But my favorite root snaked his arms tighter around me. “I love you, Ray.”
Those words never ceased to turn me boneless. “I love you more.”
“It’s not a contest.”
“Isn’t everything with us?”
“Okay, Sunshine. You love me more. But my dick wants to enter into the running. He’s got it bad for you.”
The candidate in question poked my back. “Maybe I’ll tie you up this weekend. Ravish your body. Use a blindfold.”
“Such a tease.”
“The Tease of Monte Cristo,” I said, instigating my name game.
His body shook with a light laugh. “Raging Tease.”
“The Lord of the Tease.”
“Raiders of the Lost Tease.”
“That one sounds like a porno,” I said. “Actually, they all do. Which gives me another idea for our weekend…”
He nipped my shoulder, my body cocooned in his. We both sighed.
Eventually, he shifted backward and flipped me around, facing him. “My parents want to meet your mother, asked what weekend was good.”
Wow. A daunting prospect, but not surprising. We’d been living together three months, which made the progression natural. Still, the monumental event felt big, and sad. Every milestone in my brother and my lives would be celebrated without our father. Dad wouldn’t witness the birth of his first grandchild, wouldn’t be there for my graduation day. He wouldn’t meet Jimmy or his parents. Not in the flesh, at least.
He was watching us, somehow. Of that I was sure. “If it’s at my mother’s place, she’ll serve her onion dip and Stanley will accost your father.”
Jimmy chuckled. “Then it has to be there. But don’t warn my folks about the dip. Watching them choke it down will be priceless.”
“You’re awful, but thank you.”
“For what?”
“For showing up in that bar and asking to buy me a drink.”
“Thanks for screaming pussy. Which is something you should do more often. Actually, we haven’t been out drinking in a while. Might be time to get you liquored up. I’ll pop some popcorn and watch you embarrass yourself.”
“You really are the sweetest boyfriend.”
He smiled at my sarcasm, and I kissed his nose.
“I wasn’t going for sweet, Sunshine. I’m the wild one, remember?” He lay down and pulled me with him, pressing my head to his chest.
Th-thump, th-thump went his heart. Mine trotted in time.
Our parents meeting might mean a ring was on its way. Scary and exciting—my life moving forward at a steady pace. A life I barely recognized. We were living in Napa Valley, and I was finally following my dreams. I returned to the city often to see Cora and her growing belly, my brother waiting on her hand and foot. Even my mother had an admirer.
And my life in the valley was a breath of fresh air. Jimmy had taken his rightful place at his family’s winery, working alongside his brother, while still following his dreams and spearheading a new Napa festival. He woke up driven, ready for each day, taking pride in his accomplishments.
I couldn’t have asked for anything more.
I wasn’t sure where Gwen and Ainsley were with their birthday wishes. They knew Vesper had closed down. Unlike me, they weren’t under the misguided impression that magic had touched our resolutions. But I was thankful for the silly assumption. Without that push, my life wouldn’t be opening like a fine wine, depth and character building. All it had taken was a little courage, belief in the impossible, and one very bad boy.
Flip the page for a preview of Kelly Siskind’s next book and read the blurb below!
Stud
The word “nail” has so many meanings:
1) Ainsley Hall’s manicured nails belong in the Museum of Modern Art.
2) The fashionista hammers nails at a Habitat for Humanity project.
3) She desperately wants to nail Owen Phillips.
Unfortunately, Ainsley thinks Owen is gay.
While ogling that off-limits stud, she installs wooden studs and focuses on her intended goal: volunteering—a way to offset her less-than-philanthropic job as a personal shopper.
Owen’s never-ending divorce has taken a turn from messy to downright vindictive. Yearning for the simpler things in life, like working with his hands, he joins a Habitat build. Turns out he also wants to work over Ainsley Hall…but the confusing bombshell flirts blatantly with other men.
When Ainsley discovers Owen’s true sexuality, their mutual attraction ignites, but he hasn’t shared the extent of his divorce drama. If he can’t disprove his ex’s false allegations, it will take more than hammers and nails (and nailing studs) to keep their walls from caving in.
