Man Card

by Sarina Bowen

  I’d be creeped out by it if I wasn’t secretly turned on.

  “Hey, is that your phone?” Brynn asks just as Steve Miller’s “Take The Money and Run” starts playing from my pocket. “Whose ringtone is that?”

  I yank out the phone and look at the digits. “It’s my ring for an unidentified local number.” I’m a realtor, so I answer in a hot second. You never know when the next big client is going to show up and change your life. Or at least pay you a fat commission. “Hello, this is Ash Power of VanderMollen Realty’s Eastown branch! How may I help you?”

  The caller doesn’t say anything, though. I press the phone against my ear and wait, expecting to hear at least a robocall start up. All I hear is someone’s sigh. It feels familiar somehow.

  The hair stands up on the back of my neck. “Hello?” I say again. “Is there anyone there?”

  I hear a click. And then nothing.

  That’s weird. Weird, but hang-ups happen, right? Especially those robocalls. It was probably some poor salesperson calling to tell me how I’ve won a vacation and all I’ll have to do is give them my credit card and my first-born child. Yep. That’s what it was.

  Okay.

  Good.

  It was definitely not my ex-husband stalking me from prison. This is where my mind goes in October, I guess. Because it’s almost Halloween, so a hang-up would make anyone feel like she’s starring in somebody’s horror film.

  It would, right?

  “You also didn’t tell me how it went with Zelda,” Brynn prods.

  “Zelda isn’t real,” I remind her.

  “No kidding. But what did Braht say when there was no assistant Zelda?”

  I squint up at the perfect sky. “He didn’t even mention her. Probably because I wasn’t very convincing.” Having Braht in the office these past two days hasn’t been easy. “I wish he’d just go back to the branch across town and leave me alone.”

  Brynn gives me a sideways glance. “Too distracting?”

  Definitely. But that wasn’t even the biggest problem. “You know I win the branch sales bonus every year, right? I’m worried that now I won’t get the prize. And I’ve already spent it.”

  “Oh, honey. On what?”

  “Home repairs. I put a down-payment on a new garage door.” Also a top-notch home security system, but that’s just me being paranoid, so I don’t mention it. “Braht’s numbers from the other branch shouldn’t count, right?” I hope management will realize that’s unfair.

  I’m really not good at sharing. Or compromising. I know this.

  Luckily I am saved from further self-flagellation when a cute family approaches our table. The school-aged boys help themselves to one of Brynn’s apple cinnamon balls. The mother takes one of Brynn’s measuring spoons, with Brynn’s Dips and Balls printed on the handle.

  “Would you like a luggage tag?” I offer a black one to the dad—the macho color.

  “I’d love one.” He reads the back. “VanderMollen, huh? We might be needing to upsize.” He reaches over to pat his wife’s belly, and I notice she’s pregnant.

  “Oh!” I say, feeling suddenly better. I live for these moments. “If you’d like me to run you a report of available four-bedrooms in your neighborhood, I’m happy to do it.”

  “That might come in handy,” he agrees.

  I slide exactly the right business card out of my pile. This one says, Ash Power, Family Expansion Specialist. I have a total of ten different business cards, each one proclaiming me a specialist at something slightly different.

  A girl has to put her best self forward at all times. God knows the men of the world have always done so.

  “Thanks!” The guy pockets my card, and the family moves off toward one of the food tents.

  But now that they’re gone, my burst of enthusiasm goes, too. It smells like a pumpkin spiced latte threw up around here. I am definitely not feeling at peace with the fall spirit. I want to sneer at the decorative corn and smash all the pumpkins. I don’t know what this rage is exactly.

  Sadie strolls up with her twin girls in tow. They’re more than a year old now, and they’re pretty fucking cute. They walk in a teetering way, as if every step is a fifty-fifty chance of a face-plant. “We brought coffee!” Sadie says. God, I hope the twins aren’t carrying it. I sigh with relief when I see Sadie has a gigantic thermos tucked into her stroller.

