by JD Hawkins
Mia was right, she’s a nice girl. My kind of girl. Hot and fun.
But the best part is that whenever I look over at Maeve, she’s pretending not to look over at us, pretending not to look just a little bit jealous.
Maybe this evening won’t be so bad after all.
8
Maeve
“…But what Alessandro Michele is doing at Gucci is pretty great so far, and I think you’re going to see a lot of other houses have to be more innovative too.”
“It’s great, no doubt,” I tell the tall, dark, handsome Asher beside me, “but I’m not too sure it’s that innovative. Inevitable, perhaps.”
He’s leaning over his plate, chopsticks in hand, but facing me beside him, his head and shoulders directed at me with an intensity that could make a woman forget there are several other people at the table. Everything about him has a sensual intensity—his lively dark eyes, his shaggy black hair, his broad lips—so that even though he’s talkative and animated, there’s a sense of mystery and allure about him.
“Oh come on, have you seen his shows?”
“I’ve attended several of them,” I reply with a smile. “Florid patterns, seventies color palettes in modern shapes. He does it well. Very cohesive and just the right side of striking.”
“Right, exactly…” he says, nodding and looking even deeper into me, as if appreciating my insight.
“But I’m just saying that we were always going to get somebody like him. There’s only so long we could go down the ‘stark classical’ route, and recent attempts to revive a distressed looseness have all felt more like a dead end than an opportunity.”
That look gets even deeper, his eyes even more focused, his smile even more appreciative.
After a few moments he says, “You’re pretty incredible,” in a tone like he’s telling me a secret, and I have to laugh.
As I return my attention to the food I notice Mia across the table, looking at me the same way she’ll probably look at Alison when she takes her first step.
What an idea! Setting me up with someone? To think not that long ago Mia was coming to me for advice as she muddled her way through a turbulent relationship with Colin. I suppose this is her attempt at returning the favor. She’s been so loved-up and happy for a year that she probably wants to share it. And then Asher certainly is something special…
Mia knows me well, but this is her optimism getting the better of that. Introducing me to Asher and hoping we’ll hit it off is like bringing a parakeet to a cat and hoping they’ll become friends. The cat will enjoy it, but not for the reasons you hoped.
Hazel explodes into another giggling fit down the other end of the table, each one louder than the last, and we all turn to see Toby still saying something into her ear. They seem to be getting on well—of course they would. Hazel’s cute, and Toby’s good at getting along with cute girls regardless of what they’re like.
For some reason, though, I find Hazel’s laughter immediately irritating. Unjustifiably. I barely know her, and she seems nice, but every time I hear her explode with joy at something Toby told her it gives me a slight frazzled feeling under my skin. And despite having my own devilishly handsome and deeply interesting partner at the table, every sign of Toby and Hazel getting along wonderfully makes a part of me feel like something’s wrong, rather than right.
“…that the problem with European fashion is that it’s so attached to their broader sense of aesthetics that only parts of it catch on in the US, don’t you think?”
“What? Sorry,” I say, only just realizing that Asher’s been talking to me. “This curry is sensational,” I tell him, turning and repeating myself to Mia, who’s still watching us proudly.
“It really is,” Colin agrees, looking lovingly at Mia.
“Well, I wanted to do something special.” She shrugs. Suddenly she looks surprised. “Oh! Maeve, tell everyone about your new thing. I totally forgot.”
“My thing?”
“Yeah! You know, your work thing.”
Even Toby and Hazel have stopped talking because of Mia’s excitedness now. Everyone’s attention patiently waiting on me now.
“Right,” I say, putting down my fork and dabbing my mouth a little. “Well, it’s early stages still—and it wasn’t even my idea—but I’m launching a new jewelry line. Actually, my new jewelry line.”
There are smiles and interested noises around the table, and I pretend to scan everyone to return their interest, though the face I’m most interested in is Toby’s.
“Your own jewelry?” Toby says, playing with his food so he can pretend to only be half interested. “Your name on it and everything?”
