hysterical laughter from every kid in the room.

  Alexander was trying not to smile at me. I mouthed a “sorry” at him. Clearly, I wasn’t cut out for Cooking 101 with tweens.

  “Are you Alexander’s girlfriend?” a kid asked, drawing out the word girlfriend and shaking his skinny hips. Fifteen pairs of eyes stared at me. Two girls made kissing noises.

  “Chef Clementine is a very good friend of mine,” Alexander said, smiling at me.

  Someone took a bite of his Healthful Eating Burrito, declared it “actually good,” and the kids shut up long
enough to eat every bite.

  Alexander insisted on buying me a drink for my time and trouble. Over margaritas at Fontana’s, he told me about his now ex-girlfriend, the one I’d met over the Dr. Who cupcakes, who’d turned out to be a jealous freak who he’d caught following him one night when he’d said he’d had to visit his sick grandmother. I told him about the four-star restaurants hiring me to design vegan menus for them, that I was baking all over town, which he knew because he’d ordered a slice of my German chocolate cake the other day at Julia’s. We had so much to say to each other, got each other’s references, knew all the same people. I could sit here at this wobbly round table and talk to Alexander all day.

  We were on our second margaritas when he leaned over so fast and kissed me, full on the lips.

  Unexpected.

  “I couldn’t help it, sorry,” he said. “I know you’re seeing someone.”

  Someone I wanted to punch.

  This kiss wasn’t quite the blah one like before. Maybe because I was seeing someone. Or maybe because there was something between Alexander and me, something . . . easy. When nothing about being with Zach was easy.

  But I realized something while I was sitting there at the bar in Fontana’s, sipping a margarita across from Alexander, my perfect match. I had it bad for Zach Jeffries. He infuriated me. He was the antithesis of me. But he challenged me. Made me think. And he was so damned complicated. An ass one minute, but incredibly great the next.

  And had I actually referred to him as my boyfriend—to him—without even realizing it?

  I needed a plan. Something to show Zach Jeffries once and for all that I didn’t need his help, that I’d take over this town on my own. And as Alexander chatted up the bartender—who wanted to know the British version of his favorite curse words, and then wrote them all down on a napkin and taped it to the wall—a lightbulb blinked on.

  It took me until midnight, but I emailed every major and minor newspaper, television station, radio station, and cooking website a one-page press announcement about Skinny Bitch. My background. Skinny Bitch Cooks. Skinny Bitch Bakes. Skinny Bitch Cooking Classes. Skinny Bitch at Your Service. Skinny Bitch Vegan Menus—and how hot restaurants had hired me to design vegan offerings for them. If I wanted to take over L.A., everyone had to know about Skinny Bitch—from me.

  The next morning, I went to Chill to help Ty bake twelve hundred fancy cookies for a wedding reception being held there that night. As we mixed batters and took tray after tray from the ovens, I filled him in on Alexander. On Zach. On my press announcement—that so far had been completely ignored. Then again, I’d emailed it at one a.m. It wasn’t even nine in the morning yet.

  “I know who Alexander Orr is,” Ty said. “British, tall, great ass, right?”

  “Decent ass,” I said, dropping down on a chair for a break. “But he’s so . . . sweet.”

  “Sweet is good, Clem. Like this blackberry granita I’m testing here tomorrow night.” He took a container out of the freezer and then handed me a tiny bowl of the semi-frozen slushy not–ice cream. Which was damned good.

  “What am I supposed to do about Zach?” I asked.

  “Exactly what you’re doing. Calling him on his crap when he needs it. Same thing he’s doing with you.”

  “So you think I’m wrong to be pissed at him about what he did with Java Joe’s?”

  “That’s who he is, Clem. He’s a fucking billionaire. Covering a few hundred bucks of your cookies that might not sell? It’s like the pennies some people throw out because they’re pennies. He thought he was doing you a favor because you lost Cali Bakes.”

  “I know, but—”

  “You’re teaching him how to be with you, Clem. And he’s teaching you how to be with him. You’re gonna bump heads sometimes. You’ll get pissed at him. He’ll get pissed at you. You’ll have amazing make-up sex.”

  Ty went into the pantry to get more flour. I ate up the granita and thought about what he had said. And about that make-up sex.

  My phone rang. Unfamiliar number.

  “Clementine Cooper?” a woman asked.

  “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “I’m Stephanie Stemmel, a reporter with the Los Angeles Times. I’d like to talk to you about your press announcement about Skinny Bitch. Can we arrange an interview—a photo shoot, too, of you cooking? Maybe we’ll shoot some video, also, for the online interactive feature. Sound good?”

  Hell, yeah!

  When we hung up—with plans made for the reporter to stop by my cooking class on Tuesday for the interview and photo shoot—Ty was staring at me.

  “Who was that?” he asked.

  “Skinny Bitch is going to be in the L.A. Times,” I said. “The L.A. Times. Interview. Pictures. A video interactive thing of me teaching my class.”

