“No,” I say firmly.
“I was wondering if he was coming to the rest of it. The showing, or whatever you want to call it.”
“I’m still calling it a cocktail party,” I say as I pull the car into my assigned parking space. “And no, he’s not coming. I think he and Courtney have plans,” I add, referring to Ollie’s fiancée. I feel guilty about the lie, but I don’t want to tell Jamie that Damien refused to invite Ollie to his home. It bothers me that Damien and one of my best friends don’t get along, but I get where Damien’s coming from.
Though they’d started out sniffing around each other like two alpha dogs, they’d ultimately forged a tentative truce. But that came to an abrupt end when Ollie told me some of Damien’s secrets—and breached the attorney-client privilege by doing so. Damien understands that Ollie thought he was protecting me, and that’s probably the only reason that Ollie is still a lawyer and still working in this town. Or on this continent, for that matter.
But Damien doesn’t want him in the house, and I can’t say that I blame him. I hope they find a way to get along, because I need both these men in my life. But it’s only been about a week since all the shit went down, and things are just too raw between them.
Jamie, however, knows none of that, and I don’t plan to tell her. But that’s one more wedge between us, even if I’m the only one who realizes it’s there.
Soon we’re at the door and I’m fumbling for my house key. I slide it into the lock and push open the door—then stop dead on the threshold.
“Holy fuck,” Jamie says, looking over my shoulder.
I don’t say anything. Jamie has pretty much said it all.
There, in the middle of our living room, is the bed. The bed. The beautiful iron bed beside which I’d posed. The stunning bed upon which Damien so thoroughly fucked me last night, and so many nights before that.
I realize we’re both standing frozen and take a step into the room. There’s a dress bag from Fred’s on the bed with a note pinned to the plastic. I only have to glance at the handwriting on the envelope to feel my body tighten with anticipation. Slowly, I pull the folded slip of paper from the envelope, then unfold it and read:
I would appreciate it if you would do me the honor of wearing this dress tomorrow, Ms. Fairchild. And then perhaps you will do me the even greater honor of taking it off.
I realize too late that Jamie is behind me, reading over my shoulder. “How did you get so lucky? The guy is seriously swoon-worthy.”
“Totally,” I agree, smiling.
She flops down on the bed while I unzip the garment bag, and then laugh. I’d fallen in love with the dress while we were shopping yesterday. It hits mid-thigh and is made out of dusty-blue chiffon. It’s not fitted, but the pleated front and flowy design make it fun and flirty, and I cannot wait to put it on with my favorite pair of clunky silver sandals and a matching silver bangle.
I hold it up for Jamie to see. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re going to look hotter than sin in that dress,” she says. “Can I raid your closet? I’m bored out of my mind with my clothes.”
“Jamie, you’re a size four. I haven’t been that small since I escaped from Mother and learned about the existence of that mysterious substance I like to call food.”
She sighs and eyes my new dress lustfully. “I need my own billionaire boyfriend.”
“I don’t disagree,” I say. “I find him a highly desirable accessory.”
“Wanna go shopping?” Jamie asks. “I’m serious about my wardrobe crisis.”
I glance at my phone. Still no word from Damien. “Sure,” I say. “But give me a sec to change and feed the cat. And can we get some real dinner while we’re out? Vodka isn’t one of the major food groups.”
“It’s not?” Jamie retorts, displaying her stellar acting skills by putting real bafflement into her tone. She heads to her room as I go to the kitchen. Lady Meow-Meow appears the minute I pop the pull-top on her kitty food, and she head-butts the back of my leg until I finally put the food dish down in front of her.
I’m in my room stripping off my work clothes when Jamie calls to me. “How’d he get in the apartment?”
“Beats me,” I say, though I can guess. He probably bribed the manager, who’s just wacky enough to have been amused by the thought of a surprise bed delivery.
I change into one of the math T-shirts Jamie maligned earlier—friends don’t let friends derive drunk—and a pair of jeans. It’s the first time I’ve worn jeans since Blaine started the portrait, actually, and I hesitate before zipping them up, feeling a bit naughty. Like I’m breaking a rule.