“That’s right,” I say, looking straight at him with a smile. “My name on it and everything.”
Toby looks amused as he twirls some noodles around a fork.
“So…” he says, like he’s starting to tell a joke, “the whole world is going to finally find out who Maeve is.”
“Enough of the world already does,” I reply. “That’s why we’re doing it.”
Toby chuckles gently, the rest of the table quiet enough to hear it.
“Heh, well you’ve got the ego for it.”
“Ego is the easy part—backing it up is what people struggle with. You know that, darling.”
Toby holds his fork with noodles up but doesn’t do anything with it.
“So what’s the Maeve brand going to be about? Women who are never satisfied?”
“I think we’ll go for ‘women who don’t take any shit.’”
Mia and Colin laugh, shaping the strange tension into nothing but a little amusing play, while reminding both me and Toby that we’re not alone.
“Ignore these two,” Mia says, looking at Asher and then Hazel. Colin nods and murmurs his support of his wife. “They’re always at each other’s throats.”
As we turn to our meals, something about the phrase “at each other’s throats” sticks with me, as if it were more than a saying, and actually literal. A memory of his teeth on my neck, my tongue in his ear, faces close and bodies twisting against each other. I push the memory away, sighing as I do so, then quickly checking that nobody notices it.
“That’s really cool,” Asher says, turning his wolf-like intensity toward me again as he grabs another dumpling. “Your own jewelry—I’m sure it’s gonna be incredible. You’ve got great taste.”
I look at him and allow him a smile and the kind of eyes I reserve only for guys I’m genuinely intrigued by. Then a thought strikes me. A half realization. One that I’m not ready to face, to think about. Probably ever, but certainly not at the dinner table in a situation like this.
“Asher, would you mind mixing me another martini?”
“Of course,” he says, seeming to relish the opportunity to satisfy my request. He starts to get up from the table, and takes my glass. At the other end Hazel lets off another firecracker laugh. Toby glances in my direction, revealing nothing, but I smile over my irritation.
“Oh,” I say, loud enough for Toby to hear, putting a hand on Asher’s arm as he stands beside me about to go. Looking right back at Toby, I say, “And put a lemon in it.”
Toby holds my gaze, confusion in his eyes but a knowing smile spreading across his lips. I look at him like I’m challenging him, holding it a second longer than I should, then turn back to my food.
When Mia’s dessert comes to the table—fried bananas and coconut ice cream—it’s so good that a heavy silence, as delicious as the food, sets around the table. Colin goes off to put Alison to sleep, and the sound of spoons scraping the last of ice cream-drenched banana is low and careful. Even Hazel seems to mellow a little, her voluptuous body sinking into her seat.
Mia looks around and says, “There’s more if anyone wants it.”
We all murmur our satisfied refusals and appreciation for the food and spend the next half hour digesting. When the conversation starts up again, it’s more mellow and easy. The warmth of full bellies and cauti
ousness of the sleeping baby coming through on our hushed voices and slightly less excitable chatter.
We move to the couches, Asher sitting up close, and still dedicating his full attention to me. I let my third martini turn my senses a little sweet, and enjoy the cozy burn of his dark eyes on me.
“Hey, you know what?” Mia says, seeming suddenly surprised. She’s sitting cross-legged on the rug and looking up at us. “I just realized something obvious. You’re doing a jewelry line, and Toby… Well, Toby could help you, couldn’t he?”
Toby’s sitting on the armchair, Hazel on the armrest—not quite in his lap, but close enough you could mistake them for an old couple.
I look at him and he looks back at me, as if waiting for me to make the first move.
“Makes perfect sense,” Colin adds, from his position on the other armchair. “Not that I know how this stuff works, but surely you could help Maeve out with the designs, or the right connections. Get her a deal maybe. After all, you don’t want it to fail when it’s your own name on the thing.”
