Sex And Other Shiny Objects

by Blakely, Lauren

  “Hell, yes. They abso-fucking-lutely do.”

  3

  Peyton

  Forty-eight hours, and freaking Harriet’s is still running its obnoxious sale.

  That’s why Monday is not the day for me to follow my yoga instructor’s advice.

  Let go of your worries, Nadia encourages us during our sun salutations in an early evening class after work. I’m sure there’s a time for that, but it is not now.

  Nor is it the day to finally ask the sweetie-pie guy in class to join me for coffee.

  Because, well, he’s not here.

  And I suppose it’s for the best. If I tried to ask him out today, I’d likely botch it. Again. On my first try a few months ago, I was so tongue-tied that he thought I was on Molly.

  After class, I sling my yoga mat over my shoulder and say goodbye. “Thanks for a great class, Nadia.”

  “Thank you for coming. Will I see you tomorrow?”

  “That’s the plan.” I head to change and pop the mat into my locker before I head uptown in the fading twilight of an early fall night.

  My Mary Janes slap the sidewalk of Lexington Avenue, and I stretch my neck, wishing the class had Zen-ified my thoughts. But I’m still thoroughly un-Zen, thanks to Harriet’s horrific sale.

  There are only two people I can turn to at times like this.

  First, Amy.

  My friend answers immediately when I call her. “I’m about to run into a meeting,” she tells me, “but are we still on for late-night lattes?”

  “I’m always up for caffeine. But when did you start having meetings at six thirty at night?”

  “I had a brainstorm this afternoon about the next book we’re launching, and I want to run my crazy idea past my boss. If she likes it, I’ll tell you all about it later.”

  “I love your brainstorms and your crazy ideas. See you later.”

  I end the call, turn the corner, and head straight for the other person on my shortlist.

  Tristan.

  My best guy friend ever.

  * * *

  I cock back my arm, and with narrowed eyes, I take aim, imagining Harriet’s Wardrobe. I picture cloying pink polyester satin, pajama tops dropping silver glitter like dandruff, and cheap ruffled panties that shred on the second wash.

  “Porcupine,” I curse, grabbing something that Mimi would pull from her handbag of acceptable swears.

  Then I fling the beanbag at the board.

  It misses the hole, skidding past to hit the concrete floor with a splat.

  Someone clears their throat, which I can hear because the bar/restaurant is closed on Mondays. A masculine voice rumbles across the game room. “A little less firepower is more sometimes when it comes to cornhole.”

  “Thanks. Let me see if I can dial myself down.”

  “It’ll be tough,” Tristan warns soberly. “Lawn games are played by many but mastered by few.”

  “Why can’t you have ax-throwing here? It would be so cathartic.” I can’t picture that trendy sport in his eatery, but teasing him is always rewarding. His verbal sparring is on point, one of the many reasons he always resets my mood.

  He drags a hand across his scruffy square jaw. “Call me crazy, but I feel like ax throwing mixed with liquor is a recipe for, oh, I dunno, severed limbs and lawsuits?”

  “That’d be a no, then?”

  His hazel eyes narrow as he puts on a no-nonsense, stern face. “Beanbags are as deadly as you get with me. Take it or leave it.” He scoops up a handful, dropping them onto the floor next to me.

  Grabbing one, I catapult it and watch as the beanbag careens past the sweet spot. I stomp. “Who made this game so hard? Axes. I want axes.”

  He laughs at my plight. “If you’re having a hard time with beanbags, what makes you think a deadly blade would be better?”

  “Maybe I was a lumberjack in a past life.” I finger the hem of my short skirt. “After all, I’m wearing plaid.”

  With an arched brow, he eyes me up and down, taking in my red V-neck top, my black-and-gray plaid skirt, and my patent leather Mary Janes. I’ve never met a day of the week that wasn’t improved by a skirt.

  “A princess lumberjack maybe,” he says with a wry grin.

  “Great! So you’ll have ax throwing installed in time for my birthday, then? Because cornhole is killing me.”

  He laughs, shaking his head. “Cornhole is easy, Peyton. I swear.”

  I bat my lashes. “Show me, pretty please.”

