Tempt Me: A First Class Romance Collection

by Jessica Hawkins

  My face warms. A couple. With Rich. I flex my hands in and out of fists. “Why?”

  “It’s a hard time of year for Dad. He’s under a lot of pressure with it being the end of the last quarter, and dealing with the anniversary of Mom’s death—”

  “How is that different from every other year?”

  “It’s not, but . . .” She crosses her legs more tightly. “I mean it is, because it’s ten years now. That’s big.”

  “I get that, I do. But there’ll always be something. At some point, you have to stop giving your dad the excuse to run your life.”

  “I tried. I told him I was ending it with Rich and stopping the meds, but it’s too much right now. I could see how stressed he was. It could only be one or the other, and I knew I could lie to him about Rich, but not about my treatment.”

  She’s not hearing me. I have to wonder if she’s making excuses so she doesn’t have to cut off her dad’s power over her. Either she’s afraid of him, or she’s gotten so used to it, she doesn’t really want the freedom she says she does. “It’s not healthy, Hals. You’ve got to come clean with him. You don’t owe him your life because of a mistake you made years ago.”

  “I’m not going to kick him when he’s down. When I’m medicated and being looked after, he doesn’t worry about me as much. I couldn’t take both those things out of the equation and expect him to be okay with that.”

  “He doesn’t have to be okay with it. You’re a grown woman.”

  “He’s my dad.” She frowns. “I’m only talking about a few weeks. I’ll tell him after December. Why does it have to be now?”

  “Because I get the feeling you’ve been making excuses for him for a while. Is that why you never broke up with Rich?”

  Her posture slumps a little. “It’s not that black and white.”

  That answer’s as good as yes. It is the reason. She was willing to stay with Rich to make her dad happy. Would she go back to him for that reason? Her dad introduced them after all. “Is that why you got together with him in the first place? For your dad?”

  “Would it make you feel better if I did?”

  People stay in relationships for all kinds of reasons that have nothing to do with love—including not believing they deserve better. “It makes me think if push comes to shove, you’d put your dad before yourself. And that could be bad for us.”

  Her expression softens. “You still think I might go back to Rich.”

  “If your dad’s been controlling you this long, what happens if he doesn’t accept your breakup?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know how else to tell you it’s over.”

  “Does Rich know that?”

  “God, Finn, you have to understand—it means absolutely nothing. It’s just a show for my dad. Rich wants me back, but that’s his issue.”

  I lean my back against the headboard. “I’m asking you to tell your dad now. Before Rich’s family comes over.”

  “I can’t. It’s Christmas. It’ll ruin everyone’s holiday.” She looks at her hands. “I’m sorry. We’ll all spend a polite weekend together, and then I’ll come home to you.”

  “Weekend?”

  “I’m going to take the train to Westchester tomorrow after work. My mom baked on the twenty-fourth, and I think my dad would really like if I started that tradition again.”

  I look out the window. Dinner with the ex and his family isn’t how I want my girlfriend spending her holiday weekend, but I’m doing the exact same thing. I’m not sure how else to tell her what I want. “Let’s forget about it for now,” I say. “We’ll spend a few days apart, make our families happy, and before we know it, we’ll be back in bed, fucking in the new year.”

  She launches herself at me. “Best idea I’ve heard all day.”

  I catch her and lie us back on the mattress. “But what’ll we do until then?”

  She straddles me. “I can think of a few things.”

  “You know people can see us?”

  She looks sidelong out the window. “Does it bother you?”

  I lift her t-shirt to steal a peek at her breasts, appreciating their round fullness, the pretty pink peaks. My pretty pink peaks. “A little.”

  “Aw.” She reaches between to touch me. She’s not as timid as she was when we started sleeping together. I liked her timid sometimes, but I also like her bold if it’s because I’ve made her comfortable. She sinks down on me. “You’re jealous?”

  “You would be too if—” I groan as she swivels her hips. “If you had someone others could only dream of having.”

