“Um, hi. I know the answers to all of those,” I say, waving to offer my service.
“I know, but for now . . .” She sets down her phone, takes a breath, and declares, “Sex and Other Shiny Objects.”
I look to Lola for an explanation. “I don’t have my Amy translator on. Care to tell me what that means?”
Lola flicks her corkscrew curls off her shoulder. “It’s a book she’s working on. I’ll be doing the cover. It’s a sexy romantic comedy.”
“One of my regular authors is writing it, and I had this crazy idea,” Amy adds.
“As you do.”
“As I do,” she echoes, then pauses for dramatic effect. “To include a companion guide with it. A Don’t Try This at Home pamphlet, so to speak.”
“Don’t try romance at home?”
She waves her hand. “No. Of course they should try romance at home. Try it in the office. Try it on the subway. Romance is awesome. But we thought it would be fun to include top tips on how—and how not—to pull off some of the scenes that unfold in romance novels. How to rip off a shirt, how to tear off lingerie, how to disrobe on the staircase without falling on your face. I mean, that is capital H hard. How are they all so agile?”
“And you need someone to do what exactly? To write this pamphlet?”
“Yes. Someone daring, willing to try new things. Someone who can make it funny, tell a story. What should you try at home? What shouldn’t you try at home?”
Amy’s always been wildly inventive, and I’m thrilled she has an outlet for her ideas. Thrilled, too, that she’s invited me into her professional world. “Or how about when the hero pulls off the heroine’s dress in a split second?” I snap my fingers. “Voilà. One quick move, when I’ve had to practically can-opener myself out of some of my dresses. How is the hero just whisking it off her?”
“Yes! That’s what I want to explore. And all that panty ripping in books. There is so much of it. And in this one—Sex and Other Shiny Objects—the hero has a total thing for it. He’s obsessed with lingerie, and with taking it off her with his teeth. The heroine calls him the panty shredder.”
I clasp my hands to my cheeks, à la Edvard Munch’s The Scream. “The horror, the horror.” I drop my palms. “I was telling a customer this weekend to abstain from that or else she’d be buying out my whole store.”
“And that’s where you come in,” Amy says, her smile brightening.
“You want to buy out my whole store?”
She laughs, shaking her head. “No, but I was thinking perhaps you sometimes have inventory you can’t use for whatever reason. Overstock, or maybe damaged goods? Please say yes. It’ll help my idea so much!”
“Sure. Of course.” Now I see where she’s headed with this. “You can definitely use it to test all that panty shredding.”
Amy breathes a huge sigh of relief. “Thank you. That helps immensely, because we’re on an insane time crunch.”
“Problem number one solved. Now we just have to find someone who’ll write it,” Lola says as she lifts a mug of what looks like chai tea.
“Why doesn’t your author write it?” I ask.
“She’s busy with the novel itself,” Amy says, sighing heavily. “We want someone else to do the companion book. I’ve scrolled through my list of writers for hire to try to find someone else who has just the right sense of fun and daring.”
Someone else.
Those two words hover in the air, swirl around me like smoke wafting through a crisp night. They smell like possibilities. Like turning a corner, like putting yourself out there.
Like standing out.
“You need a writer?” I muse.
“Like a buckle needs a belt,” Amy says, sounding urgent.
“Someone to test these ideas?” The wheels are turning, the mental locomotive chugging out of the station and gaining speed.
“Yes. I need to work on finding the right person lickety-split. Because—deadlines!”
“Someone who maybe has done something similar before,” I posit, the train speeding headlong down the track.
“Sure. If that’s possible,” Amy says, tilting her head like a curious pup. “Do you know anyone? I would do it, but my boss wants someone who hasn’t read the story yet to test the scenes with fresh eyes and hands.”
Maybe it’s crazy, but maybe it’s not. Perhaps this is exactly what I need to make my blog shine again. To help my store stand out as one of a kind. And, honestly, for me to put myself out there.
Pictures of bras and panties are only so fascinating. The readers seemed to relish the stories behind them, and I did too.
I raise my hand, wiggling my fingers. “I can try it.”
Lola nearly drops her cup of chai and blinks at me, her mouth opening soundlessly.
Amy’s face has gone stony, my chatty friend uncharacteristically quiet.
I sit back on the couch and savor having rendered two friends, who work in publishing no less, speechless.
A few seconds later, Amy recovers, speaking slowly. “You’d do it?”
“Does that surprise you?”
She nods vigorously. “Yes. A thousand times yes. You stopped doing the blog posts. I know it was because of Gage, but since you haven’t picked it up again, I thought you were done with that type of writing?”
“It surprises me too,” I say, smiling. “But I’d like to do it.”
Her smile stretches around the earth. “It never occurred to me you’d want to. But, oh my stars and garters, you’d be freaking perfect.”
“I’m starting to post again tonight. I’m so excited to get back to it.” I take a beat. “And I’m going to start dating again. Today I planned to ask out the hot, nice yoga guy. But he wasn’t in class.”
Amy pumps a fist. “Yes! You’ve been looking for a new intro with him. This will be perfect.”