  “You want me to show you how to play the game hipsters can do drunk? You, the badminton champion?”

  “Different sport. Also, I’ve never played before. I’m a cornhole virgin.”

  “All that time with underthings has really honed your innuendo game.” He walks behind me, scoops a beanbag from the pile, and drops it in my palm. I raise my hand to lob it at the sloped board.

  “That’s your first issue,” he says, stopping me before I let loose. “You need to do it underhand.”

  “Ah!” I knew there must be a trick to it.

  “To put it in badminton terms, you’re not trying to smack the birdie over the net.” He covers my hand with his. “You’re gently batting it.”

  He’s closer than I’m used to, and for a flash of a second, it registers that Tristan smells good.

  Like pine and soap.

  Like the opposite of my ex.

  But I push away all those highly distracting thoughts and chant, “Nice and easy.” Trying not to inhale another hit of his yummy scent, I gently toss the bag across the board.

  It slides into the hole.

  “Woo-hoo!” I spin around, thrusting my arms in the air. “Victory! I feel better already.” I drop my arms, thinking about the awful last two days. “As soon as that Harriet’s sign went up on Saturday, my traffic slowed to a trickle. Today too.” A fresh wave of frustration wells up as I picture that stupid banner. “Half off. It’s a slap in the face to the brand image I’ve tried to build.”

  “I know, and we’ll figure out a plan. For now, I have something that’ll cheer you up more than chucking beanbags.”

  I rub my palms together. “Is it the owner’s special?”

  “It is indeed. Close your eyes.”

  I hum in excitement. This is one of my favorite parts of my visits—when he makes a drink just for me. Each time it’s different. Some days call for liquor; others require only soda or tea. Nearly all are delish, and on the mark, because the man has a gift.

  I shut my eyes as his hands drop onto my shoulders. He spins me around, guiding me from the game room to the bar.

  “Sit,” he says, but I’m not entirely sure where I am. I know the general layout of his restaurant, but I’m blind right now, and don’t want to fall on my face.

  Story of my life—I don’t want to trip, and yet I still do.

  Like when I stumbled on my cork-heeled wedges during my eighth-grade graduation.

  Or that time I went to my first job interview with my zipper down.

  Or, say, the night I tried to treat my fiancé to a sexy surprise.

  Even though I’m a lace or bust girl, I donned a satin corset and thong, ready to give Gage what he wanted. He longed for the showgirl look, and I longed to keep him happy, especially since he’d been working so hard, on so many late nights. Time to surprise him with his fantasy, I’d reasoned, and slipped on a trench coat, let myself in at his place, dropped my coat, and struck a pose.

  And discovered his executive assistant in a pose too.

  Reverse cowgirl, to be precise.

  And she looked better in a bustier than I did.

  All those late nights working, he’d been cheating on me with her. I bite back the shame that crawls up my throat at the memory.

  That was nearly nine months ago. Now I’ve sold the ring, licked my wounds, and taken up yoga to make peace with my inner jilted woman.

  But all things being equal, I’d rather not land on my ass again.

  “What if I fall?” I ask Trista
n.

  “I’ve got you.” He helps me onto the barstool, his calm voice reassuring. “Just sit.”

  He moves away, then there’s the slide of glass across the wooden counter. My nose twitches happily at the scent of sugar.

  “Open your eyes.”

  I do, and I gasp at the frilly pink drink in front of me, complete with sugar on the rim of the martini glass and raspberries swirling across the top.

  “Aww. You made me a girlie drink. And you hate sweets. You must love me, and this drink is proof.” Tristan has so much Eeyore in him, and I’m all Tigger. I love poking at that seriousness, and he loves to pretend to be annoyed at my exaggerated shows of affection.

  He narrows his eyes and growls. “If you tell a soul I made this drink, I will deny it until the end of my days. And this doesn’t change my stance on sweets.”

  I raise a hand as if swearing an oath. “Harriet’s Wardrobe can stick it in their cornhole. And I will keep your secret if your drink is as delicious in my mouth as I suspect it will be.”

  He shoots me a did you really just go there look. “Do you even hear the things you say?”

