“Well, you’re so good at it. You’re a very talented chef, Sam Woods.”
In pleased surprise, he brought his free hand down hard, hitting the wooden spoon sitting in the mole, flipping it out. Dark red sauce sprayed all over the ceiling, like a savory Jackson Pollock. “Oh, fu—antastic. That’s fantastic you think that.”
“That one.” She was talking to Savannah again. “That’s really cool, actually. But maybe change the font color to that red you had before?” Then back to Sam. “We’re designing a new logo. It’s a madhouse in here. Training someone new, et cetera.”
“I’m jealous,” Sam said, wiping up a puddle of mole. “I wish I had a partner. In work,” he hurried to clarify. “It gets lonely on my own. In the kitchen,” he rushed to add. “I’m not a sad, lonely guy or anything.”
Liv let out a laugh. “Well, I’m a sad, lonely woman, so if you want to join my club, you’re absolutely welcome.”
Was that an invitation? Before he could figure out what to do with it, he heard a doorbell at Liv’s end.
“I have to run,” she said, “Client meeting. Guess I’ll see you at the Fitzpatrick-Maple wedding. Looking forward!”
“Me too! Bye, Liv.”
“Bye, Sam.”
He hung up.
Well. That was an epic failure. But she did say he was a good cook. Very talented were her exact words. And dating post-divorce would be baby steps. And stepladders, Sam thought, turning his attention to cleaning a ceiling decorated in red mole.
32
Darlene Mitchell liked being in control. Of her brain. And her body. And of her heart. She did not like feeling as if her heart was bounding around outside her body. She wasn’t even going to think of the reason’s name. She needed to think about herself. Her career. Her future. One she was not going to threaten with a preposterous “fake relationship” that’d drag on for months. “Dating” a privileged white guy as some kind of tokenized prize would destroy her integrity. She’d make that twenty-five grand on her own, even if it took another ten years of working bougie weddings and crappy open-mic nights.
She’d played with he-who-should-not-be-thought-about at a half dozen gigs since the night at Babbo, but had skillfully managed to avoid one-on-one conversation, as well as his many texts. Instead, she focused on translating the effect of he-who-should-not-be-thought-about’s kiss into something productive. Lyrics. A hook. A feeling, a tone. It was so much easier for Darlene to write about feelings than to feel them. Writing about feelings gave some distance, and some practical use, to the messy, complex, vaguely embarrassing experience of having them.
He’s my dark secret; she thinks he’s a keeper.
It wasn’t about Zach. It was probably about Zia and Clay.
He’s my dark secret; she thinks he’s a keeper. She let the lyrics slip and slide over a thousand different iterations of the rhythm, trying to find the one that fit. Writing songs and making music was one of the few times Darlene disconnected from conscious thought, losing track of time, of logistics, of the sense of her own body, even identity. If she was in the zone, as she was now, she felt cut off from the world, connecting with something mystic. He’s my dark secret; she thinks he’s a keeper. She likes to run, but he makes her stand still.…
The doorbell wrenched her back into the present.
Zach stood in her doorway looking like a rumpled rock star who just woke up. He was wearing an unironed white button-down pushed up at the sleeves and light-wash summer jeans that were probably expensive. His eyes traveled past her cropped tee, landing with glee on her hot pants. “Now that’s why I didn’t call. I knew you were a secret minx.” He prowled in, ogling every inch of her skin. “Good lord, Mitchell.”
Darlene snatched a kimono from the back of the bathroom door and smothered herself in it. “What are you doing here?”
Zach had visited Darlene’s one-and-a-half bedroom apartment exactly zero times. It was only a walk-up—no doorman or elevator like Zach’s place—but it was cute and charming, and Darlene kept it nicely decorated. Zach’s eyes roved over framed photos of her friends and family. A signed poster of Janelle Monáe. A bookshelf of Zadie Smith, Proust, and mortifyingly, a sticky-note-filled self-help book that promised badassery and wealth.
“You’re such a Virgo.” He yanked open the fridge. “Um, why is everything labeled? Don’t you live alone?”
