Raise Your Game

by Cassia Leo

  He laughs. “Okay, so how am I going to pick you up?”

  I begin making my way to my bedroom. “I’ll meet you at your place. Just text me the address.”

  Silence again, but this time it’s longer “Is this some sort of ploy to get my address so you can start stalking me? I’ve never given out my address to a woman.”

  I pause at the entrance to my bedroom. “Are you kidding me right now?”

  He chuckles again. “Okay, fine. I’ll send you my address, but don’t share it with anyone…and don’t be late. Our flight leaves for Hawaii in less than two hours.”

  I end the call and drag my pale-blue leather suitcase — the one my father used for nearly two decades — down the stairs. It bumps along behind me and nearly bowls me over. I lose my grip on the handle and the suitcase goes clattering down the wooden stairs. With a loud thud, it lands on the wood floor at the bottom of the steps.

  I hurry after it, snatching my handbag out of the coat closet near the front door. Standing just inside the threshold, I summon an Uber and go out onto my front stoop to wait for its arrival. Within a few minutes, a silver Toyota Corolla pulls up to the curb.

  The guy driving the Uber has a long beard that reaches his chest, and he makes no attempt to get out of his vehicle and help me with my luggage. I drag the suitcase down the steps, one at a time, being careful not to let the suitcase gain too much momentum. When I finally reach the sidewalk, a raindrop lands on my eyebrow.

  I scurry toward the back of the Toyota and tap the top of the trunk, indicating for the driver to pop it open. He doesn’t seem to hear me over the electronic music blasting inside the car. I leave my suitcase and walk around to the driver’s side window.

  He looks up as if he’s surprised to see me, then he turns down his music and lowers his window. “Did you call for an Uber, or what?”

  I swallow my anger and point at the back of the car. “Can you open the trunk, please?”

  He presses a button to pop the trunk, but makes no attempt to help me load my suitcase.

  It takes a couple minutes to figure out how to slide it in without damaging the guy’s car. There’s no way I can lift it high enough to drop it inside. Finally, I decide I don’t give a shit and I lean it against the bumper and slide that baby in with no protection.

  Slamming the trunk closed, I get into the back seat and angrily slam the door shut.

  “You moving out or something?” the guy asks as he pulls away from the curb.

  I want to ignore his question. He didn’t help me with my luggage, so he doesn’t really have a right asked me such a personal question. But I really don’t want to anger this inconsiderate man whose car smells a bit like blue cheese.

  “No,” I reply simply.

  I hope my abrupt response will deliver a strong hint that I do not want chat. But I have no such luck.

  “You going to a hotel or something?” Mr. Nosey Parker asks. “Seems like an awful big suitcase just to go across town. Got a body in there?”

  So he did see me struggling with the suitcase.

  “I’m just making a stop before I head to the airport,” I reply, trying to keep my answer as brief as possible.

  I doubt this guy keeps up with the Manhattan social scene enough to know who Logan Pierce is. And I’m positive he doesn’t recognize my name on my Uber profile as the byline on countless Close-Up articles. But you can never be too certain. And absolutely no one can know who I am or what I’m doing with Logan this week. Nevertheless, I will be filing a worker’s compensation claim as soon as we get back from the retreat, for the damage done to my hair by bleaching it blonde – so I more closely resemble Logan’s “type.” Gag.

  The guy smiles as he picks his nose and turns right onto the parkway, such a multitasker. “I can take you to the airport. You know, if you’re not going to be at this place for too long. I can wait a few minutes.”

  I have a friend who drives an Uber, so I know this guy gets paid better on longer trips versus shorter trips. I know he’s just trying to make a living. But it’s not my job to pad his paycheck. If he wanted a little extra out of this trip, he should have dug into his human decency reserve instead of his nostrils.

  “No, thanks. I won’t need a ride to the airport.”

  “Aw, come on! I don’t mind waiting a few minutes. I can take you to the airport. Come on, I’m trying to save up money to buy my daughter of computer for school. Come on.”