One
Ainsley
A four-letter word meaning a horny covering.
I went to type Bull into my crossword app, but that didn’t make sense, horns notwithstanding. Neither did Knob or Flap or Fang.
Beak
Peak
Deck
Wing
No. No. No. No.
Frustrated, I tapped my toe while the decadent aroma of melted chocolate curled around me. Another minute and I’d be a floating Minnie Mouse, my nose led by the divine scents. If heaven had a chocolate shop, it would be Aazam’s Sweet Treats. Towering truffles, smooth peanut butter cups, and mouth-watering bark lined the shelves, nut clusters drenched in chocolate teasing me. Aazam was a genius with the cocoa bean, and all his products were vegan. A man after my own heart.
The virtuoso held up a finger to tell me my order would be out shortly. I allowed myself a deep sigh. He really was gorgeous. As delicious looking as every morsel in the place. Dark hair and skin, a beard that was sure to tickle, not scratch. Eyes so soulful they practically sang the blues. His lips should be downright illegal, plump and smooth as they were. They had me thinking up other four-letter words for horny things.
Kiss
Suck
Hump
Lick
I nearly wrote Muff into my phone, but erased each letter. My G-rated crossword app might explode. I’d become addicted to the word game recently, a way to pass the time while waiting for the doors to open at a Tiffany’s sale or a secret pop-up store. As I was about to admit defeat on the horny covering—Bark? Bibb? Clip?—Aazam assaulted me with his killer smile. Wow. Heart, meet belly.
He lifted a brown box tied with bright green ribbons. “Ready for you.”
Not only was he ready for me (God, how I wished), but he slid over a piece of my favorite seventy-percent chocolate with candied violet. High from his smile and the rich smells, I took a bite before thanking him. Double wow.
When I stopped moaning and opened my eyes, I said, “Are you sure you’re gay?”
If I didn’t know better, I’d say my chocolatier was blushing under all that dark scruff. “Last I checked.”
“Like really sure?”
“Yep.”
“Not even bi? I promise I’m great in bed.”
That had him chuckling. I added a bottle of his chocolate-spiked perfume to my order. A couple dabs on my neck always put the sexy in my step. He ran my credit card, then locked his John Lee Hooker eyes on me. “If I were straight, I’d be all over your offer. Especially with that outfit of yours. Make sure you flaunt it today. Any heterosexual male in a thirty mile radius will trip over himself to get your number.”
My gingham wrap dress did give me cleavage for days, but the only two men who’d dialed up my lust-o-meter recently had proven poor choices. Emmett, the Adonis at the gym—gay. My heavenly chocolatier, Aazam—sadly, gay.
Gwen and Rachel had pegged Emmett’s sexuality right away, my best friends razzing me endlessly. My denial lingered until I’d witnessed him locking lips with a man. Aazam had blatantly turned down my dinner date offer. He’d sent me home with chocolate, a hug, and a mildly bruised ego.
My gaydar was clearly broken, the instrument fogged up by raging hormones.
I needed to find release
.
Finishing off my piece of almost-better-than-sex chocolate, I turned with a wave, but swiveled back. “What’s a four-letter word for a horny covering?”
Aazam scratched his bearded cheek, then clapped. “Nail!”
“Nail? Like”—I fluttered my manicured hand—“nail, nail?”
“I think so.”
I’d never been a language geek, unless Prada and Gucci were involved. But my new hobby had fired up my synapses, transforming me into a well-dressed linguist, who often cheated to finish puzzles. Aazam, however, was a total word savant. I’d once asked him for a five-letter word for a coastal feature, and he’d said, “Bight,” in two seconds flat.
Apparently a horny covering didn’t involve licking muffs (dammit). Horny coverings were nails.
“You’re a genius,” I called as I hurried out the door.