“‘Oh, hey, want to rip lingerie off me? I’ll be wearing a tiny thong underneath, though, so no worries —you won’t even see my lady parts. ’K? Thanks.’”
Lola’s tone goes serious. “Truth though—that’s kind of a perfect intro.”
“Seriously?” I lift a skeptical brow.
“Why not? It says you’re daring. It says you’re fun. It’s better than ‘Want to go out for coffee?’” Lola says in the blandest tone ever.
“It’s definitely a conversation starter, and an unconventional date,” I say.
Amy’s eyes shift from Lola to me. “You’ll do it?”
“As long as I can blog about it too.”
Amy thrusts her arms up in victory. “It’s like you can read my mind. That’s perfect. Blog to your heart’s content. My boss literally just asked me to find a writer who’d be willing to talk it up in advance, drive interest before the book’s release. In fact, the pamphlet can simply be a compilation of your blog posts, with a little tweaking or expanding. You teasing your work with some of these romance novel tropes in real life will actually help build buzz for the upcoming book. Win-win.” She takes a breath. “But you’re sure you don’t mind testing out these scenarios?”
“As long as they don’t involve sex,” I say, then rattle off a list of sexy times tropes that I could test without getting in the buff.
Amy’s grin takes over her face. “This is perfect. Because honestly, we’re running behind and we need these, like, end of next week.”
I blink, swallowing down the deadline.
“That soon?” I ask, my pitch rising.
“Yeah, we’re a little behind. But we just want five common sexy tropes and to demystify them.”
That means I’ll need to get started tomorrow.
I nod, a dutiful soldier.
“And one more thing,” Amy adds.
I brace myself for an even closer deadline.
“Before you do the panty shredding, there’s a scenario that’s sticking out in my brain that I want you to try first.”
She tells me what she wants.
I say yes, praying yoga guy will be downward-facing dog in the
morning.
6
Peyton
The Lingerie Devotee Returns
Blog entry
Hello, my pretties!
I am back!
Did you miss me? I missed you madly.
Exquisitely.
I simply won’t let that kind of absence happen again, and that’s why, in this installment of The Lingerie Devotee 2.0, I give you my solemn oath, sworn on lace, satin, and silk, that I will bring you tantalizing new tales of lingerie, and how it can make you feel.
A picture is worth a thousand words, but words matter too, so I’ll be giving you my tales from the lingerie drawer.
For tonight, let me tell you about this lush little number I’m going to wear to bed. It’s the kind of outfit that makes you want to turn on Sam Smith, pour yourself a glass of wine, and gaze at the lights of the city.
Solo.
Yes, I have the perfect ensemble if you’re enjoying a table for one in bed, because let’s be honest, sometimes you only want to bring yourself to the party. You slide into bed, wearing only a pretty little new pair of sleep shorts and a cami tank.
Then you let your fingers do the talking under the covers.
Oh, did I say that?
Yes, I did.
Own it, ladies.
We are owning our bodies and the lovelies we drape ourselves in.
Here’s a collection of some of my favorite camis and boy shorts. I chose a pink tropical floral print pattern for its hint of the exotic and paired it with the boy shorts, because it’s nice to feel sexy but comfortable too. Here’s a pic, all laid out on my bed.
And this is only the start. I have a brand-new series planned for this blog, and it’s going to be sexy and funny and clever.
I’m going to test-drive some fabulous scenarios, and I’ll report back to you.
Tonight I’ll be having sweet dreams indeed.
Stay tuned . . .
Xoxo
The Lingerie Devotee
Find me at You Look Pretty Today on Madison Avenue
7
Peyton
My tree pose is a thing of legend.
I’m rocking it today, determined to win at yoga, at business, at blogging.
I woke up to five comments, all from prior followers welcoming me back. Go, me.
When the early morning class ends, I roll my mat, turn to the guy who looks like Michael B. Jordan from Black Panther, and launch into my best yoga wit. “I’m patting myself on the back today for staying awake during Savasana,” I say.
Whoa. That was smooth. Fun and chatty.
“Good for you. Confession: I caught twenty winks during that pose,” he says with a smile that lights his face.
“Yoga has many benefits, they say. Catching up on your Z’s can be one.”
His gaze drifts to the instructor, and he brings his finger to his lips. “Just don’t tell Nadia. I’ll be in big trouble for snoozing during the most important pose.”
“I’ll keep your secret.”
“Under lock and key, please.”
“But of course.”
I am buoyed by his replies despite the flock of nervous bird wings that flutter through me. Because the next step is hard.
I’ve been with one guy for the last few years, and holy hell, trying again is nerve-wracking.
But I remember the yoga instructor’s words. Let go of the worries.
“So, I have this project,” I begin. “It’s kind of like a work thing and kind of like a fun thing, but also, like, a cool thing.”
His eyes are intense, focused on mine, and I bet this man is a therapist with that whole I’m listening vibe going on. “Color me intrigued,” he says.
If he’s curious, I must be doing this right. “And this is going to sound a little crazy, but I was wondering if you wanted to—”
“Hey, lovey buns.”
I jerk my head in the direction of the smooth, sensual voice of . . . my yoga instructor? Why is Nadia talking to me that way? Does she like my butt?