  “Shove it in the hot billionaire’s face!”

  “Oh, I will.” Said billionaire would be very happy for me, though. I had no doubt.

  So maybe you were right was the text from Zach after word spread about my press announcement. No wonder I like you so much.

  Damned straight. No Sugar Daddy was going to save my ass. Ever.

  By the time Friday night rolled around, I texted Zach to say I was coming over, if he still wanted me to.

  You know I do was his response.

  He had this way of making a smile spread inside me, even when I was pissed at him.

  I put on skinny jeans and a cute yellow peasant shirt that showed off my tiny cupcake tattoo, dabbed my favorite perfume in my cleavage and behind my ears, then packed up a box of Zach’s favorite scones, and headed over to the beach.

  It was another gorgeous night in California. Warm and breezy and the streets were mobbed with people out on a Friday night. By the time I got down to Ocean Avenue, I was dying to see Zach: his gorgeous face, his amazing body. I’d missed him like crazy and it had only been two nights since I’d seen him.

  “I want to kill you and I owe you,” I said when he opened the door, Charlie the beagle at his knee. “If you hadn’t been selling me up and down the street, I never would have gotten pissed enough at you to send out my press announcement.”

  He took the bakery box, set it behind him on the console table, then pulled me into a hug.

  I wrapped my arms around his neck. “Why do I think this is how it’s always going to be?”

  “Maybe we’ll mellow out as we get to know each other better. But I have a feeling neither of us will make this easy on the other. Ever. I can take it. I think you’re worth it.”

  He made that smile spread inside me again. “I think you’re worth it, too. And by the way, I do like favors—and appreciate them. Just don’t buy me favors.”

  “Noted,” he said. “My father would call it cutting off your nose to spite your face. But you impress me once again, Clem. I’ve dated women who would have given me a long list of other vendors to call on their behalf.”

  I was about to say something about his blowhard father, but then remembered a) I shouldn’t and b) his father had done okay by Jolie, after all. “I operate on my own behalf just fine. The L.A. Times is going to do a photo shoot of my cooking class on Tuesday night. That’s huge for Skinny Bitch.”

  He handed me a glass of champagne and clinked it with his. Then we spent the next four hours in his bed, leaving only to get the scones and the rest of the champagne from the kitchen. There was a surprise downpour, a hard rain hitting the windows while we explored every inch of each other. Zach ordered in Japanese and we ate while watching movies—When Harry Met Sally, which he’d somehow managed never to have seen before, and Casablanca—with Charlie lying next to me, his paw on my stomach.

  On Saturday we flew up to Napa in his private plane—which I could get easily used to—and stayed in an amazing hotel with pre-warmed hand towels. We drank the best wine I’d ever had. We had the most amazing sex I’d ever had. We had an hour-long couples massage that was almost better than the amazing sex. We ate good food, talked and talked and talked. A
nd Zach told me stories about his stepmothers that made me laugh my ass off—and be very grateful my parents were still married after thirty years.

  And in between wine tastings and tours of the winery and all that hot sex, I got to know Zach Jeffries better and better. He was everything I thought he’d be and nothing like that at all. Everything about him was a contradiction.

  We flew back Sunday morning because I had a day of baking ahead of me, menus to create, and a personal chef client who wanted me to introduce her to juicing, which seemed like a no-brainer, but hey, I’d take her two hundred bucks.

  He drove me home and kissed me like he’d never see me again, which actually managed to freak me out for a second until I remembered that that was just how Zach kissed.

  Chapter 16

  Tuesday was not only the final cooking class—which Duncan might or might not show up for—and my interview with the L.A. Times reporter, but it was Sara’s twenty-sixth birthday. Sara said she wanted a makeover for finally being as old as we were and for hitting the twenty-pound mark on the Skinny Bitch plan, and yeah, because she was kind of bummed about Duncan. Ty and I were all over it.

  We were also throwing her a party at our apartment after the cooking class. I needed a night of doing nothing but sitting on my ass and talking to people I liked. For the past couple of days, I’d been busting it on baking and coming up with menus for the restaurants. I had close to thirty original recipes that I’d worked on over the past three or four years, thanks to my father for telling me to keep my recipes handwritten on white paper, my scrawls and additions and deletions for me to clearly see as I changed them. I’d spent the past couple of days shuffling the pages around, coming up with entrees and sides, adding new ingredients, deleting others. On Sunday night, after I taught a woman with a serious Texas drawl how to juice all her favorites, I’d come home and made a lasagna and then one of my favorite pastas: organic brown rice fettuccini with porcini mushrooms in a wine sauce. The fettuccini was perfection, but the lasagna was missing something. Monday, I’d worked on the lasagna all day, but it was still meh. I’d gone over the recipe with my dad on the phone, and he suggested adding a layer of avocado or pesto. Didn’t I say the man was brilliant?