Well Hung

by Pratt, Lulu

Xavier

  THE SKYLINE was a blur of punchy oranges and vibrant reds. As I sipped my whiskey sour, I marveled at the arcs of white jet trails piercing the heavens, man’s shaken fist at the confines of gravity.

  “Am I interrupting something?”

  I craned my neck over my shoulder to find Marc, one of my closest friends from college. We’d been assigned as roommates in the first year of school, a hazardous bonding exercise that either makes you the best of friends or the worst of enemies. Luckily for us, it had shaken out for the better.

  “Are you ‘musing amongst the cauliflowers’?” Marc joked, referencing a book we’d had to read in freshman year. “What’s up, how have you been? Long time no see.”

  He took the leatherette opposite mine, folding his thick frame into the relatively small seat. Marc was a guy slightly out of proportion. He had strapping, lumberjack arms, enormous quads that could snap a neck in half, and hands the size not of dinner plates, but of dinner gongs. Everywhere he went, he seemed to dwarf his surroundings. It was especially noticeable in luxury places like this, where all furnishing was about simplicity and sleekness.

  He was, by comparison, a loveable doofus without a pinch of chicness to him. I think that was what made us such friends — he was one of the few people I knew who didn’t have any airs. When I eventually took him on fancy vacations, he didn’t pretend to be relaxed and nonchalant about it. He openly crowed at every speedboat and bottle of Dom. Marc was, in short, a great time.

  “Why the rooftop bar?” Marc asked, gesturing to the establishment we were patronizing.

  “‘Cuz it’s a beautiful sunset.”

  He laughed in that deep, booming voice that always drew the eyes of other customers. “You’re such a romantic, Xavier.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  Marc flagged down a waiter and ordered his usual. A vodka soda.

  “With well vodka, none of that good stuff,” Marc instructed the surprised server, a phrase I must have heard him utter hundreds of times over the years.

  “You know that’s gonna taste like shit,” I said, repeating my usual response to this order.

  He rounded out our routine by replying, “I don’t have any more taste buds left to give a fuck.”

  This was probably true. Marc had drunk enough for me, him and three other men over the course of our college careers.

  “So,” he said, awkwardly settling into the miniature seat. “Tell me about the stuff with Comino. You mentioned something about an acquisition in our text?”

  “Yeah. My family’s donating all these old paintings to the gallery. But I didn’t tell you the craziest part.”

  His brows shot up with interest. “What’s up?”

  “The woman running the restoration. It’s Chloe.”

  Gratifyingly enough, Marc’s mouth fell open, and it took some effort for him to lift his jaw off the floor.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Dead serious.”

  “Like, that Chloe?”

  “One and the same.”

  Marc shook his head in disbelief. “It’s been, what—”

  “Years.”

  He let out a long whistle and shook his head once more. “Well, goddamn. Is there still, uh, something between you? You know, like a spark or whatever girls say?”

  I took a sip of my drink, weighing whether or not I should tell Marc the truth. We told each other everything, but this… well, I worried he would judge me. Maybe I was just projecting, I grant you that. But Marc knew, better than anyone, that I’d been virtually promised to Rebecca for years. He was one of my best friends, yes, but sometimes your friends can be the harshest critics, because they know what you need to hear.

  After a moment, though, I caved. It was selfish, more than anything — I just needed to tell someone.

  “We slept together,” I said finally, setting my glass down on the table as punctuation. “Chloe and I. Twice.”

  Marc half-rose from his chair with shock. “Oh shit.”

  That drew the attention of the bar. People swiveled around to see what the crass noise was. I didn’t bother waving an apology to them. It’s a bar, folks, noise is to be expected.

  “You’re kidding,” Marc murmured, still reeling from shock. “Chloe.”

  “One and the same.” I took a breath. “But obviously it can’t happen again.”

  “What?! Why the hell not? She’s the girl of your dreams, Xavier. You said so yourself in college, pretty much every time we got drunk.”