Michael B. Jordan swivels around, meeting her gaze. “One second, sweet ums. I’m just talking to the master practitioner of downward-facing dog.”
The instructor beams at us both. “Oh, yes, Peyton is excellent at that pose.” She presses her palms together and dips her head. “Namaste.” Then to her man she says, “See you soon, and we’ll grab some breakfast at the organic cafe?”
He blows her a kiss, and it’s like the zipper at the job interview all over again.
He’s freaking involved.
And I have egg on my face.
“See you in the next class,” she says to me.
His warm eyes return to mine. “Now, you were saying you had a project? How can I help you?”
How about inventing a time machine so we can erase the last two minutes?
I giggle. And, like Daniella, I am not a giggler. But I need to think fast and yank myself up from this pratfall.
“I have this project to . . .” I say, taking my time to regroup and connect some thoughts. What sort of project would I truly talk to him about? I go with the first thing that pops into my mind. “It’s a project to encourage couples to shop for lingerie together,” I blurt out.
An eyebrow lifts. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” I say, taking a breath because I can’t get enough air right now. “I have a shop on Madison Avenue. And I would love if you and Namaste came by.” Oops. That’s not her name. “You and Nadia, I mean. I thought you and Nadia might want to come into the shop. And it’s half off for you two. Just tell them you know the owner.”
His smile ignites. “Wow. Thank you. That is so kind. We will be there. We are all about exploring sensuality.”
“Awesome,” I say with a fist pump, praying my face is not the color of a tomato in July.
I give him a business card with the name and location of the shop, then press the gas pedal, hightailing it out of the scene of my latest dignity kersplat.
As the morning sun hits my face, I exhale a massive sigh of relief as I rifle through my bag for my phone and turn it on.
I’ll just tell Amy I spoke too soon. That I’m not the best woman for the job. That some more adventuresome gal will have to get the job done for her.
She’ll understand.
Of course she will.
As soon as the phone boots, I’ll send her a note.
But when my phone beeps on, the first thing I see is a text from Amy blinking at me.
Amy: You saved the day! My boss is so excited about the panty shredder!!!
“Porcupine. Cornhole. Fudgsicle,” I mutter, then gaze at the sky. “What would you do, Mimi?”
In between the chug of a bus and the squeal of a cab, I listen for her reply. There is always a plan B. Just make sure your zipper is zipped and your blouse is buttoned.
As I walk home, I cycle through options.
The delivery guy who drops off packages of silky goodies?
Asking my brother if he or his wife know someone? But they live in Seattle now, so I doubt they’ve kept up on New York single men.
Do I ask the apps?
Trouble is, I don’t know which poison I want to pick.
* * *
Before I open the store, I weigh these choices, toying with Tinder and Match and even Boyfriend Material when I’m in the office paying bills.
But I can’t quite pull the trigger. Something feels off about asking for help testing romance novel tropes via an app.
These types of scenarios involve trust.
And there’s someone I trust completely.
How did I miss the obvious? He’s not plan B. He’s plan A, and I should have asked him from the beginning.
I open my texts.
Peyton: Remember that time last night when you said you’d help me with my blog?
Tristan: Why do I feel like you’re about to cash in on that right now?
Peyton: Because I am.
* * *
My phone buzzes fifteen minutes later.<
br />
The text from Tristan says Knock, knock.
The store doesn’t open for another hour, so I rush from the office, unlock the door, and let him in.
He smells like the fall breeze, and in his jeans and work boots, his pullover shirt hugging his chest, he looks like he’s auditioning for a role on Hardy Men from Alaska.
He drags a hand through his dark hair. “Let me guess. This is when you tell me you want to do the lingerie videos.”
I smack his shoulder, even though he’s not far off. “No. But I’ll call you when I do.”
“I’m going to hold you to that.” He surveys the store, his eyes widening as he takes in the sea of pretty goodies. He points to a red bra. “Maybe write about that one next? That gets my vote.”
“You love red, don’t you?”
“I’m like a bull.”
I can’t resist. I head to the rack, grab the red bra, and wave it like a matador.
He snorts and kicks his foot.
Laughing, I shake my head. “I swear, you must have driven Samantha insane with your lingerie obsession,” I say as I hang the bra back on the rack.
He flinches. “Samantha?”
“Your last girlfriend? Pretty blonde. Ice-blue eyes. Dry sense of humor. Ring a bell? She was the workaholic attorney who drove you crazy because she expected you to be available at midnight to service her.”
“Did I say that bothered me?” he asks wryly.
A plume of jealousy rises out of nowhere. What the hell is that about?
I turn around so he can’t see my face. But that doesn’t change this odd sensation like my shirt is too tight or my skirt is scratchy, when neither is the case at all. But his question leaves me out of sorts. Why the hell am I bothered that Tristan enjoyed sleeping with his ex-girlfriend? I squirm uncomfortably, needing to eject that idea from my brain before it takes hold.
I adjust a pale-pink bra, focusing solely on the here and now, sweeping away images of him with someone else.
Sex And Other Shiny Objects Page 5