by Virna DePaul
“More like I’m the type of person who gets so focused on one thing that I sometimes forget to eat or take a shower.” Which is true, even though what I’d been focusing on for the past week was trying to feel better. “Let me make it up to you?”
She scoffs. “So you ignore me for an entire week, give some lame excuse, and expect me to just give in and see you again? Have a nice life, Bastian. No, on second thought, go to hell.” She hangs up.
I stare at my phone. She hung up on me? She hung up on me!
I laugh. I can’t help it. It’s so ridiculous and my life feels like it’s veering out of control, so all I can do is laugh. I also laugh because Julia Rominger is a spitfire. She doesn’t let anyone walk all over her and I can’t help but admire that about her.
And want her all the more.
14
Julia
It’s Wednesday, and I’m stuck handing out samples of sushi made with some kind of organic tofu, and now Joe is back and looking at me like I just tried to hand him poison.
“What are these again?”
I sigh inwardly. “It’s sushi. And these are vegan sushi made with tofu and avocado.” I place a little container in Joe’s meaty paw. “Try it. They’re good.”
They’re not good—and I like sushi, I should add—but I can’t say that. Joe stares at the circular bite of food and then back at me. Then he pops it into his mouth and chews for what seems at least an hour.
He chews, and chews, and chews. He furrows his eyebrows in concentration. I’m about to ask if he needs a glass of water when he swallows in one loud gulp.
“That was not good,” he says in a disappointed voice.
Story of my life, I want to say, and I hate that I’m feeling sorry for myself. I’m healthy. Have reliable work. I even got to jam with Ryland Masters a couple of days ago, after I’d accepted his invitation, and it had felt so incredibly right to play a guitar and sing again period, let alone with a genuine rock star. Yet all I can focus on is my misery over Bastian. Of course, I don’t tell Joe that. Instead, I just reply, “Well, it’s not to everyone’s tastes, I know.”
“When are you going to have chicken wings again?”
“No idea. I don’t get to choose the samples.” At Joe’s sad look, I add, “Sorry! But I’ll try my best.”
He takes this as best he can before pushing his cart down the aisle. I feel like I just killed the guy’s dog, and all I did was give him some crappy sushi. I look down at the sad array of tasteless samples, and I feel like it’s a metaphor for my life. Boring, tasteless, mediocre.
Oh, sure, I thought I’d gotten some prime-time sushi lately. But then that sushi had to turn out to be a real jackass, and now I’m stuck with the shitty stuff.
I rub my forehead. I’m losing my mind, I think.
After Bastian’s phone call yesterday—and me hanging up on him—I fumed and stomped and yelled things while Samson watched in confusion until I felt a little bit better. Not only was he a jackass to ignore me, but then he calls, acts like it’s no big deal, and thinks buying me a steak dinner will make me forget? Hell no.
He’s gonna have to try a lot harder than that to get back into my good graces.
The sad thing is? I’m not sure I’m worth that much work to him.
It’s a depressing thought. I slump down at my stand, gazing out at the customers milling about Cooper’s. A young guy in sweatpants is furiously looking through the vitamins, while an older woman seems intent on finding just the right kind of fiber for her diet. I feel the monotony of everything press down on me. It’s a terrible feeling.
I thought Bastian was different. After he apologized that first time, and then the concert, and then the sex . . . But he’s no different than any other guy. He just wanted some ass, and I sure did give it to him, didn’t I?
I slump down until I’m almost eye level with the sushi. “Only you can understand me,” I tell the samples.
“Rominger!” She-Hulk yells.
I stand up, knocking over a few samples as a result. I scramble to pick them up.
“Can you at least try to look like you care?” she asks, hands on her hips. “Recently, every time I come by, you look like you’ve been run over by a train.”
I throw the sushi that fell on the floor into the trash before standing up. “Sorry, Sheila. Just been preoccupied.”
To my astonishment, she steps closer to me and asks in a low voice, “Is it man trouble? You wanna talk about it?”