  I colored at this memory. “I’m not a kid anymore, dude. And you know that I’ve got my future with Rebecca all planned.”

  Marc’s eyes skirted away from mine and out to the horizon before he said, “Right.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But shouldn’t love come first?”

  I sighed. “I wish it could be that simple. But I do love Rebecca, in a way. And I could grow to love her in the right way, I guess. Like everything else, it’ll just take work. Anyway, the family business is all tied up in us getting married. We’re gonna get married, then become co-CEOs, or whatever titles they wanna give us. We’ll be partners twice over. It’s all set. I can’t undo that now.”

  “So there’s no wiggle room,” Marc said, phrasing it not as a question but a statement. For some reason, his eyes darkened. He seemed to be taking it as badly as I was. “I guess it’s one of those rich people things I don’t understand. You have contracts for everything, even romance. It’s all just a business move.”

  “Well that’s a little unfair. Rebecca and I are just… unique. And I think neither of us wants to disappoint our fathers, especially when the men are getting up there in years.”

  “You’re saying anything besides getting married to each other would bring… shame on the family?”

  I groaned, throwing my hands up. “It’s complicated, Marc, what do you want me to say?”

  “Okay, sorry. I’m just — I think love should come first,” he muttered.

  “Love is a luxury.”

  “The only one you don’t have, I guess,” he said with a sardonic edge to his voice.

  His arms were crossed over his chest, and he seemed unable to meet my gaze. “Marc, did I offend you or something?”

  “No, of course not,” he said hastily, then added, “I just want the best for you, bro. You know that.”

  “And I appreciate it, but it feels like you’re kinda grilling me on this.”

  “I’m sorry, okay? I’ll shut up about Chloe. And if you change your mind, you know I’ll have your back.”

  “Deal,” I agreed, hoping to bring the conversation to a close. “Now let’s see about getting you some good vodka.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Chloe

  I CHECKED MY watch for the third time in a minute.

  Shit. Still ten-thirty-one.

  I tapped my foot aggressively on the linoleum floor, beating a strangled tempo.

  They were supposed to be here one minute ago, I thought with frustration before immediately realizing just how crazy I sounded.

  Mx. Tok, one of the most celebrated directors in the art world, and Xavier, an actual billionaire, were a minute late — and I was pissed about it? Wow, I needed to work on my temper. Since when had my mood swings gotten this crazy? I always liked to think of myself as mellow, going with the flow. Apparently, this job had made me a new kind of anal.

  It was another agonizing three minutes before Tok and Xavier opened the door to the restoration room and waltzed in as though they weren’t four minutes late.

  I restrained my annoyance as best I could. “Hey, welcome.”

  Xavier smiled at me, but it was a formal, detached expression with no hint of warmth. I wanted to be mad at him — especially since that seemed to be my defining mood of the day — but he looked too good for me to complain. Today’s suit was a dark navy with a silver tie bar and matching cuffs, and goddamnit, he was a tall drink of water. His hair was slicked back in that casual, I-totally-didn’t-spend
-any-time-on-this way only men can achieve. If only Mx. Tok wasn’t here. Then I could rip that suit off his lanky frame and have my way with Xavier.

  But she was, and this was a work affair. So I remembered myself and deflected my attention away from Xavier’s ropey arms.

  “Thanks for coming down,” I said to the two of them. “I’m excited to show you the restoration thus far.”

  Mx. Tok’s expression didn’t budge even an inch. “I’ll be interested to see your progress. As will Mr. Holt, I’m sure.”

  Xavier nodded, and for the first time since walking in, he seemed to really see me. He must not have liked what he saw, though, because he quickly glanced away, feigning as though his eyes were scanning the rows of preservation materials that lined the walls of my little room.

  Well, fine. Two could play at that game.

  I turned my back to Xavier and Mx. Tok, keying in the code for the glass cube where I did the restorations. The door beeped open.

  “Come on in.”

  “Do we need to put on suits or shoe covers or something?” Xavier asked, the first words he’d spoken since entering.