I hit the road, two more stops left before I called it a day. Neither errand pleasant. I tapped my horny coverings against my steering wheel, the edges of my nails clipped and buffed to perfection. Ms. Mae’s hand massage this morning had rendered my skin soft-as-silk, my mind nearly comatose. And her polish job? My tiger-striped French tips, with their flamingo-pink highlights, deserved to be hung in the Museum of Modern Art.
Picasso had nothing on my nails.
He also had nothing on the azure blue Versace draped over my back seat. I’d strip my nails bare for a night in that dress. It was perfection personified, and the slit up the front would highlight Mrs. Arlington’s legs—her greatest asset. She would be thrilled, which meant her husband would be thrilled, which meant I’d deserve the hefty bonus coming my way.
I should be sale-at-Sephora giddy.
Except for the box of chocolates hijacking my passenger seat. Another gift purchased on my client’s behalf, Mr. Infidelity himself, Thomas Arlington the third.
His most recent mistress had a soft spot for sweets. In particular, Aazam’s eighty-percent dark chocolate bars sprinkled with cayenne pepper and pistachios. I noticed the packaging in her trash the first day we’d met, along with a broken pocket mirror. A replacement mirror, with similar gold detailing, had arrived on her doorstep that week, the chocolates following regularly, all punctuated with love notes from her doting philanderer.
Clamping my jaw, I drove faster and turned up the music. Nothing like a little Pat Benatar to lift my mood. Love was a battlefield, all right. A battle I had no interest in joining. Not when it was littered with duped women and lying husbands. Count me in for the pillaging afterward, though. If it came with a straight Aazam, or hunky men in kilts whose Scottish accents could slip into my Victoria Secret Cheekinis, then giddy-up. Unfortunately, these days, all my oh-my-God-yes-yes-yeses applied to stellar purchases, not savage plundering.
I parked near the Arlingtons’ house. Thomas’s Porsche wasn’t on the street. He could be working or golfing, or invading enemy fields…
I pulled the Versace from the car, cradling the plastic-wrapped fabric like a Fabergé egg.
A doorbell ring later, Sloane swung the door wide. “Just the lady I wanted to see.”
She ushered me past a pair of dirty work boots, the clanging from above hinting at construction work. Remodeling their bathroom, if I remembered correctly. She disappeared into their modern townhome, and I laid her dress over her leather couch. I checked and rechecked my watch, urging the second hand to tick faster.
Spending time with Sloane was always uncomfortable. She’d chat about her morning playing tennis, and I’d smile and answer while thinking, your husband is a lying sack of shit. A sack of shit who helped pay my bills, which allowed me to wire cash to my parents.
My golden handcuffs were cemented in place.
Sloane returned with an envelope and presented it to me. “Thank you.”
I took it by the edge and looked up at her. Even in my pink Manolo Blahniks, I was a head shorter than the statuesque brunette. “Thank you for what?”
“For that dress, for one. Your eye for clothing is remarkable.” She ran her fingers over the clear plastic. “And for always going out of your way for me. I know you work for Thomas, but your help with the shoe emergency was above and beyond. Plus, you’ve become a friend. So, thank you.”
Running over a pair of heels because hers had snapped in the middle of a fundraiser wasn’t part of my job description, but the friend part had me wanting to slither out of the room. Friends told friends when bad things were happening. Friends saved friends from future heartache. Having been on the receiving end of a cheating manwhore once, I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
Without opening the envelope, I pushed it back at her. “Thank you, but I can’t. I’m happy to help.”
Please, get me out of here.
A loud bang blasted from above us, and we both winced. “Bathroom reno is turning into a bit of a nightmare. And”—she raised a sculpted eyebrow at the envelope I was attempting to refuse—“I’m not taking that back. It’s a gift.” She picked up her dress and hugged it to her skinny frame, a body she kept painfully thin (green vegetable diet), likely for her scumbag husband. “It’s spectacular, Ainsley. Thomas will love it.”
That part I didn’t doubt. Give me ten minutes in someone’s home, and I could list their favorite beverage and coffee addiction, where they purchased their linens, judge their waist, hip, and bust measurements (Sloane was a size celery), and the jewelry they coveted, all with a nod and a walkthrough. Which is why Thomas had passed my cards to his friends, and why I mainly shopped for overpaid lawyers who “worked late” and had unscheduled “business meetings.”