“Zia’s crashing here.”
Zach made a show of searching the fridge. “And her food is…”
“If she gets groceries, she won’t get confused.” Darlene shut the fridge door and positioned herself in front of it. “What are you doing here?”
“Can’t a fake boyfriend pop in to see his fake girlfriend unannounced?” Putting both hands on her hips, he easily moved her aside.
The sensation zip-lined through her body, landing in her lower stomach. “Look, I thought it all through and my answer’s no. I’m sorry, but I can’t be your fake anything.”
“What? Why?”
“Because it’s risky! And unprofessional. And—” The kiss outside Babbo played back, slowed down with an orchestral score. She doused it in kerosene and lit it on fire. “Distracting.”
Zach’s confidence faded. “I got the impression you were… into it.”
“I was pretending.”
She expected him to look offended or laugh the idea off. Instead, he deflated, and sat down on her couch. “Oh.”
Oddly, she wanted to console him. She sat next to him. “C’mon, Zach. It’ll never work.”
He looked pained. Which was sort of… sweet. “Please, Mitchell? Pretty please? I get that kissing me repulses you and that I’m definitely not your type. But you’re literally the only person I can think to ask who my parents would actually approve of.”
Mark and Catherine’s twin looks of surprise flashed in her mind. “Yeah, I don’t think your parents approve of me.”
“Of course they do!” Zach exclaimed. “You’re smart and sophisticated and career-driven and a bunch of other things that I most definitely am not.”
Darlene’s throat tightened. “That’s not what I meant.”
It landed. Zach waved the idea off, reddening. “My sister is marrying a Korean woman. And honestly, they couldn’t be happier.”
Darlene took a deep breath. This could partly be explained by the fact Zach wasn’t American. “It’s different,” she said. “Korean… African American: it’s different.”
Zach’s gaze rested on her. Listening.
“You know—not all racism looks the same. Look at the pay gap. Asian women make way more on the dollar than Black women. And white guys make the most of all.”
“I know. It’s gross.” His voice was quiet. “I really like it when you tell me stuff like this.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize I was your private African American studies tutor. I’m going to need my own office. And benefits.”
“That’s not what I mean,” he said, bashful. “I’m just saying, I like when you do. I want to be a good ally. I want to be, like, woke.”
In spite of herself, she felt oddly touched by his earnestness. “Start with not saying woke. I can say that: you can’t.”
“Okay.” Zach nodded. “Noted. Look, I know my parents are terrible, and yes, dealing with them would be part of this. I want freedom from them too. But I promise they’re not totally insane, and they do actually like the idea of us being together. It really won’t be much work, and you’ll get an album out of it. Which I’ll play on for free if you want. I’ll literally do whatever you want for the next seven hundred years.”
He was begging her to let him pay her to kiss her. And Zach was a good kisser. Too good. “Well, I guess I’d need a contract.”
“A contract?”
“Yes, this Virgo needs a contract!”
“Okay, okay. I’ll get one drawn up. So you’re in?”
No. I’m not going to debase myself for money by letting you put that hot, eager tongue into my— “Fine, fine.”
“Thanks, Dee.” He took her hand, his blue eyes sincere. “You’re a real friend.”
Friend? She’d only ever thought of Zach as a necessary evil. Darlene pulled her hand away. “I better get back to work.”
“Not so fast.” Zach brightened, swinging back into his usual mode: entertainer. “It has come to my mother’s attention that despite my assurance you and I are deeply in love and engaging in regular bouts of horizontal folk dancing—”
“Ew.”
“—you are entirely absent from my digital footprint.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning we need to be just as obnoxious as all the other coupled fools and document our happiness.” He held up his phone and fluttered his eyelids. “For social media.”
“Your mom follows you on social?”
“Stalks is a more accurate description. Nothing gets past her. She makes MI5 look like a bunch of bumbling idiots, and I don’t know how much longer I can tell her you’re just very private about online PDA. I figured we shoot a few here, then go for a jaunt around the neighborhood. I can pepper them all in over the next five months.”