No, I do not! Not with you! I stare at her, my mouth agape. “Uhhhhh,” I say helpfully.
“Did he hit it and quit it? Happened to me a few weeks ago. Picked up this great, big wrestler at a bar, and we had a night to remember.” She thinks back, and I’m struggling not to imagine She-Hulk having sex. “But then he never calls again. So I made sure to blacklist him from the store. Now he has to drive ten miles to get groceries.”
“Uh, great,” I reply.
“Well, if you ever need someone, I’m here.” She pats my arm—a little too hard, and I wince—before she tromps down the aisle, barking at some other unsuspecting employee.
My life has officially hit a new low. She-Hulk giving me relationship advice while I hand out crappy, tasteless sushi to people who don’t even want it.
“Julia.”
I hear the voice. It’s the voice. My heart pounds instantly, and my body perks up, and I feel like Pavlov’s dog because dammit, am I that easy?
Then I see him: Bastian. Walking toward me. He’s as handsome as ever, but when he stops in front of my stand, he looks at the ground, then at me, but he doesn’t say anything. His awkwardness inadvertently makes my awkwardness melt away. Where did the confident, sexy Bastian go? This side of him is unexpected, but it’s more endearing than I care to admit.
He glances down at the samples. “Are these supposed to be sushi?”
“Yeah, vegan sushi with tofu. You should try one.”
“So they’re good?”
“Not at all.”
“Right. Do you guys ever give out samples people want to eat?”
“Hey, some people like cardboard sushi and granola bars.” At his look, I shrug. “Well, maybe some people. I just haven’t found them yet.”
“Look, I know you don’t want to see me or talk to me, but give me one more chance.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Let me take you out to dinner?”
Seeing him standing there, unsure, tired, and yes, still sexy and delicious, I feel myself softening.
“Look, Bastian, I think that’s a bad idea. We had fun, but we really have nothing in common.”
“That’s not true.”
“Oh really. Tell me what we have in common. Besides a burning need to dispense financial advice, I mean.”
I try to resist his smile. Try to resist the flurry of feelings inside me, and the voice shouting with joy that he’s in front of me, wanting another chance. But I give in because I’m weak and I missed him.
“Okay, I’ll go. But no more ghosting, all right? If you don’t want to see me anymore, just tell me.” I smile a little. “I’m a big girl; I can take it.”
His tired eyes brighten at my acceptance. “Good, good. I’ll pick you up at seven. It’ll be somewhat fancy, so dress up.”
“It might have to be the same dress I wore last time,” I say wryly. “I’m not much for dress-wearing.”
“Works for me. I know exactly how to get you out of it.” His words are low, smoky, and they send a thrill through me because I am easy.
Considering he’d just asked for my forgiveness, the statement is pretty ballsy. I guess confident Bastian is back. He’s apparently calculated the chances that he’s going to see me naked tonight and likes his odds.
Oh well. There are worse things to be easy for than a sexy man like Bastian Rich.
“Be forewarned,” I reply, “I might order the most expensive thing on the menu in revenge for you ignoring me.”
“Order whatever you w
ant. I like to see a woman eating something other than salad and air.”
I laugh. “Challenge accepted.”
Bastian then leans toward me and gives me a light kiss on the lips. It’s over before it begins, and I find myself pressing my fingers to my mouth when he murmurs, “Thank you for giving me another chance. I’ll see you later,” and walks away.
I’m staring after him, heart-eyes and all, when She-Hulk comes back my way.
“Oh, so that’s the guy,” she says, nodding approvingly.
I jump. Then I stammer, “Who’s the guy?”
“The guy you were mooning over,” she says, like I’m an idiot. “He has a nice ass. If you weren’t tapping it, I would.”
Oh God, now She-Hulk is lusting after Bastian. Can’t I catch a break for once?
“Uh, well, he’s taking me out tonight, so I think his ass is busy.” I sound like an idiot, but for some reason, another woman looking at Bastian fills me with jealousy. It’s not like She-Hulk would be any competition, but still. It makes me edgy.