I’m not, of course. The game’s over. If I want to wear jeans, I can.
And if I want to go pantyless under a skirt? Well, I can do that, too.
I’m grinning as I leave my bedroom, but my mood shifts when I get back to the living room and the giant bed that overwhelms the space. I’d been so happy when I walked in and saw it there, as if I were being bathed in a flood of special memories.
Now that happiness is mixed with a tinge of some unpleasant emotion, though I’m not entirely sure what is troubling me.
I move to the bed and press my palm against the smooth round ball of the footboard. I’m thrilled that the bed wasn’t shipped off to a warehouse somewhere or sold to an antiques store, but at the same time, I’m undeniably melancholy.
“It doesn’t belong here,” I say, when Jamie returns and asks me what’s wrong.
“The bed?”
“It’s supposed to be at the Malibu house. Not here,” I repeat. “It feels like an ending somehow.”
I remember the story Damien told me. About how he sacrificed a deal he was passionate about in order to save the tiny gourmet food producer. I didn’t like the story then, and I like it even less now.
Jamie is silent for a moment as she stares intently at me. “Oh, shit, Nik,” she finally says. “Don’t even.”
“What?”
“Don’t go all Psych 101 on me. You’re looking for all sorts of meanings that aren’t there. You do this all the time.”
“I do not.”
“Well, maybe not all the time, but you did it with Milo.”
“That was freshman year of high school.”
“So maybe ‘all the time’ was a tiny exaggeration,” she concedes. “My point is that you had a crush on him and he was a senior, remember?” I nod, because I remember it well. “And it was cold one day, and he lent you his letter jacket.”
“And we spent a week trying to analyze what his underlying motivation was.” Oh, yes. I remember.
“Turns out he was motivated by the fact that you were cold and he was nice.”
“And your point?”
“Do you like the bed?” she asks.
“I love it,” I admit.
“Does Damien know you love it?”
“Sure.”
“So there you go. You like the bed. Damien likes you—understatement of the year, but there you have it. I’m sure that when you move in, you can take the bed back there with you.”
“I was wondering if he was coming to the rest of it. The showing, or whatever you want to call it.”
“I’m still calling it a cocktail party,” I say as I pull the car into my assigned parking space. “And no, he’s not coming. I think he and Courtney have plans,” I add, referring to Ollie’s fiancée. I feel guilty about the lie, but I don’t want to tell Jamie that Damien refused to invite Ollie to his home. It bothers me that Damien and one of my best friends don’t get along, but I get where Damien’s coming from.
Though they’d started out sniffing around each other like two alpha dogs, they’d ultimately forged a tentative truce. But that came to an abrupt end when Ollie told me some of Damien’s secrets—and breached the attorney-client privilege by doing so. Damien understands that Ollie thought he was protecting me, and that’s probably the only reason that Ollie is still a lawyer and still working in this town. Or on this continent, for that matter.
But Damien doesn’t want him in the house, and I can’t say that I blame him. I hope they find a way to get along, because I need both these men in my life. But it’s only been about a week since all the shit went down, and things are just too raw between them.
Jamie, however, knows none of that, and I don’t plan to tell her. But that’s one more wedge between us, even if I’m the only one who realizes it’s there.
Soon we’re at the door and I’m fumbling for my house key. I slide it into the lock and push open the door—then stop dead on the threshold.
“Holy fuck,” Jamie says, looking over my shoulder.
I don’t say anything. Jamie has pretty much said it all.
There, in the middle of our living room, is the bed. The bed. The beautiful iron bed beside which I’d posed. The stunning bed upon which Damien so thoroughly fucked me last night, and so many nights before that.
I realize we’re both standing frozen and take a step into the room. There’s a dress bag from Fred’s on the bed with a note pinned to the plastic. I only have to glance at the handwriting on the envelope to feel my body tighten with anticipation. Slowly, I pull the folded slip of paper from the envelope, then unfold it and read:
I would appreciate it if you would do me the honor of wearing this dress tomorrow, Ms. Fairchild. And then perhaps you will do me the even greater honor of taking it off.