  This ride has suddenly gotten very awkward. First, the guy doesn’t want to help me with my luggage. Now, he wants me to reward his stellar customer service by agreeing to allow him to drive me to the airport when I have clearly said I don’t need a ride.

  I swallow hard and shift uncomfortably in my seat. “Look, I’m really sorry, but I don’t need a ride. My…friend is giving me a ride. But thank you for offering. I hope your daughter gets her computer soon.”

  The driver shakes his head in dismay, but he doesn’t reply. The rest of the twelve-minute ride is filled with complete and utter awkward silence. By the time we pull up to Logan’s Park Avenue apartment building, my hand is on the door handle, and I’m ready to jump out as soon as the vehicle comes to a stop. Which is exactly what I do, despite the fact a valet is approaching the car with the clear intention of opening the door for me.

  “Oh, I’m fine. Thank you,” I assure the valet. “We don’t need parking. I’m just being dropped off.”

  The young, clean-cut valet with the stunning smile and wide brown eyes flashes me a bright smile. “Of course, let me help you with your bag, ma’am,” he says as the driver pops the trunk.

  “Thank you so much,” I gush.

  Even the strapping young valet has a bit of a task pulling the suitcase out of the trunk. “My pleasure, ma’am. Not”—grunt—“a problem.”

  I slam the trunk closed and glance back at the silver Corolla as I walk away.

  The driver glares at me as he lowers the passenger window. “I knew you wouldn’t tip me!”

  I point my finger at him. “Yeah, well, maybe you’d get a tip if you cleaned your car!” I turn around and practically smash my face into Logan’s rock-hard chest. “Oh! I didn’t see you there.”

  Logan cocks an eyebrow as a bellman comes out to assist with my suitcase, taking it to the back of a black Range Rover parked behind the Corolla. “Certainly don’t travel light, do you?”

  I can smell him at this distance, and the scent is oddly comforting: warm, spicy, with a hint of freshly-pressed linen and aged leather. Smells like money. I look up at his perfectly-styled dark hair, his chiseled face with just the right amount of scruff, his expensive suit. He smells like money because he is money.

  What the hell am I doing here?

  Unlike the Uber driver from hell, the chauffeur who takes us to the airport is silent the entire ride. He doesn’t ask us to donate to his cause or refuse to help us with our luggage. Why…it’s almost as if having money changes a person.

  As pleasant as my experience is with Logan’s chauffeur, and the priority service we receive when we check in for our first class flight to Hawaii, it only serves to magnify the differences between Logan and me. We come from two different worlds. I’ll have to keep reminding myself of that. I can’t forget for a single moment that Logan Pierce is only in this for himself.

  As we take our seats in row two of the first-class cabin, I begin to feel almost like a bit of a fugitive. It seems criminal to sit in such a comfortable, spacious leather seat, being served drinks before the flight even takes off. Meanwhile, my fellow passengers in coach are struggling to cram their knees in and silently hoping the open seat next to them stays empty for the rest of the flight.

  Logan watches me as I guzzle the tiny complimentary bottle of water. “You look like a homeless person trying to consume as much food as you can at the salad bar before you get kicked out. There’s more water where that came from. Have you never flown first class?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “That was actually very
insulting. You do realize that, don’t you?”

  He stares at me blankly, totally oblivious to the way he so easily stokes my inferiority complex.

  I shake my head. “Yes, this is my first time flying first class, which apparently is very obvious. Thank you for reminding me.”

  That sexy laugh spills out of his perfect mouth. “So you’re telling me,” he begins, his elbow nudging mine softly, “that I’m responsible for popping your first class cherry?”

  I turn in my seat, so my entire body is facing him. “Listen here,” I begin, ignoring the sly smirk on his face. “I’ve given this whole couples retreat thing a lot of thought over the last few days.”

  He tilts his head curiously. “And what did you come up with, Miss Celebrity Whisperer?”

  I smile at his attempt to stroke my ego. “Exactly. I think it would do you well to remember that I am the one with the skill to pull this off.”