“Good for you, Rominger. Remember to use protection.” She nods sagely, and then barks out, “Dorsey! Aren’t you supposed to be cleaning up aisle five?”
After my shift, I bike home as fast as I can, as I only have a little time to get ready before Bastian said he’d pick me up. I feed Samson, who meows plaintively, and then go to my closet and start tossing clothes out onto my bed. Why don’t I have one sexy thing—other than the dress I already wore—to go to dinner in?
“No, not this top. No, this skirt is ugly. Ugh, why do I still have these pants?” Looking through my clothes, I realize that I have the fashion sense of a middle-aged schoolmarm with a few pieces that scream I’M EASY! to mix things up. I guess I could always wear my knee-length black skirt with the backless, purple sequin halter top.
I finally settle on a black dress I wore to a wedding two years ago. It’s not sexy, per se, but it’s not frumpy. I pair it with some chandelier earrings and try to make my hair behave. Glancing in the mirror, I wonder if I should put on Spanx. But then if we get busy, Bastian will see that I’m wearing giant granny panties . . . I look at Samson.
“Should I wear them and hope he doesn’t notice, or brave the muffin top?”
Samson swishes his tail against my dingy carpet.
“Well, I probably shouldn’t sleep with him again so soon anyway. So, Spanx it is.” I curse as I get the elastic fabric up and on, but the effect is nice. Thank God for whoever invented these things!
When Bastian arrives, I try to act cool. I give him a light kiss and then let him guide me to his car, his hand on my lower back.
“I thought I’d take you for tapas at La Mariposa,” he tells me as he opens the car door for me. “That sound good to you?”
I freaking love tapas, but I force myself not to sound too excited when I reply, “Sounds good to me.”
Glancing into the side mirror, I tell myself: Don’t be easy. Don’t let him off the hook completely. And try not to get sangria on your dress.
But as Bastian gives me his sexy smile, I have a feeling the first two things aren’t going to happen.
15
Bastian
Although I’m still tired from being so sick last week, seeing Julia helps me forget all of that. Who knew she’d be the best kind of medicine?
She’s quiet as I drive her to La Mariposa, but when she catches my gaze, she smiles. I hope that this is a sign that she’s forgiven me for ghosting on her last week.
Just seeing her in that little black dress? I’m hard already. I can smell a whiff of perfume, and it makes everything worse. She’s not wearing as much makeup as last weekend, but she’s still beautiful, no matter how much or how little lipstick she has on. I have to force myself to watch the road because I’m about to start counting the freckles scattered across her nose.
Jesus, I’m turning into a sentimental dork. Lucian would laugh at me if he knew I was thinking about counting a woman’s freckles. He’d also say that I have it bad. I clench my hands on the steering wheel.
I can’t say that he’d be wrong, either.
Arriving at the restaurant, I take Julia into a private room that has benches filled with brightly colored cushions and pillows. The lighting is dim but warm, and it smells like spices and fruit. I order us a pitcher of sangria to share, which cools me down some but doesn’t stop me from staring at Julia across from me.
She’s looking at the menu, though, biting her lip with her front teeth. It’s an adorable little quirk she has, and it makes me want to nip at that bottom lip. Which leads to thoughts of how she arched underneath me, how hot and wet and tight she was, how good she tasted . . .
I have to shift some in my seat, my trousers tightening uncomfortably.
We order various tapas to share, the sangria constantly flowing, and Julia warms up to me again. She’s laughing and teasing, her eyes shining.
“So how was your week?” When she gives me a look, I add, “Except for me ghosting on you, that is.”
Luckily, she’s the type who doesn’t hold grudges. She smiles, but then sighs. “Nothing much to tell. Work, work, sleep, work. The usual.”
I take a sip of sangria, which is sweet and cold, perfect for the warm evening. “Do you work somewhere else? Besides Cooper’s?”