  “No, the restoration is far enough along that you don’t need protective gear.”

  “Okay. Cool.”

  Everything was so stilted and strange between us. Had I missed something? I mean, I knew we weren’t supposed to have slept together, but it had already happened. And, as discussed, it totally wasn’t my fault or, it was only half my fault, anyway. Why was he getting so pissy?

  I felt his body heat radiating as the three of us crammed into the small cube, a metal table with the covered piece resting in the middle. Xavier stood a little to my left, and he seemed to be trying to back as far away as possible. Unfortunately for him, there wasn’t much space in which to evade me.

  You’ll just have to grin and bear it, I thought bitterly.

  The memory of his body atop mine seemed to haunt my limbs, and even as I uncovered the masterpiece before me, bundling the sheet up in my hands, the space between my legs grew damp at the recollection of Xavier thrusting inside me. Fucking bodies. They always betray us. I clenched my core and willed myself to focus on what could potentially be a turning point in my career.

  Before me, the painting was now laid bare. Mx. Tok and Xavier leaned in to get a better look. As Xavier moved, his upper arm brushed against my own. I heard him audibly suck in a breath, but he gave no other indication that he felt the spark which had passed between us.

  I tore my eyes away from him and refocused on the painting, explaining, “So we’ve completed the first stage. That was all basic, emergency triage stuff. So, repairing holes, scraping off dirt, that kind of thing.”

  “Scraping?” Xavier questioned, surprised at the word.

  “Well, not literally. It’s more complicated than that, but I’m, uh, keeping it simple.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “Ahem. Anyway, after this I’ll move onto spot treatment, to give the painting back its vibrancy.”

  Mx. Tok nodded her approval. “It looks good. Well done, Chloe. I believe we’ll allow you to continue working on the painting.”

  Blood rushed to my head. “So I can stay on at Comino, at least for the time being?”

  “Yes,” she affirmed. “For the time being, you’ve done well. I have a meeting to get to, but I’ll be back soon to check on your progress.”

  “Thank—”

  She was out the door before I could finish my sentence. That seemed to be a pattern with her. Never quite staying until the person was done. Maybe if I was as in demand as Tok, I wouldn’t let anyone finish a sentence either.

  Xavier and I were, once again, worryingly alone. Don’t get me wrong — alone time with Xavier was nice. Or, more than nice, when we were unable to help ourselves. But sticking us in a small box together, with the understanding that we weren’t to touch each other… it was untenable. Expectations of normal human comportment just don’t apply when the man in question is as hot as Xavier.

  While I was busy trying not to stare at him, and the raw, hard muscles I knew ran beneath his tailored suit, Xavier was busy openly staring at the painting.

  “She’s pretty, right?” I laughed, moving around the table so I could see the painting’s subject from his same angle.

  We were now alongside one another, and I had to strain to keep any part of my body from touching his. I knew that if we made even the smallest amount of contact, I’d forget to play nice.

  “She?” Xavier repeated curiously.

  “Yeah, the woman in the painting. The girl with the wilted flower.”

  “Oh. Yes, she’s beautiful. But it’s more than that. There’s something about her eyes…”

  “The far-off look.”

  He tore his gaze away from the painting to scrutinize me. “Exactly. And the flower tells its own story. I just can’t quite put my finger on it all.”

  “You sound like you should’ve done art history, with that kind of keenness for detail.”

  He tilted his head back and guffawed. “Yeah, as if I’d ever be allowed to study anything besides business. Now that’s a real fantasy world.”

  I tried — and I think failed — to hide the grimace that morphed my face. Imagine having all the money in the world, and still not being able to do what you loved. I thought, not for the first time, that being rich wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. If money didn’t give you freedom, then what the fuck was it for?

  Xavier cast his eyes to the floor, as if reading my every thought and ashamed of what was crossing my mind. Had I been that obvious? I hadn’t meant to rub his nose in it.