I was to personal shopping what Walter White was to methamphetamine. I was great at my job. I loved scouring stores for that oh-my-God-yes-yes-yes item. I also contributed to the downfall of society and needed cash. (Instead of Breaking Bad, my HBO series would be called Killing Love.)
Insert heavy sigh here.
“The dress will look stunning on you,” I said. “Have a fun night, and you shouldn’t have gotten me anything, but thank you.” I saluted her with the envelope, like an awkward army recruit, and hurried toward the door, speed walking so quickly I nearly tripped on a nail. Not a horny covering. I picked up the offending piece of metal and hightailed it to my car as fast as my heels would allow.
Now I had to gift chocolate to the Mistress.
Once that joyful deed was done, I sat in my Mini Cooper and opened Sloane’s envelope. Two tickets to the San Francisco Ballet’s Cinderella. Not only was she sweet enough to buy me a gift, she also ran a small bookkeeping business, she could walk a red carpet with enough confidence to draw paparazzi…and her husband was cheating on her.
I slumped into my seat, unsure how much longer I could keep this up. I loved aspects of my job—piecing together clues to discern the perfect gift or outfit, helping someone look their finest—but the rest of it was a giant pile of suck that paid well.
I picked up the metal nail from my passenger seat and flipped it through my fingers. If I had to write a crossword clue for this sucker, it would be:
Four-letter word for a pointed spike I’d like to jam into my eye.
I couldn’t quit my job just yet, but I could at least do something to lessen this sticky feeling. Like I’d been sprayed by a rogue perfume sampler. Needing assistance, I picked up my phone and dialed Rachel.
Three rings later, she answered. “I just had an orgasm.”
“Manual or with a certain tattooed hunk?”
“Tongue climax without the hunk or batteries. This Chardonnay is sinful.”
Aazam’s chocolate did the same for me. “I could use a drink about now. Probably a box of wine.”
She coughed through the line. “Don’t even joke about that. And why do you need this box of wine you will not be drinking?” I could practically see her give a heebie-jeebie shake. Total wine snob.
I crossed my legs and let one shoe dangle from my toes. “Is your life perfect?”
She snorted. “No one’s life is perfect.”
I waved an impatient hand, as though she could see me. “I’m talking generalities. The big stuff.”
“I don’t know. I mean, I love living in Napa. Viticulture school is tough but rewarding. I’m an aunt to the cutest girl birthed this millennium and, well…Jimmy.” She sighed on his name, no explanation needed.
Those two couldn’t look at each other without every person in the room swooning or puking. What they had was intense. It was sweet and heart melting and slightly sickening to witness. It also wasn’t why I’d called her. “You fulfilled your birthday wish, didn’t you?”
Silence answered me. Then, “I felt weird talking to you guys about it, not knowing if you’d worked on yours, but I did. Why? What’s up?”
“I just see everything in your life falling into place, and I wondered if that was part of the reason.”
She didn’t answer right away, and my mind tripped back to that night, as it often did. The night of our shared twenty-seventh birthday. Being born on April 12th was as lucky as happening upon my first Vogue magazine. My two best friends had also come into the world on April 12th. Even luckier was finding the three of us coincidentally wasted and celebrating the start of our twenty-first year in the same bar.
We’d spent every birthday together since, but it was last April 12th that had plagued my mind the past six months: the wish each of us had made that night. No. Not a wish. A life-changing resolution. The type of plan that would shake things up and trigger a domino effect of awesome. We’d linked our pinkies and promised to fulfill them by our next birthday.
But I hadn’t done a thing to realize mine.
Rachel broke her silence. “I believe fulfilling my wish played a part. Being a tad superstitious, I still don’t want to hear yours before it’s fulfilled, but mine was to find a rewarding career, which I’m working toward. So it’s like carrying out that one big change affected everything else.”
Legs (One Wild Wish, #1) Page 25