  I blink. “What was inappropriate? The cornhole bit or your drink being delicious?”

  “The way-my-drink-tastes-in-your-mouth part.” He holds up his thumb and forefinger together, showing a sliver of space. “Just a little naughty.”

  “Oops. Forgive me.” I wink, then take a drink. My taste buds sing a chorus of heavenly aahs, and I shimmy in my seat. “Who knew you could make such a fabulous sugary drink?”

  “No one, and that’s how it’ll stay.”

  “Wait. All kidding about sweets aside—you’re really not going to put this on the menu? This is a perfect cocktail.”

  He waves like it’s no big deal. “Nah, the menu is good as is. The owner’s special is just for you.”

  Just for me.

  Those words make my heart glow a little bit.

  I down another delicious sip. “Then I am a lucky girl. Because I love the owner’s specials. Each one has been amazing.”

  He raises a skeptical brow. “How is that possible? They can’t all be amazing.”

  “Don’t rain on your praise parade. Your drinks make me happy; therefore, they’re amazing.” I drop my pitch to near his masculine tone. “Thanks, Peyton. You’re the best for saying that. I accept your heartfelt compliments.”

  A wry smile tilts his lips as he organizes glasses behind the bar. “Thanks,” he says crisply, ready to move on. He’s never cared for flowery praise. No surprise—he didn’t grow up with everything you do is awesome parents like I did.

  “You’re such an Oscar,” I tease.

  “And you’re such a . . .” He takes his time before he says in an offhand way, “Pudding.”

  I nearly spit out the drink. Speaking of my parents, I scowl at him, wagging my finger. “You’re not allowed to call me Pudding. Only two people can call me Pudding, and neither of them is you.”

  His brow knits in mock confusion. “No? How about Dumpling?”

  “You’re evil.”

  “And grouchy? I’m evil and grouchy, right?”

  “And you love to make fun of me.”

  “Can I help it that I have so much to choose from in the childhood nickname department?”

  I glare at him. “Just because you know all my family’s embarrassing pet names for me doesn’t mean you can use them as ammunition.”

  He shrugs, reaching for a rag and wiping down the counter. “Why do you assume I’m using it against you?”

  “Pudding is not a compliment.”

  His hazel eyes—the color of honey—have a give Peyton a hard time twinkle. “Maybe I like pudding. Maybe I like dumplings.”

  A blush sweeps heat across my cheeks, then down my neck over the rest of me. That’s strange. Why would Tristan’s remark set off a flash of heat on my skin and a fluttering in my belly? A warm and affectionate glow I understand. A hot wave I don’t.

  I ignore the tingly sensation and reiterate my point. “You can’t call me Pudding or Dumpling or any of my dad’s other silly little nicknames for me.”

  “Fine. Fine. I’ll behave . . .” He adopts an innocent look, which must pain him, then hits me with Pie.

  I lunge for him, pretending I’m going to throttle him. “You especially can’t ever call me that.” It’s the worst of all the hated nicknames.

  He darts away but puts on his best contrite face. “Forgive me for calling you Pie, Peyton Marie Valencia.”

  I lean my elbows on the bar and pretend to sulk. “Now you sound like my mother when she’s mad at me.”

  “Yes, but are you distracted from your problems?” he asks with a laugh.

  It takes me a moment to realize what he means, and my frown clears. “You did all that to lift my mood?”

  “It worked, didn’t it? You’re not radiating hate fumes like when you stormed in here a half-hour ago. Am I right?”

  “Oh, you.” I tsk, and I smile. “Look at you. Doing that thing where you needle me out of a bad mood.”

  He blows on his fingers. “When you’re good, you’re good.” He shifts gears to serious though. “But let’s tackle the work situation. You’re mad at Harriet’s Wardrobe for undercutting you. You took it out on the cornhole board, which I approve of as a means of catharsis, even though you’re literally the worst cornholer I’ve ever seen. Now we need to deal with the reality. Your competition isn’t going away, so what are we going to do about Harriet’s?”

  He puts it so bluntly that my chest pinches, my heart giving an anxious pulse. I’ve only begun to turn the corner on You Look Pretty Today, and it wasn’t easy. I did it with elbow grease, love, and an extra ten grand in new stock—ten grand that came from selling Gage’s engagement ring.