  She’s got everything in that stroller. Granola bars, diapers, juice, Neosporin. I sorta want to ask if her husband is in that stroller, tucked away somewhere, but I refrain. Something is going on with them, yet I still have hope for her. Maybe everything will turn out fine. Maybe her husband will prove us all wrong and turn out to be a decent guy. Doubtful, though.

  But back to the coffee. I reach for the thermos, tempted to take a swig. “You are the best!” I exclaim with a whole lot of vigor. It’s possible that I’m under-caffeinated. I pour some of the liquid gold into a tiny paper cup and slug it back. With a quick swipe of my mouth, I’m almost good to go. In fact, I’m starting to feel generous. It must be the caffeine.

  “Ladies,” I offer to the miniature people. “Want a luggage tag? I have pink ones!”

  The twins pounce, but they reach for the black ones. Oh! Power color. I make a mental note of deep respect again.

  Actually, I am very glad they’re pouncing at the luggage tags and not my ankles. I’m just not one hundred percent pro-children. They’re just so…grabby.

  And then I’m suddenly side-tracked when a male voice asks, “Got one of those in titanium?”

  My nipples harden instantly. Damn it! That can only mean one thing. “Braht,” I say, raising my chin. “What are you doing here?”

  The crowd parts before him, and, God, he’s like a walking ad for GQ. He’s got on a long, fitted camel coat, russet-colored pants, and he’s wearing loafers. Actual fucking loafers. All he needs is an ascot to complete the picture. I shake my head and try to focus.

  “I am here with amazing news!” he says and smiles that shit-eating cocky grin that has surely brought many women to their knees for him. Including me, damn it.

  I dig my heeled boots into the dirt. There will be no kneeling for me. “What’s your news?” I demand, crossing my arms over my chest. It’s a body stance that sends the signal of dominance.

  Also, it covers my tight, hard nipples.

  “Come here,” he says.

  “No.”

  “Come here and I’ll tell you.”

  “Not happening.”

  Brynn is watching us and moving her head like it’s a tennis match. “For fuck’s sake!” she says and then pushes me and I stumble, right into Braht’s outstretched, soft arms. What the fuck is this coat made of? I want to rub my face up and down it. I swear to God I feel his arm muscles flex beneath my fingertips. And goddammit. Why’s he have to smell so good, and clean…and fresh.

  He holds me to him for a second and leans by my ear. There’s a puff of breath against my skin and all the hairs on my arm rise, and then he breathes “We. Sold. The. House. For cash.”

  WHAT THE FUCK?

  “What the fuck?” I ask aloud. “To whom? At what price?” My business brain does a little catalogue of all the possibilities, and then I can’t help the grin that blooms on my face. “Wait! The little old lady in the slippers? No way!”

  “Yes way. At the asking price, too. Well done, honey bear.”

  “The one who liked your boudoir photos?” I really can’t wrap my head around it.

  “That’s her! And she’s paying cash! She’s a famous thriller writer whose book was just made into a film! She even wants to keep the photos!”

  It’s really too much to take in. That must explain why my brain shorts out and I find myself hugging Braht a moment later. Suddenly we’re jumping up and down and giggling. And it goes on and on. With more hugging.

  “Ash!” I hear Brynn say, but I can’t stop myself. It’s fall and I’m surrounded by chrysanthemums and the world is good and Braht and I just mad
e a shitload of money on a cash sale! “Oh God, Braht!” I exclaim. This is better than coffee. Or even bacon. The adorable fucking orchard cannot even contain my joy!

  Then his hand is on my lower back and he’s pulled me up against his hard chest. And I see it happen in slow motion. His beautiful mouth swoops in and locks against mine. The kiss is pure sizzle. I fuse myself to Braht without stopping to think why I’d do such a thing. Again! But Braht can fucking kiss. Like, ahhhhhhhh. My brain takes a short nap, but my ovaries stand up and whistle.

  “Ash...” I hear Brynn’s voice somewhere in the distance. I’m too busy to pay attention because kissing Braht feels fucking amazing until she says my name again, this time with an edge of panic in her voice.

  I push against Braht and he pulls away. It takes a minute for my eyes to focus, and when they do, Braht and I are staring at each other, panting like we’ve just run a sprint.