  His elbow nudges mine again as he leans in close enough for me to feel his body heat. “So you think that I am somehow unskilled at making people do whatever I want them to do?” His eyes are locked on mine as his fingertip grazes the top of my hand.

  I swallow hard as I suddenly feel my heartbeat pulsing in every — and I do mean every — part of my body. “Oh, I know you can get people to do what you want,” I reply, shaking my head as I pull my hand back. “Everyone in New York knows how you do that.”

  He rolls his eyes. “You’re starting to sound like my father.”

  I nod in agreement before I catch myself. “Your father? Actually, never mind your father. Stop trying to change the subject. Back to that other thing.”

  He smiles. “What other thing?”

  “You know what I’m talking about,” I reply, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Your ability to get people to do what you want. There will be none of that. I have four rules for this trip.”

  He chuckles. “Rules? You have got to be kidding me.”

  “I’m serious as sweat socks.”

  “As what?”

  “You know what I mean,” I scoff.

  He shakes his head. “And what might those four ‘serious as sweat socks’ rules be?”

  I hand my empty water bottle to the flight attendant. “Rule number one,” I begin, leaning in a little so I’m not overheard. “Absolutely no sex. Number two. No sleeping in the same bed.”

  Logan holds up a finger to stop me. “Wait a minute. Don’t you think it will be a bit suspicious if we show up at a couples retreat asking for a room with two beds? Married couples sleep together.”

  I stick out my chin, ready with an answer. “I’ve already thought of that. This is a tantric intimacy retreat for couples who obviously have shitty sex lives. There’s has to be a few, maybe even as many as half of the couples, who don’t sleep together anymore.”

  He ponders this for a long moment before he seems to decide he can’t argue. “Okay, seems you have this figured out. So what are rules three and four?”

  I draw in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Number three: No skinny-dipping or nudity of any kind. And number four: No discussing my parents.”

  He scrunches his eyebrows in confusion at this fourth rule. “You do realize that we’ll have to take part in mandatory therapy sessions at this retreat, and I have no control over what kinds of questions the therapist will ask you about your parents.”

  I cock an eyebrow. “You’re a rich, powerful, charming man. You said it yourself, you’re very good at getting people to do what you want. I’m sure you can figure out a way to tip off the therapist on what topics are off-limits.”

  He nods an agreement, pressing his lips together as he seems to think about my proposed four rules. “Okay. I can handle those four rules, but you have to agree to just one in return.”

  “Hit me.”

  “One rule to rule them all. And that rule is, you cannot blame me when you suddenly want to break your rule number one.”

  I throw my head back with laughter. “I am not having sex with you, Logan.”

  He smiles as the flight attendant arrives with his glass of champagne. “We’ll see about that.”

  I point at the champagne bottle in the woman’s hands. “Are those drinks really free?”

  Logan nods, smiling as he watches my champagne being poured, and I throw back the entire glass of in a couple of gulps. “I guess I know how you’ll be keeping yourself occupied during this eleven-hour flight.”

  “You should probably use this time to read the questionnaire I emailed you and your attorney this morning. You know, the one asking me all those personal questions, like what brand of tampons I use.”

  He chuckles again, and the sound feels like a whisper of fingertips gliding over my skin. “Well, what brand is it?”

  I shake my head. “Nuh-uh. You have to do your own homework. Did you send me your questionnaire?”

  He smiles. “I did. I’m sure you’ll be very pleased to find out what brand of condom I prefer. I’ll give you a hint, it begins with Magnum and ends with extra-large.”

  I smile as I attempt to appear unfazed despite the loud thumping of my heartbeat echoing inside my ears. “Perfect. Just like my tampons.”

  His laughs loudly and with total abandon. “Speaking of things you put your fingers inside,” he says, reaching into his breast pocket and retrieving two gold wedding bands and a ring with the biggest diamond I’ve ever seen. “We should put these on before we land.”

  I take the two smaller rings and slide them both onto my left ring finger, my eyes widening with shock at how heavy the diamond feels. “If this plane goes down, it will be this thing’s fault.”

  He slides on his faux wedding band and leans back in his seat. “Till death do us part, wifey.”