  She drops her forehead to mine, looks me in the eye, and says, “I do.”

  I try to focus on how her warmth envelops me.

  I try not to wonder what Christmas at the Fox’s is like.

  Or if I mistakenly worried about Rich when it’s becoming clear Halston’s dad is the one pulling the strings.

  20

  I wake up early to pack for Westchester so I can spend the morning with Finn. It occurs to me as I bag up tampons that I’ve hardly been to my apartment the last few weeks. I’m not bringing much, most of what I’d need is already at my dad’s, but it’s still strange to pack here rather than at home.

  I put my overnight bag by the front door and take my phone into the kitchen. I check inside the refrigerator. I haven’t ever made Finn breakfast, but that’s usually because he’s up before me. I get out some eggs and find bacon in the freezer. While I wait for it to defrost in the microwave, I check our latest post. Only thirty-two photos in and we’re nearing three thousand followers. It’s incredible. I have friends who’ve been using the app for years and can’t crack a thousand. I’ve started tracking the number of followers we get a day. If the photos are good, we can double our numbers by posting twice in twenty-four hours. We can quadruple them or more if a bigger account shares our work.

  Not every photo works. I’ve inspected the ones that don’t—the angle, my pose, my words—to see what’s missing. I don’t have enough data to identify any patterns yet, but the sexier the photo, the more attention it gets. The peek at the tops of my stockings has been one of the most successful ones, but one of just my hair and bra strap fell flat.

  I put the phone away to search for a frying pan and bump the coffee maker with my hand.

  I forgot.

  About coffee.

  It’s not the first time this has happened. One day last week, I didn’t think about it until three in the afternoon, and that point, I didn’t feel like making any. Even before I drank it like water, I still had a cup a day.

  This must be what it feels like to be satisfied. Happy. I stopped the antidepressants on the seventeenth—the anniversary of my mom’s death—and I can’t help but think it was the right choice. Aside from some headaches, mood swings, and minor anxiety, I’ve handled the transition well.

  I get a pot going. I’m scrambling eggs when Finn zombie-walks into the kitchen wearing only boxer-briefs. His burnt-butter hair sticks up on one side, and his eyes are heavy with sleep. He yawns. “Eight solid hours, and I still feel like I was knocked out with a two-by-four.”

  “That’s the power of good pussy.”

  “The power of your pussy.” He grins. “What’s all this?”

  “What’s it look like?”

  His smile falters a little as he takes in the open cupboards, pan, orange juice on the counter. The energy in the room changes as his eyes land on the eggs. “Breakfast.”

  “Is that okay?” I asked. “I wanted to do something nice for you.”

  He blinks a few times and looks back at me. “Yes. God, yes. Thank you. I’m not sure if I’ve ever mentioned how much I love breakfast food.”

  I laugh. “Good to know you can still surprise me after all this time.”

  “Yes, all—what’s it been, twenty days?”

  “Twenty-three. We met on the first.”

  “You met me on the first. I like to think I knew you those few days I had your journal.”

>   I fluff the eggs with my spatula as Finn’s words fluff my heart. He’s more of a man than anyone I’ve been with, and yet so sweetly sensitive. When I look back, he’s leaning against the doorframe. “Sadie helped me unpack the kitchen,” he says. “And we had an inside joke about breakfast.”

  “Oh.” I turn back to the pan before he can see the disappointment on my face. Finn’s never made me feel unwelcome here, but now I know—the kitchen belongs to them. I guess she woke up early enough to surprise him. “Sorry.”

  “No, I’m not upset,” he says. “I’m really fucking happy.”

  I glance over my shoulder. “Happy . . .?”

  “I just realized when I walked in here—I haven’t thought about Sadie in days. Not that I’d been thinking about her with you, but little things over the past year have reminded me of her each day, whether I like it or not. So to go without that . . .” He crosses his arms. “It’s a relief.”