  Thinking quickly, I changed the subject. “So, you come up with any new proposal ideas lately? Maybe hiring Beyoncé to do a live reenactment of that music video she shot in the Louvre?”

  “Ha-ha, very funny. If this whole art restoration thing doesn’t work out, you should consider a career in event planning.”

  “Oh, no way. My backup plan is to go full Mamma Mia. Run away to an island in Greece, screw three guys, open a hotel and sing Swedish pop songs.”

  Xavier and I burst into laughter, until I realized the part of Mamma Mia I’d conveniently left out — that bit where she gets pregnant and has a damn kid.

  My mind flitted back to the pregnancy test that sat upstairs in my purse, the box not even open. Since purchasing it, it was like I’d done everything possible to avoid even thinking about its very existence.

  Thankfully, Xavier didn’t notice the sudden draining of color from my face.

  He continued on with our little bit, saying, “You’re gonna need two fabulous friends to be your backup dancers in flare pants.”

  “Oh, that’s easy enough,” I replied, hoping I didn’t look too out of it. “I’ll just use Alexandra and her baby.”

  Fuck, there I went again with the baby thing! Did I have baby on the brain? It was like no matter what I tried to say, pregnancy and babies somehow kept slipping right into conversation, almost like a sort of verbal tick.

  Xavier sighed happily and examined the painting once more, a line forming between his brows as he intently studied the piece.

  “I don’t know much about art restoration, Chloe, but I think you’ve done a wonderful job.”

  “Oh, you say that to all the art restoration girls.”

  He faced me again, growing serious. “No, I don’t.”

  We were standing so close to one another. If only I could reach out and touch him, I thought miserably. The warm feelings I was having concerning Xavier were instantly replaced with a seething anger. This was all his fault. If he’d only told me upfront that he basically had an arranged marriage, we never would’ve slept together, I never would’ve developed such a hunger for his body. If we’d kept our hands to ourselves, everything would be so goddamn easy.

  Or, had he told me from the onset about Rebecca? Perhaps he’d mentioned it, and I was just now avoiding the truth because I was embarrassed by the way I’d comported myself, giving
myself permission to be party to someone’s cheating. My mother always said I was bad at taking responsibility. Maybe this was a lesson I had to learn the hard way.

  “So, how much do you have left to do on her?” Xavier asked.

  For a fleeting, terrifying moment, I thought he meant Rebecca — and how much more I would torture her by sleeping with her soon-to-be fiancé — but in the same instant, I realized he meant the girl in the painting.

  “Basically, this was just stage one, almost like the prep work before the real artistry can begin. How long it takes depends on how well paint takes to the surface, how easy it is to imitate the colors they used in that era… boring stuff like that.”

  “I don’t find it boring,” Xavier countered. “Especially since you look so excited about it. Anything you find exciting is kind of contagious.”

  I knew my cheeks were burning in a way that totally betrayed me, but I could do nothing to quell their fire.

  “Well, thanks,” I spluttered out, not even slightly coming off as cool. “That’s a very sweet thing to say.”

  “I can be kind of a sweet guy. Or so they tell me.” He made a little growl and ‘sexy’ expression, almost like Fabio or someone of that hot-blooded Italian ilk.

  Xavier was back to being his regular, goofy self, which was a relief because I wasn’t sure I could take many more earnest compliments. Neither could my panties, which were starting to feel rather damp. In college, it’d been easy to see his dorkiness. His hair had been a little messier, his eyes wider and his overall air just kinda funny. But in the intervening years, he’d grown taller, putting on muscle and gravitas, if gravitas is a thing that can be even put on.

  I had to remind myself that he was the same guy I’d always known and not some mythical knight on a white steed.

  Why did he do such a number on me? If only my head could stop spinning long enough to take my eyes off his bulging crotch…

  “Ahem,” Xavier said, clearing his throat. Had he caught me staring? Yikes. “I’m heading out. Congrats on the compliments from Mx. Tok. She seems like a hard nut to crack, so you must’ve really done something right.”