“Not right now, no. I worked part time at Greta’s, the clothing store downtown. But let’s just say I wasn’t as polite to the clientele as my manager wanted.”
I know Greta’s is a snobby kind of place, and I can just imagine Julia getting irritated with rich, gossipy old ladies who come in to buy their Sunday church dresses.
“But what about you?” she asks, raising a blond eyebrow. “Since you were so busy with work, something must have gone down.”
Ah. So she’s naturally assumed that me being busy was about work, and though it’s on the tip of my tongue to correct her, I don’t. Not yet, I tell myself. She’s just forgiven me. She deserves to relax and have a good time without me bringing her down. And frankly, after the week I’ve had, I deserve to enjoy some time with her, too. So work it is. “My brother Lucian and I came up with a strategy regarding Ryland. We seem to be making progress, but he’s still not our number-one fan, shall we say.”
Our tapas arrive, and I watch as Julia samples each. She moans a little when she eats some of the goat cheese and bread, and it sends a zing down my spine. Does she have any idea how sexy she is, doing that? Watching her, I realize she probably has no idea, which makes it even more alluring.
“So you mentioned you used to be a music major. That you sing and play the guitar. Do you miss your studies?”
She shrugs. She doesn’t meet my gaze, but instead is intently looking at the tapas plate in front of her. I’m reminded of how she’d frozen me out when I’d asked her similar questions on the way to her place after the concert. Maybe she’s embarrassed about dropping out of school, and I admit the fact that she did surprises me. She seems too smart and savvy to give up on a college education like that.
I wonder: did something happen? My gut churns, thinking of possibilities. I then swirl my sangria before taking another sip. Seeing that her glass is empty, I refill it.
“May I ask why you dropped out of college?” I ask.
She drinks her sangria, swallowing a few mouthfuls. Her expression is grim, and I have a feeling she’s not going to share this part of her life with me. “I’d rather not talk about it,” she admits.
I’m hurt, I won’t lie. But I shrug it off. “Then at least tell me about your music. Even if I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I smile encouragingly. She’s shy about it at first, but as she talks, she becomes more animated. She talks about composition and range and harmonies and melodies until my head spins, but the excitement in her voice is intoxicating. I wonder again why she’d give up something she so obviously loves. Even I don’t love my work as much as Julia loves singing and playing. I wish, suddenly, that I could hear her play.
“Just hearing his music, though,” she says, her sangria glass in hand, “shows that he’s a risk taker. I know you think that investment isn’t a great idea, but I don’t think you’re looking at it through his perspective.”
“But why hire a financial advisor if you won’t let yourself be advised?” I counter.
“Advice is one thing; refusing to look at both sides is another.” She points at me; she’s a little tipsy, and it’s adorable. “Did you even look at the business he’s interested in? Or did you see that it’s not foolproof and say no?”
When I don’t respond, she raises her eyebrows.
“It’s not that simple.”
“Sometimes,” she says prosaically, “things are simpler than you realize.”
As we talk strategy and Ryland and things I never, ever talk about with girlfriends, I become more and more impressed with Julia: she’s sharp as a tack. She analyzes situations with an astuteness that is rare in someone so young. She’s not that much younger than me, but she doesn’t have the experience in the field that I do. Yet for some reason, she gets a situation and is able to take it apart, understand each side and angle.
Leaning back as the waiter takes our dishes, I half-wonder if I should hire her myself.
After we finish eating, we go back out to my car. Julia is fumbling with her purse. When she looks up at me, she blushes, biting her lip. She fidgets, leaning against the car door.
Going solely on instinct, I lean down and kiss her. She stiffens at first, but then melts instantly. She tastes of sangria, and I can’t get enough. I deepen the kiss. Tangling her fingers in my hair, she presses up against me. If she didn’t feel my hard-on already, she’ll definitely feel it now.
I can’t stop wanting her.
When she pulls away for a gasp of air, I say, “Come back to my place tonight?”
