Sex and Other Shiny Objects (Boyfriend Material Book 2)

by Lauren Blakely

And like this—By “come together,” I didn’t mean sex. It’s hard for me to say what I mean because I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose another person I love. But let me try to say it better. Let me rephrase. Life doesn’t always play out like a novel, or even often. But sometimes, every now and then, you’re so in sync, you come together like it was meant to be for the two of you. Right?

  And she’d say yes, and she’d throw her arms around me and smother me in kisses, because this is our time. It has to be our time. We won’t get another chance.

  I’ve already let two opportunities pass me by.

  I’d be an idiot to let the third one go.

  Barrett would tell me as much. I smile privately, thinking of my brother. Of how I’ve tried to goad him into asking out Rachel, and how he’s tried to push me into speaking the truth to Peyton.

  How can I raise him to be a man of action, a man of truth, if I can’t do it myself?

  I can’t say one thing to him and do another. That’s not what my parents taught me, and it’s not what I want to impart to Barrett.

  In baseball, you get three strikes. You don’t fucking walk away from the plate after two shots. You either try to whack the ball over the fence or you go down swinging.

  I step away from the door then pace the hall, practicing, trying to figure out what the hell to say.

  I’m going to do this, and I’m going to do it right.

  And there’s one way to do just that.

  I need to go big. I need flowers and chocolate. I need to give her everything she wants.

  It’s Sunday night, but this is New York, a city that never sleeps, and I’m going to get the biggest bouquet and the best chocolate, and I’m going to come back and knock on the door and tell her the real reason I’m glad she asked me to be her partner.

  Because I want to be the only one for her.

  Always.

  That’s it.

  Fueled by this plan, I head for the elevator, willing it to whisk me downstairs faster so I can canvas all the nearby shops, find everything she likes, and return like the heroes in books do.

  Because even though I don’t read those stories, I know enough. You don’t show up empty-handed to tell the love of your life that you adore her.

  You go big or you go home.

  I rush down the street past a pair of late-night joggers, then a delivery truck dropping off a package. I race past a doorman in a fancy building, turning the corner toward the nearest bodega that sells flowers.

  My phone buzzes.

  Maybe it’s her.

  I slow slightly, grabbing it, and there’s a message from Barrett.

  Barrett: Fine. If it’s going to come down to this, I’ll be the bigger man. I’ll go first. I finally told Rachel how I feel.

  My grin stretches for a city block. Look at us, the Alexander men getting their acts together. I stop outside the store and reply.

  Tristan: And how did it go?

  Barrett: I actually told her a few days ago.

  Tristan: Oh, you did? And that’s good?

  Barrett: It’s good, but it’s not what you think. I’m home. Want to talk?

  And that’s when I know tonight’s confession has to wait.

  28

  Peyton

  The Lingerie Devotee: Don’t Even Attempt to Try This at Home

  Blog entry

  Bathtub sex is a lie. Take a bath, have your lover feed you chocolate from beside the tub, then slip into a cute cotton robe and go to bed.

  Or better yet, come into my store first. I’m having a sale on cute cotton robes, lace V teddies, and red bras and panties. Half off.

  The Lingerie Devotee

  Find me at You Look Pretty Today on Madison Avenue

  29

  Tristan

  Barrett waits for me in the kitchen, drinking a can of LaCroix and scrolling through his phone.

  “Hey. How was rehearsal?”

  “It was good,” he says, setting down his phone. He yanks open the fridge, grabs a can, and slides it to me.

  “I’m not thirsty.”

  “Take it. You’re going to need a drink. I’d give you a beer, but you don’t keep liquor in the house.”

  I take the can, pointing it at him. “You’re right. I don’t keep liquor here, and I hope you don’t drink till you’re legal—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He slides into a passable imitation of me. “But if I do, call you, and you’ll help me or my friends. And call an Uber. I know. But this isn’t about drinking. This is about something else.”

  I frown, cracking open the can of raspberry-flavored water, the back of my neck prickling. I have no clue what he needs to talk about, but I’m imagining the worst—drugs, depression, a friend committed suicide. I’m not the praying type, but I offer a silent request anyway as I take a drink then set down the can. “So, evidently we need drinks to talk?”

  “It’s metaphorical.” He chugs back some of his beverage, puts down the can, then exhales. “My liquid courage.”

  I squeeze his shoulder, worry thrumming through me. “What’s going on?” I ask evenly, because I don’t want to let on that he’s freaking me out. “Tell me what happened.”

  He drags a hand through his hair and breathes in loudly through his nostrils. “So . . . I took your advice. I told Rachel how I feel . . .”

  “And?” Every muscle in my body tenses.

  “And she agreed that I should go for it with Eli.” The words come out so quickly I’m not sure I heard him correctly.

  “Come again?”

  “Eli. He’s on the tech crew too. He’s into robotics and has shitty taste in music, since he likes pop, but I can forgive that because he has a wicked sense of humor. Also, he’s a Yankees fan.”

  If I thought he shined when he talked about Rachel, that had nothing on the sweetness I hear in his voice now. And with that, the dots start to connect. “When you were saying you wanted to tell Rachel how you feel, and that you needed to do it in your own time, you meant she was the first person you told that you like Eli?”