  “Ash!”

  I finally turn, and it’s immediately clear what Brynn was trying to warn me about.

  “Oh!!! Hunter!” my mother squeals. “It’s soooo good to finally meet you! This is great!”

  She and my father rush both of us. A split second later their handmade-sweater-encased arms surround me and Braht until we’re a big old sandwich of family love.

  Holy. Shit.

  “Tell me you’re coming to Thanksgiving!” my mom squeals.

  And then Braht…the fucker…he wrecks it. He says: “Of course! Wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

  Noooooooo!

  Suddenly my father grins and my mother starts babbling. “This is amazing! Finally! Oh my goodness! This is going to sound ridiculous,” she says with another giggle. “But I was starting to think you were a figment of Ash’s imagination!”

  Brynn claps a hand over her mouth so she won’t burst out laughing. I don’t see what’s so damned funny. I fight off my parents and literally collapse into a heap on the grass.

  Goddamn Braht.

  6 Turkey, Pie, and Some Kind Of Blue

  Braht

  Keeping my hands at ten and two on the steering wheel, I glance at Ash. She’s sitting ramrod straight in the passenger seat of my BMW, looking like she’d rather commit a cold-blooded murder than have me accompany her to dinner at her family’s lake cottage.

  We just had a very silent day at work together. She didn’t even squawk when I stole one of her carefully sharpened pencils. I almost reached over to check her pulse, but I’m pretty sure it would have resulted in a knee to the groin.

  My girl is mad at me for inserting herself into a family holiday. But, seriously, the whole thing is a big misunderstanding. There I was at the fall festival, very innocently making sweet love to her mouth when a loud Mom Voice cries, “Oh, Hunter! We’ve always wanted to meet you!”

  It was trippy.

  A good friend always plays along, right? So I accepted Mrs. Power’s dinner invitation because it was the polite thing to do. And because Thanksgiving is more than a month away.

  Or so I thought.

  “You can’t be mad forever,” I whisper into the silence. The German engineering of my luxury car ensures that we can’t even hear any engine noise.

  Ash grunts unhappily.

  “I didn’t know, honey bear.”

  She growls.

  “You never told me about your family’s weird holiday traditions. I thought it was harmless to accept your mother’s Thanksgiving invitation. We could have broken up before the fourth Thursday of November. Saying yes was supposed to be a joke between us kids.”

  “Our family traditions aren’t weird,” she bites out. “And if you call me honey bear in front of my parents, I will twist off your nuts and serve them to you with gizzard gravy.”

  “Gizzard gravy. Now that’s weird.” She gives me a little harrumph at that, so I try again. “Come on, now. You have to admit that it’s weird to celebrate Canadian Thanksgiving when you’re not Canadian.”

  This is the source of Ash’s current snit—her mother’s Thanksgiving invitation wasn’t for late November—it was for a mere forty-eight hours after she caught me sucking face with her daughter. I didn’t know they celebrated Canadian Thanksgiving. Which is just wrong. For one, it’s in October. For two, it’s on a Monday.

  “Dad is from Toronto,” Ash says through her teeth. “I’m half Canadian.”

  I look over to see if she gives a secret Tim Horton’s salute. I make a clicking noise that’s meant to indicate doubt and also to remind Ash that I have a tongue. A tongue she really enjoyed in a certain pantry. “Aren’t Canadians famous for being nice, though?”

  My next sound is something like oof because she’s reached across the steering column to punch me in the kidney.

  “I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “Physical violence is uncalled for. This is all just so awkward.”

  Since I’m not a stupid man, I don’t point out that Ash should never have pretended to have a boyfriend named Hunter in the first place. I wouldn’t be driving to her parents’ lakefront cottage right now if it weren’t for her original deception.

  “It doesn’t have to be so awkward,” I say gently. “What if we didn’t pretend? For twenty-four hours, I’m your guy.”

  “W...what? That makes no sense.”

  Ah, well. It was worth a try. “It makes just as much sense as your plan,” I argue.

  “I don’t have a plan.”

  “Exactly.”

  She pouts.