I realize too late that Jamie is behind me, reading over my shoulder. “How did you get so lucky? The guy is seriously swoon-worthy.”
“Totally,” I agree, smiling.
She flops down on the bed while I unzip the garment bag, and then laugh. I’d fallen in love with the dress while we were shopping yesterday. It hits mid-thigh and is made out of dusty-blue chiffon. It’s not fitted, but the pleated front and flowy design make it fun and flirty, and I cannot wait to put it on with my favorite pair of clunky silver sandals and a matching silver bangle.
I hold it up for Jamie to see. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re going to look hotter than sin in that dress,” she says. “Can I raid your closet? I’m bored out of my mind with my clothes.”
“Jamie, you’re a size four. I haven’t been that small since I escaped from Mother and learned about the existence of that mysterious substance I like to call food.”
She sighs and eyes my new dress lustfully. “I need my own billionaire boyfriend.”
“I don’t disagree,” I say. “I find him a highly desirable accessory.”
“Wanna go shopping?” Jamie asks. “I’m serious about my wardrobe crisis.”
I glance at my phone. Still no word from Damien. “Sure,” I say. “But give me a sec to change and feed the cat. And can we get some real dinner while we’re out? Vodka isn’t one of the major food groups.”
“It’s not?” Jamie retorts, displaying her stellar acting skills by putting real bafflement into her tone. She heads to her room as I go to the kitchen. Lady Meow-Meow appears the minute I pop the pull-top on her kitty food, and she head-butts the back of my leg until I finally put the food dish down in front of her.
I’m in my room stripping off my work clothes when Jamie calls to me. “How’d he get in the apartment?”
“Beats me,” I say, though I can guess. He probably bribed the manager, who’s just wacky enough to have been amused by the thought of a surprise bed delivery.
I change into one of the math T-shirts Jamie maligned earlier—friends don’t let friends derive drunk—and a pair of jeans. It’s the first time I’ve worn jeans since Blaine started the portrait, actually, and I hesitate before zipping them up, feeling a bit naughty. Like I’m breaking a rule.
I’m not, of course. The game’s over. If I want to wear jeans, I can.
And if I want to go pantyless under a skirt? Well, I can do that, too.
I’m grinning as I leave my bedroom, but my mood shifts when I get back to the living room and the giant bed that overwhelms the space. I’d been so happy when I walked in and saw it there, as if I were being bathed in a flood of special memories.
Now that happiness is mixed with a tinge of some unpleasant emotion, though I’m not entirely sure what is troubling me.
I move to the bed and press my palm against the smooth round ball of the footboard. I’m thrilled that the bed wasn’t shipped off to a warehouse somewhere or sold to an antiques store, but at the same time, I’m undeniably melancholy.
“It doesn’t belong here,” I say, when Jamie returns and asks me what’s wrong.
“The bed?”
“It’s supposed to be at the Malibu house. Not here,” I repeat. “It feels like an ending somehow.”
I remember the story Damien told me. About how he sacrificed a deal he was passionate about in order to save the tiny gourmet food producer. I didn’t like the story then, and I like it even less now.
Jamie is silent for a moment as she stares intently at me. “Oh, shit, Nik,” she finally says. “Don’t even.”
“What?”
“Don’t go all Psych 101 on me. You’re looking for all sorts of meanings that aren’t there. You do this all the time.”
“I do not.”
“Well, maybe not all the time, but you did it with Milo.”
“That was freshman year of high school.”
“So maybe ‘all the time’ was a tiny exaggeration,” she concedes. “My point is that you had a crush on him and he was a senior, remember?” I nod, because I remember it well. “And it was cold one day, and he lent you his letter jacket.”
“And we spent a week trying to analyze what his underlying motivation was.” Oh, yes. I remember.
“Turns out he was motivated by the fact that you were cold and he was nice.”
“And your point?”
“Do you like the bed?” she asks.
“I love it,” I admit.
“Does Damien know you love it?”
“Sure.”
“So there you go. You like the bed. Damien likes you—understatement of the year, but there you have it. I’m sure that when you move in, you can take the bed back there with you.”