  Most of the time, I feel like I know what I’m doing when I run the store. But some days, I’m wearing my heart outside my body from the sheer Herculean tasks of the last few years: moving Grandma’s lingerie shop from Queens to a new location in Manhattan, slinging it into the twenty-first century, and carrying on her legacy.

  Yes, it’s a legacy of panties, but it’s one the Valencia women love. My grandmother believed in female empowerment before it was cool, and hell if I’m going to break that chain.

  Sometimes womanly strength comes from underthings. I want women to feel beautiful, to be their best selves, to ask for what they want in work, in love, in life.

  And in bed.

  I use underwear to deliver that message to the world.

  Lately, though, the task has been tougher, as Harriet’s has slowly encroached upon my customer base. But the half-off sign is the last straw.

  I could learn from Tristan.

  I survey the familiar restaurant, admiring his establishment even after-hours. Tristan has run this place for a number of years, and it’s wildly successful. He rolls with the changes too. Operating as a wine and tapas bar at first, he expanded to a full bar recently, and the switch has ramped up sales. Plus, his place is a true neighborhood eatery, enjoying great word-of-mouth and fantastic reviews. He’s a whiz at social media, with his fifteen-second time-lapse videos of food prep proving quite a hit on Instagram.

  I take another drink and gather my thoughts. “I need to do something to stand out. That’s the key.” I lower my voice to a confessional tone. “Because these last few months since Harriet’s moved in, I feel like Meg Ryan when Fox Books came to town.” I frown at the image of the character’s shuttered book shop in You’ve Got Mail.

  Tristan leans onto his hands on the counter and levels me with a stare. He’s not an everything is going to be okay kind of guy, so I steel myself.

  “This is 2020,” he says. “The world isn’t so enamored by big box stores anymore. And local business isn’t all about discounts. You already have to compete with Amazon and online shopping, so when you’re running a brick-and-mortar store, you can’t focus on the same things that Harriet’s and other big box stores do.”

  I
draw a deep, fueling breath, nodding. “You’re right. I need to remember it’s about connections. It’s about the customers.”

  “And it’s about what you as a business owner can offer that’s special, that the others can’t. That’s how you need to face the competition.”

  “I need to do something that stands out. Like what you do with your videos.”

  He gives me a wry leer. “You could post fifteen seconds of you trying on lingerie.”

  I grab my napkin, ball it up, and toss it at him. “Smart-ass.”

  “Kidding, kidding. But seriously, you already have a successful social presence for the store. You’re always posting photos of the latest merch, of bras and teddies draped over that chaise lounge.” My heart skips down a garden path at finding out he actually pays attention to my social posts. It’s kind of endearing to think about him logging into Instagram and scrolling across a photo I snapped of a black lace bra draped on a pink cushion.

  “Why not build off that?” he asks. “Or how about doing more on The Lingerie Devotee?” He pauses, tilting his head like he’s just realized the blog went the way of the dodo. “You only share photos there now. Why did you stop writing posts?”

  I sigh with a pang of regret that’s chased by a full measure of annoyance. I study my toes while I think, then I meet his eyes, bracing myself to admit a truth I’m not proud of. “Because of Gage.”

  He frowns like my answer doesn’t compute. “Seriously?”

  I take another fueling sip of the pink concoction, owning my mistake, even if it made sense to me at the time. “Yes. At first, he thought it was fun. His girlfriend wrote about intimate undergarments, and all that. But when it started to take off, he was worried that my blog was too risqué for his conservative Wall Street world.”

  My stomach churns with remembered embarrassment. On The Lingerie Devotee, I used to weave in tales of how the different items made me feel when I wore them out to dinner or even to the movies. That was too much for him. “Babe, I need you to cool the personal deets for a bit,” Gage had said. “When we go to John Fitzgerald’s home in Connecticut for dinner or to the Wentworths’ fundraising gala, I don’t want the partners looking at you and thinking about how you fill out a sheer nightie. That’s for me and only me to know. Can we keep it that way?”