“On which account?” Darlene had a public account for their duo and a private account for herself.
“Yours, obviously. I think Mum’s already requested to follow you.”
Unless she texted every single person who followed her, that’d make her friends think they were together. Zach was, objectively, good-looking—there’d be some cachet in casting him as her boyfriend. But he was also Zach. She imagined her book club texting behind her back.
Doesn’t she know he’s f*cked half of NY?
Srsly thought she was smarter than this
Darlene drew the kimono tighter. “I don’t know.”
“Fine.” He flipped off the couch and headed for the door. “I’m not going to beg. Anymore. I’ll find someone else who wants to fund their first EP for appearing in a handful of selfies.”
Anxiety gripped her. It’d take years to save twenty-five grand. She needed progress. Forward momentum. “I’ll get changed.”
“No need.” Zach was back on the couch. “Lose the kimono and get over here, minx.”
She rolled her eyes. “At least let me do something with my hair.”
“Like what?” His gaze brushed her fuzzy natural curls.
“I don’t know. Maybe a wig.”
“Would you wear a wig to Netflix-and-chill?”
She shrugged. “Probably not.”
“Then just leave it as it is. I think the ’fro is so much cuter anyway,” he said, sounding genuine.
Darlene felt surprised. Then, flattered.
Zach whipped his phone up. “Oh yes, that’s so cute. Look at you being all shy and adorable.”
“Zach!” She laughed, batting at him.
“Oh, that’s good! Cuteness overload. Blowing every cuteness meter we have! Can’t even handle the cuteness!”
“You are such a dork,” she told him, giggling.
He gave her a crooked grin back. His button-down was undone enough to glimpse a small scruff of chest hair. His hair was sticking up in the heat. Tousled. Sexy. If he really was her boyfriend, she’d lean over and kiss him.
“All right, got some winners there. Now, scooch a little closer.”
She shifted next to him, until their legs were pressed. He smelled like sandalwood soap, mixed with something distinctly masculine. Distinctly Zach. She had the urge to wrap her arms around him and crawl into his lap.
“Lean in.” He held the camera up. In the small screen, their two faces smiled back at her. Like a real couple. Zach pressed his lips to her forehead. She closed her eyes, savoring the feeling. “Aw, so pretty.” His voice was close and soft. She opened her eyes. “The photograph,” he clarified. “I’m a regular Diane Arbus.”
Darlene bit back a smile. “Diane Arbus photographed freaks.”
“Did she? See, Dee, I am just a pretty face.”
Again with the Dee.
They shot more pictures: noses pressed together, both pulling funny faces, pretending to be surprised, then mad. Sweet but tame.
Zach licked his lips. “Okay. I think all we have left is, um…”
She knew what was coming. What she wanted, with surprising urgency, to happen. The idea corkscrewed through her chest, landing between her legs. “I guess we have to. As gross as kissing you is.”
“Oh, so gross,” he quickly agreed. “Really unpleasant.”
“Maybe I should, um, take off the kimono? Just so it looks like a different day.” She stood and let the colorful material slip off her shoulders. He watched with the panicked excitement of a young man getting his first lap dance. Which she was basically giving him. Now in just her cropped tee and hot pants, she gestured clumsily at Zach’s lap. “Where should I…”
“Where do you want…”
“Should I just…”
“Works for me.”
Sitting in Zach’s lap was the most physically awkward thing she’d ever attempted.
Unless she was onstage, Darlene resided in her head. Being in her body, obeying its wishes and demands, felt reckless. Even dangerous. Stop thinking, she told herself. Just feel. She nestled into him, and relaxed. When Zach held the camera out, she almost forgot why. “Are you ready? For…”
She could feel his heart. Which was beating alarmingly fast. “Disgusting PDA.”
“Right. Right, disgusting.”