  Once the plane has taken off, I assume we will each retire to the comfort of our reading material. But as luck would have it, Logan doesn’t seem to have brought anything to read.

  “So how do you like working at Close-Up?” he asks after the flight attendant takes our lunch order.

  “I love it!” I reply enthusiastically. “It’s my dream job. Exactly what I imagined myself doing when I majored in journalism.”

  He shakes his head. “Is there nothing about it you enjoy?”

  I shrug. “Actually, I love reading the comments on my articles.”

  He looks at me like I’m crazy. “More sarcasm?”

  I shake my head adamantly. “Nope. Sometimes, I pour myself a glass of wine and read the comments aloud in Morgan Freeman’s voice.”

  “In Morgan Freeman’s voice?” he replies, obviously impressed. “Well, now you have to demonstrate this talent.”

  I draw in a deep breath as I slide the Skymall catalog out of the leather pocket on the back of the seat in front of me and begin reading in my best Morgan Freeman voice. “LyxPro noise-cancelling Bluetooth headphones. Professional sound meets the freedom of hands-free. Rediscover portable listening pleasure.”

  His jaw drops as he stares at me. “That is both the worst Morgan Freeman impression and the sexiest thing I have ever heard in my life.”

  “I never said it was good,” I say, sliding the catalog back into the leather pocket while trying desperately to ignore how he just called me sexy.

  He shakes his head. “No, it wasn’t good. It was awful, and strangely arousing. I am one proud hubby.”

  I roll my eyes as I reach into my pocket to retrieve my phone. “I’m going to read a book now. Let me know if you’d like me to read aloud to keep you entertained.”

  “I’ll pass. There is such thing as too much of a good thing. We have to save some of the fun for the retreat,” he says with a ridiculously sexy grin.

  I turn my body away from him to keep myself myself from stealing glances at those large hands and perfect lips. “I can hardly wait.”

  Chapter 5

  LOGAN

  Our driver drops us off at the Paradise Tantra Resort in Honolulu. The retreat is actually located inside a Hilton hotel. Wh
en we pull into the porte-cochère, a representative of the retreat checks us into the hotel using an iPad then directs us to an outdoor bell desk. The desk and the pathway leading to the hotel entrance are all covered by overhead walkways, which is a good thing considering it is raining cats and dogs in Honolulu today.

  Sophie shakes her head as a bellman lugs our bags out of the trunk and places them on a brass luggage cart while we head toward the outdoor bell desk. “Hawaii in November? Who the hell goes to Hawaii in November?”

  I place my hand on the small of her back to guide her forward as the bell desk attendant beckons us. She glances at my arm and clears her throat loudly, as if to signal that I’m breaking some sort of rule by touching her.

  I slowly remove my hand as we arrive at the bell desk, then I lean in to whisper in her ear, “None of your rules said anything about touching. Nonetheless, I will respect your wishes.”

  The guy behind the counter flashes us a beaming smile. “Can I have your last name, sir?”

  “Pierce. Logan Pierce,” I reply leaning over the counter and lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you think you can get us a room with two beds?”

  The guy smiles at Sophie. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Pierce,” he says before he turns his attention back to me as he hands me two card keys for the room. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Pierce, but the Paradise Tantra Resort has limited room availability and all our rooms have just one bed. This is meant to promote intimacy and togetherness while attending the resort. If this is an issue, we can—”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sophie interjects.

  I place a gentle hand on her forearm. “It’s okay, dear. I’m sure we can figure something out. After all, we are here to get closer, right?”

  Sophie’s nostrils flare as she forces a smile. “Right…closer.”

  Neither of us says a word as we follow the bellman up to the twelfth floor, where all the Paradise Tantra Resort guests’ rooms are located. I open the door to suite 1210 and pass the bellman a generous tip, which he thanks me for before he swiftly sets off toward the elevator. The maids’ cart parked outside our suite is an eyesore. Though we checked in an hour before the resort’s official check-in time, I suppose it’s to be expected that the cleaning staff may not have finished their rounds. But when we enter the room, it appears squeaky clean and empty.