  “Is it really so insane? Would you never date a guy like me?”

  “We work together.”

  “Pfft.” Nice try, Ash. “That’s not the problem and you know it.”

  “Okay, fine. The real problem is that real men don’t say pfft. Or wear Ferragamo loafers. Or cry during dog food commercials.”

  “There was something in my eye.” There was, too. Maybe. But the puppy was really cute, and when the family brought him home from the pound, it just spoke to me. “None of that, by the way, is the reason you’re so scared of me.”

  “I am not scared of you,” Ash says quickly.

  I cough into my hand. “Bullshit. Not me specifically. You are afraid of letting go. Terrified.”

  The speed at which she turns to face the window is confirmation of the problem. I can read her like a glossy magazine.

  “Letting go can be fun,” I remind her. “I’ll show you later, when you strip off my Lacoste and Ferragamo with your teeth.”

  “I don’t like you very much,” she says in a small voice.

  “You’ll like me better when I’ve tied you to the bed in your parents’ cottage.”

  She makes a noise that’s half rage, half lust. Oh, I’ve got her number. I really do.

  “I brought four neckties in preparation. Hermès, of course. Very silky.”

  “You’re delusional.”

  Maybe. But the conversation is brought to a halt by a female voice saying, “Dans deux kilomètres, prenez la sortie quinze pour Bear Lake.”

  “Oui, madame!” I reply. “Merci beaucoup!”

  “Of course your GPS is set to speak French,” Ash mumbles. “Of course it is.”

  “It’s great practice,” I point out. “Hunter has to impress your parents. How’s your French, Ash?”

  “Je déteste tes entrailles,” she says. I hate your guts.

  “Okay, pretty decent, then.”

  She actually turns to give me a wry smile. “You’re a good sport, Braht. Have I ever told you that?”

  “No. You usually leave that part out.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “My parents make me a little crazy. They’re a little overprotective. It makes me jumpy. I’ll try to tone down the bitch mode, if you try not to embarrass me. Too much.”

  “Oui, madame.” I take the next exit. We’re almost there. I can hear the waves crashing in the distance.

  “Turn here,” Ash says.

  “Where?” I ask. The GPS is curiously silent.

  “At the fish! THE FISH!”

 
What fish? Oh! That fish. It’s a battered windsock. I wrench the wheel and turn onto a tiny little gravel road that just climbs up and up. And up. I didn’t know roads could be built at a 90 degree angle. But my German luxury car is well-engineered. We’ve done worse together.

  “You have to gun it at the top,” Ash says. I look over at her and she licks her lips. Those lips that were once perfectly around my cock. Suddenly Ash reaches over and runs her hand down my leg. If she moves it up a little bit she’s going to get a surprise. A big, hard surprise. “Gun it!” she yells, pressing down on my knee to force my foot down on the accelerator.

  The car lurches uphill. “Towanda!” I scream. Is that a reference to Fried Green Tomatoes? Why, yes it is. It was on HBO and has aged really well.

  In a show of solidarity, Ash screams with me.

  If only I could get her to scream my name.

  Ash

  I thought Braht was going to have a heart attack, but he survived the ascent to my parents’ cottage. The house is tucked into the woods. First you go up this super-steep hill, then wind your way down to the beachfront. And there sits our place. It reminds me of Brynn and Tom’s new place, but their cottage is more architectural beautiful, whereas this cottage is more it’s-been-in-my-family-for-75-years-and-it-still-stands.

  The house is small, with chocolate-brown shingles and a stone front. There’s a screened-in porch overlooking the beach below. The doors are short so—unless you’re a hobbit—you have to duck to enter. And the floors are all slanted because the house is built on a dune. You can’t even get permits to build here anymore, so we just deal with the unevenness. We’ve all learned to lean. And the furniture has been adjusted so that it’s all lopsided. Or rather it would be if we ever tried to reuse these chairs somewhere else.

  Which we never will, because this is the Power Place. It’s our family sanctuary. It’s where I go to escape for a while, where I can be a kid again and my mom brushes my hair while Dad makes hot chocolate from scratch.