Their lips were inches from each other. She ran her fingertips down his cheek, feeling the light rough of a day’s stubble. This permission to touch him felt stolen. Criminally exciting. Slowly, she moved toward him. Perhaps their first kiss was an anomaly: so passionate and intense because it’d been a minute since she kissed anyone, and Zach just happened to be the one to break her dry spell. But as soon as their lips touched, it was clear that first kiss was no one-hit wonder.
This time, there was no tentativeness. She sank into Zach, for a slow, lush kiss. His hand rubbed up and down her back. Up and down, each stroke sending her deeper and deeper into woozy pleasure. Zach was so good at this, this back and forth of lips and tongue and shared breath. Always, a consummate improviser.
She was barely conscious of straddling him. All of a sudden her legs were hooked around his waist, and the inside of her thighs were pressing against his hips. White-hot bliss. Everything about them fit. Everything felt right, an effortless bridge sailing into a chorus you want to sing along to at the top of your lungs.
The pace quickened. The kiss turned messy, graceless. His hands were on her ass, pulling her into him, at the point where they both felt the most heat. She groaned and pulled him onto her, needing to feel his full weight. Now they were sprawled out on her sofa, Zach on top of her. Their bodies found a rhythm, grinding in sync. His mouth was on her neck, licking and sucking, kissing her skin until she was moaning, pulling at his shirt. One of his hands was inside her tee, inching up over her stomach toward her breast, and she wanted—she needed—him to touch her nipple—
Zach’s phone dinged. It was on the floor. Definitely not documenting all this.
Darlene paused, breathless.
Zach pressed his lips to her neck. “Ignore it.”
His phone dinged again.
And Darlene just knew it was a girl. Maybe one of many. Who Zach was currently sleeping with. Exactly the kind of thing that’d make her the subject of her book club’s casual, pitying gossip. She pushed him off her.
“Dee, wait—”
They were close, they were this close to—she couldn’t even think about it. Darlene hauled herself upright, facing away from him, trying to drown out the wall of noise her body was making. “I’m not doing this for your entertainment. Don’t give me a reason not to trust you.”
She could hear him sitting up. When he spoke, his voice was uncertain. “So—that’s it?”
Darlene tossed him an annoyed look. Through his pale jeans, she saw the hard outline of an as-yet-unwitnessed part of Zach’s an
atomy. Something he’d referred to more than once as his “Jolly Roger.” The sight of it sent a fresh wave of blood gushing to her face. What would he do if she reached out and touched him? Held his gaze, deliberately, as she did?
“You should go.”
There was another painfully long pause. “Okay. I’ll just use the loo.”
He disappeared down the hall. Checking the bathroom door was closed, Darlene dipped a finger between her legs. Her underwear was soaked. Her entire body felt heavy and sweet, like an overripe summer fruit that needed to be plucked. Intellectually, she knew Zach wasn’t a friend, let alone a lover. But her body had no idea. It had just learned its new favorite song.
By the time Zach came back out, Darlene was standing by the open window on the other side of the room. She’d wrapped the kimono around herself as tightly as a sushi roll. He offered her his phone. “Photos turned out great.”
The sight of them making out would send her over the edge. “Please, no. I don’t want to lose my appetite permanently.”
“Well, you’ll see them when I tag you.” He rocked back on his heels, attempting “peppy.” “So how about a neighborhood wander? We could get a soft serve at Milk Bar and I could do the whole licking-it-off-the-top-of-your-nose thing.”
The idea made her tingle violently. She clenched hard to make it dissipate.
“My sister’s down to meet up,” Zach added deliberately. “That’s who was texting me.”
She wanted to believe this. She didn’t know if she did. “That was Imogene?”
“Yes. Darlene, I’m not— Look, I only want to hang out with you.”
He sounded tense and sincere. But even if he was telling the truth, it was too late now. She’d already pulled the plug. “I have to work on some lyrics.”
He let out a rough, exasperated breath. “Fine.” He strode for the front door. “So how do we sort out this contract, Mitchell?”
The boundary should feel good. For some reason, it didn’t. “I thought you were going to sort it out.”
It Had to Be You Page 16