Almost apologetically, I say, “They’re different markets. Toby deals with high-end stuff. Bespoke one-offs. Exclusives. Very expensive. We’re doing a department store line. It’ll be a little pricier, sure, gold vermeil and real gems, but not quite the same league. Demi-fine, it’s called.”
“Ah, right,” Colin says, nodding his comprehension.
“No, no. I can help,” Toby says, staring right at me. I search his face for a clue, wondering if he’s playing some kind of game, acting for the sake of the others, or challenging me. “I mean, sure you can get a third-party supplier to make the stuff, but finding the good ones is something I can help you with. Materials are almost more important with the lower-end stuff. You can get lower-end pieces that are as well made as the real thing, or you can get lower-end stuff that’s as bad as you’d imagine. I’ve seen it all in the shop. You’d be surprised what kind of stuff people try to trade in… I can help. Put you in with the right people, tell you what to watch out for.”
Mia smiles broadly and looks at both of us, surprised at this positive turn of events—though not as surprised as I am.
“That’s great! Oh my God, that’s so exciting. Maeve! Your name’s going to become synonymous with the best jewelry—I can so imagine it already.”
“As long as you guys can stop fighting for long enough,” Colin adds, and Mia playfully slaps his shoulder.
It’s not the fighting I’m worried about when it comes to Toby, I think to myself, smiling at the inner joke and passing it off as being pleased about the offer to the others. When they return to talking about something else, I look at Toby, and eventually he looks back. In expressions so subtle that only years of knowing someone could decipher them, I show him my confusion, and all he shows me is a mischievous wink.
I turn back to Asher and try to lose myself in his compelling, rich voice and beautiful face again, but this time I can’t seem to forget where I am, to shake off Toby’s presence across the room. It’s obvious to me this has become a game now. Except I’m not quite sure what the rules are, or even who’s winning.
Perhaps if we keep playing this recklessly, we’ll both lose.
9
Toby
I don’t get it. None of it makes sense. I’m starting to feel like an alien in my own body.
Hazel is hot. Ridiculously, insanely, absorbingly hot. She’s cool too. Easygoing, kind, and likeable. She hasn’t stopped smiling since I opened the door to her. Sympathized when I told her about my struggles learning French, and laughed with me rather than at me when Mia told that story about me getting stuck in the couch as a kid. She’s sweet as sugar, but flirts just enough to let me knows how to be the opposite when needed. Apparently, she’s a new nurse at Mia’s work—and who doesn’t like a nurse?
So why the hell do I feel like I’m going against the flow rather than with it? Why do I feel like I’m only pretending to be into her? Why haven’t I grabbed her by the hand and snuck her out of here yet? She clearly wants me to…
The evening is already winding down, it’s almost midnight, and outside the night sky is pitch. The baby wails and Colin goes into the bedroom to bring her out so everyone can coo her into smiles one last time. I overhear the words share and cab come from Asher, and turn around just in time to see Maeve nodding her agreement.
“Would you…” Hazel starts her question in a slow, slightly different tone. She’s got a great voice, musical and lively, but now she sounds a little shy, a little coy. It’s incredibly sultry—or it would be if I wasn’t ruining it by glancing over at the other side of the room constantly. “Mind driving me home? I only live a couple of blocks from here.”
“Oh, sure. Well…actually, I’m a little too intoxicated to drive,” I say, immediately thinking I’m too drunk even for my lemon trick—though I’ll never do that again without thinking of Maeve. “But I’d be happy to walk you home.”
“Even better,” she says through a big smile. The light in her eyes dancing with possibilities.
“Toby,” Mia says, coming near, “you want me to pack you a little food?”
“Oh absolutely,” I say. “As much as you can. Those dumplings if you have any left.”
Mia smiles and then heads into the kitchen. I look back to see Hazel heading toward Colin, who’s holding Alison, so that she can make goo goo noises at the baby. Asher asks Colin something about soccer.