  I’m not sure if I should feel as excited about that as he does, but I do. It isn’t easy to get over someone. I can’t fault him for being hung up on her after the way she hurt him. “I love you,” I tell him. I’m still testing out the words. They’re a little foreign.

  He also looks a bit startled. “I have a Christmas present for you.”

  My heart falls. It’s not the response a girl wants to hear to a declaration like that. I try not to deflate, though. Last night’s argument was foreign territory for us, and I don’t want to return there. I didn’t like having to stand up to Finn, but there are some things I can’t budge on. This time of year, I owe my dad my compassion.

  “A present?” I ask with a smile, trying for optimistic. “What is it?”

  He goes into the hall closet and returns with a small rectangular box wrapped in gold and green paper. The shape gives it away, and I wonder what kind of jewelry it is—bracelet or necklace. I don’t care. Either would be nice, although jewelry is the kind of thing Rich always bought because he didn’t know what else to get me.

  Finn hands me the present. “Open it.”

  “Now?”

  He nods, so I untie the metallic ribbon and carefully unfold the paper so I don’t look as eager as I feel. The box is smooth black leather, somewhat untraditional for jewelry, but then I see Mont Blanc printed across the top. The top creaks open to reveal a slim, rose gold ballpoint pen. “Wow.”

  “I thought that pink color would match the leather nicely. Of your journals.”

  “It’s beautiful. I love it.” I look up at him. This wasn’t picked out by a sales associate. Finn really thought about what I’d like. But my dad has a couple of these pens—they aren’t cheap. “You shouldn’t be spending money on me.”

  “I want to.” He cups my face, brushing his index finger over the tattoo behind my ear. “I love you too, by the way.”

  The gesture warms my skin—and my soul. Acknowledging my tattoo when he says he loves me is accepting that my pain is part of me, and it doesn’t scare him. “I also have something for you.”

  “I don’t need anything more than this,” he says and kisses me.

  “Be that as it may, I already paid for it, and it’s non-refundable.” I wiggle my eyebrows. “It doesn’t come in a box, and it can’t be wrapped, but it’ll be delivered next week. Aren’t you curious?”

  He narrows his eyes playfully. “All right. What is it?”

  I grin. “A new website.”

  “A what?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “No way. Can’t be.”

  Finn’s website needed work. The photos took forever to load, and it was minimalistic, but not in a good way. The only thing worth keeping was his bio and the photo he posted with it. He told me it’d been taken at sunset on a family vacation to the beach. His bronze skin turns his enormous smile blindingly white. His hair is lightened from the sun, his eyes so green they’re almost gold. He’s male model material anyway, but in that photo, he’s Greek god status. “I hired one of the designers we use at the agency. He has a six-month waiting list, but I sweet-talked him into a rush job.”

  “Okay, I lied earlier. I do need some things, and a decent website is one of them.” He laughs. “Thank you, Hals.”

  We eat breakfast at the kitchen table with my feet in his lap. A few inches to the left, and I’d wake the beast—then I’d be Finn’s breakfast. But I’m already pushing it. I have to be at work soon, and I still haven’t showered.

  Finn massages the arch of my foot with one hand and shovels eggs into his mouth with the other. “I’ll miss you,” he says.

  I melt a little. “At least I start my period today. I can already feel it. So you won’t be missing much.”

  He grunts. “I like you for more than what you’ve got going between your legs,” he says. “But don’t be naïve enough to think I won’t fuck you on your period. It’s called a shower.”

  I half roll my eyes. “God forbid you go a few days without sex.”

  “Yeah? And you weren’t all over me last night?” he asks. “Sitting on my cock while the neighbors watched.”

  My heart skips with his sudden dirty talk. It feels extra filthy in the daylight over eggs and bacon. Lying by his side last night had been like floating on a cloud. Sheets so soft, my body calm and sated. Heaven. “Amen.”

  “Hmm?” he asks.

  “Nothing.” I arch my foot in his hand. “You’ll text me, right?”

  “All day long.”

  “Will you post?”

  He nods as he chews. “I have some great ones from earlier this week.” He winks. “And the one with the red bow.”

  I blush. We had fun with that ribbon, tying it on all sorts of body parts.

  Finn looked at me from the foot of the bed, camera in hand. “Spread out. Arms above your head.”

  I did as he said, my insides clenching at his command. I was naked and turned on enough not to worry how my tits or stomach looked. He was in work mode and fully clothed, but once he got his shot, he’d fuck me.

  When I was in position, he traded his camera for a fat, satin, cranberry-red ribbon we’d purchased at a giftwrapping kiosk. His eyebrows cinched as he secured my wrists together, tightening the bow just enough to pinch. “I wouldn’t mind finding you like this under my tree,” he said, getting onto the mattress.

  I bit my bottom lip. “Maybe you will.”

  He took the photo, the bow vibrantly red against my pale forearms, the ghost-white sheet.

  Posing for him is an unrivaled sort of foreplay.

  “You’ll send me a caption for that today or tomorrow?” he asks. “I want to post it on Christmas.”

  I put my fork down. Finn’s been taking passages from my journal for most of our photos, but he wants something special for that one. An ‘enchanting’ caption he said. I’ve been trying, but I haven’t written anything decent since those couple days we were apart. The more I want to get it right, the harder it seems to be. “Sure,” I say. “I’ll give it some thought. Has anyone reposted since yesterday morning?”

  “I haven’t checked.” He nods at my phone. “Why don’t you? Sign into my account.”

  It takes me a moment to register his words. I try not to get too excited in case he’s teasing me. “Really?”

  “My password is your name and December, all lowercase. Halston December.”

  I try unsuccessfully to hold back a smile. “My name?”

  “Yep. I changed it. Easier for both of us to remember.”

  I push my plate away and pick up my cell, suddenly giddy. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

  “Why would I? I meant to give it to you a while ago. You going to finish your breakfast?”

  I sign out of my own account and type Finn’s username into the login page.

  “Hals?”

  “Huh?”

  “You should eat more.”

  I try the password. It works. My palms sweat around the phone, my heart racing even faster than it did while I opened my present. “I’m full.”

  “All right.” He
slides my plate over and gets to work on it.

  A little red bubble pops up with Finn’s notifications.

  Holy shit.

  Hundreds of likes, some comments, and a few tags. This truly is the perfect gift, and one that’ll keep me occupied while I’m avoiding Rich and his family this weekend. I scroll through the alerts until I can’t anymore, and I only make it through this morning. “How often do you check this?”

  “Couple times a day. Once to post, once to see how it’s doing.”

  “Wow.” I wiggle my feet in his lap. “It’s way more exciting when you get to see that bubble pop up with—” My jaw drops when I navigate to his profile. “Finn.”

  “What?”

  “You have DMs. So many!”

  “DMs?”

  I widen my eyes at him. “You’ve never checked your messages?”

  “I didn’t even know you could get them.”

  I browse his inbox. There are too many for me to get through now, so I read the first couple. A request from a half-naked girl to post her photo. Shit. Maybe it’s best he doesn’t read these. The next one mentions the captions, and I smile to myself. Whenever I start to wonder if Finn even needs me for this project, I read comments that make me think my poetry is a big part of the reason we’re doing so well.

  I open one with a simple black and white logo as its profile picture—two B’s back to back. They’ve sent more than one message, so I start at the beginning.

  Hello Mr. Cohen,

  My name is Kelly, and I’m the marketing director here at Butter Boudoir. We’re huge fans of your work and we’d love to talk with you about partnership opportunities.

  Underneath her unanswered message is another, sent a week later.

  Hello again. I know you must be inundated with requests, but I hope you had a chance to consider my previous message. Can we send you some complimentary lingerie for your photo shoots? Or, if you’re willing to act as an ambassador and promote our brand, we can offer $1000 in exchange for 10 posts. Thanks for your consideration and we look forward to hearing from you.

  Kelly

  “Oh my God.”