And then I see Maeve head into the bedroom where the coats are. I don’t consider whether it’s a bad idea to follow her in there—I don’t have time, and I don’t even think about it at all. All instinct. An opportunity to get Maeve alone.
I make sure everyone’s too preoccupied packing food, pleasing babies, and talking about soccer to notice me as I slink casually after her and shut the door. The coats are on the bed, and she’s leaning over it slightly as she carefully moves them aside to find hers, her back to me. She shows no signs of hearing me over the music and chatter next door, but then again, Maeve likes to pretend she knows less than she does.
I step toward her perfect ass, her sleek, irresistible back, suddenly feeling the full, uncensored version of what I only felt the tiniest hint of for Hazel. My body dirty with lust, my senses fogged by the blood rushing inside. I should say something, but I’m struck dumb now, my body leading me to a place where my mind can’t function.
The curve of her back in that tight black top makes me feel dangerous, sets my muscles on edge. The curve of her waist like water in the desert. I put my hands on its perfect symmetry. Soundlessly, she whips around in my arms to face me. The fact that she doesn’t yelp or make a sound makes me think she knew I was there all along, but she glares at me angrily, shocked—but only for a second. Lips parted, eyes wide, and what she meant as shock inevitably reveals that she feels this electrifying moment as much as I do.
Our faces are too close to be reasonable, but still it feels painfully far. This close to her I don’t need to talk. She can probably hear my heart thumping a carnal rhythm, can feel the animal heat from my body, can see a reflection of how arousing I find her in my own eyes. My closeness becomes a question. A challenge. I stand there doing nothing but looking back at her with my desire written all over my face, waiting for her to make the next move. For her to shove me away, to resist me, to show me that she can uphold our agreement as much as she expects me to.
It turns out she can’t.
Her lips collide with mine, her wet tongue curling in my mouth, her hands at the sides of my face, gripping and clawing into my neck like she’s angry she wants me as much as I want her.
I squeeze her ass, pull it against me, the soft fabric of those pants almost as silken and inviting as her skin. Her chest presses into mine, and she arches her back as if desperate for every part of her body to be in contact with mine. She sucks on my tongue, hard breaths like hot steam across our faces, unable to come up for air. She grabs a fistful of my T-shirt and twists it so it feels like she’s constricting
me, her body winding around me while I drink the poison venom of her kiss. A death I would be happy for.
It tastes so good, feels so good, that we could almost believe this kiss is magic. A spell that could take us somewhere entirely different, so that we don’t need to worry that there are a group of friends in the next room, any one of whom could enter at any moment. A lotus kiss, making us forget everything except the kiss itself.
Eventually, she does resist, tearing her lips from mine like it’s a violent act, that fistful of T-shirt turning into a shoving palm. And it’s the shock more than anything that makes me weak enough to oblige, to allow myself to be shoved a couple of feet from her. We glare at each other, like panting animals circling for round two.
“The hell do you think you’re doing, Toby?” she hisses in a low voice, as if she wasn’t just as into it as me. Maybe trying to convince herself of that. “What happened to our agreement?”
She touches her lips as if checking for blood, then I realize she’s just checking her lipstick. I check mine too, licking away the taste of it and only getting turned on further. When she strides over to the mirror to check and smooth the wrinkles in the ass of her pants, I have to look away before I grab her for another bout.
“Fuck the agreement,” I say bluntly. My thoughts still too primal and clouded to come up with anything smarter.
“Do you want to get caught or something?” she says, glaring at me in the mirror as she moves to fix her hair. “Is that it? The fear of getting caught turns you on?”
“You turn me on,” I growl, still in caveman mode, though with just enough sense now to straighten out my shirt.
She lets out a dismissive, haughty grunt, slipping back into her too-cool-for-this persona.
“What’s your excuse?” I ask her.
She turns to look at me for real now, her blank expression a good act, but I know I’ve touched a nerve. She can’t hold my gaze, even though she plays it off as she strides to the bed to grab her cream cashmere trench coat.