  “Yeah. She wasn’t surprised. And don’t worry—she’s not heartbroken. She didn’t think of me that way, and I’m glad. You, however, seem surprised.” His voice is strained, and there’s a touch of fear in his eyes.

  And I don’t want him to be scared. Not for one second.

  He’s brave.

  He’s completely brave. My seventeen-year-old brother just came out.

  “Yes, I’m surprised. But it doesn’t matter.” I laugh, relieved that he’s telling me he likes dudes rather than that someone broke his heart, or he’s addicted to opiates, or he’s unhappy every second of the day. “I was worried she’d hurt you, or that you were going to tell me you were depressed, or a million other things. But you’re not.” I let out a huge breath as I smile like a proud dad. “You’re telling me what you like, and I think that’s awesome.”

  He narrows his eyes, but the sliver of a smile appears. “It is?”

  “Yes! God, yes. You know yourself. You understand yourself. That is fantastic. This is fantastic.”

  He lets out a huge sigh, like he’s been taking on the weight of the world. “I was really worried.”

  “Why? Why would you worry?”

  “Because you’re soooo into girls.”

  My smile takes over. “And that means I’d want you to be soooo into girls?”

  His eyes widen. “Um. Yeah. You’ve been pushing me to ask out Rachel for, like, forever.”

  “You’ve been acting like you liked her! You spend all this time with her, and you’re all happy and upbeat when she’s around, and you pretty much said you were going to ask her out. We made a bet. Why would I think anything else?”

  “Fine. I led you on, but I just thought you wanted me to be like you. All manly and bearded and totally into curves.”

  A laugh bursts from deep inside me. “News flash. Whether you’re gay or straight isn’t what makes you manly.”

  He seems to consider
this for longer than I would have expected, his hazel eyes darkening, turning serious. “What does, then?”

  His question is completely earnest.

  And it’s why I come home every night. It’s why I show up for him. So he has someone to ask these questions. Someone who can answer.

  But even though I was dead wrong about who he likes, I know I’m dead right when I give him my answer. I clasp his shoulder. “What makes a man a man is when he owns up to his mistakes, when he acts with integrity, when he speaks with honesty, and when he looks out for those he loves. And you . . .”

  I shake a finger at him, my voice breaking for the first time since my mom died. “I love you, Barrett. I love you like crazy, and I’m sorry if I made you think you had to like girls. You can like girls, or girls and boys, or just boys. Or everyone. Love is love, and I want you to love whoever you want. Okay?”

  His eyes shine, and he nods several times, pursing his lips like he’s holding back emotion too. I draw him in for an embrace, a long big-brother bear hug that I don’t want to break.

  But I do because I have to know something. I poke his chest. “Did you ask Eli to homecoming?”

  Barrett smiles. “I did.”

  “And?”

  His answer comes in the form of a grin.

  I grin too. “So, he said yes?”

  “He did. You’ll like him. He’s cool.”

  “And he’s smart, obviously, if he likes you.” Sunshine fills my chest. This is good. This is so damn good.

  Barrett blows on his fingernails then brushes them across his chest. “I am a prize.”

  “No doubt. You’re an Alexander man. And I’m glad you have a friend like Rachel. Glad you have someone you could talk to. Even if you told her before me.” I frown, giving him an over-the-top pout. “But you did trick me with your bet.”

  He raises one brow. “Did I though?”

  “Didn’t you? You said you’d ask her out.”

  He raises a finger to make a point. “I believe my deal was—if you ask out Peyton, I’ll tell Rachel how I feel.”

  My jaw comes unhinged. “You sneaky little punk,” I say in admiration. I flash back on all our recent Rachel conversations. Come to think of it, he never did say he’d ask her out. He always said he’d tell her how he felt. And he did tell her.

  He beat me to it, even though it wasn’t a contest.

  My little brother manned up before I did. And he did something even harder—seeing himself truly, and being honest with himself, his friends, and his family.

  He taps his toe. “And did you tell Peyton the truth?”

  For the first time in years, maybe even since our mom was alive, I speak aloud about Peyton with absolute honesty.

  “That I’m in love with her? That I fell in love with her in college? That I wanted to have a real chance with her a few years ago before Gage came back in her life? That she’s the one I want to spend my nights and mornings with?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Dude. You sound like you’re in one of those chick flicks.”

  I laugh, loving that he ribs me still. “And what of it?”

  “Save it for the woman. Tell her.” He stabs a finger on the kitchen counter. “Tell her now. As a wise man once told me: ‘I don’t want you to wait too long and then regret it,’” he says, quoting me back to me. “Do you know what I mean?”

  “I do. I absolutely do. And I was going to tell her tonight.”

  “Tell. Her. Now.”

  I nod dutifully, a good soldier.

  I pick up my phone to call her, to see if I can swing by, but it goes straight to voicemail.

  And that’s where it stays when I call again that night—a few times—and when I wake in the morning.

  30

  Peyton

  Marley opens the door cautiously, glancing around like she might get in trouble. When she spots me behind the counter, she offers a toothy grin. “Hi.”

  Her voice is stretched thin, and I wonder if she did something wrong, or if I’m giving off don’t-disturb-the-bear vibes.

  Probably the latter.

  My vibes are dipped, battered, and fried in misery today, and no one wants to be near me.

  She reaches into her purse, fishes around for something, and extracts a Lulu’s chocolate bar with coconut and caramel.

  “I thought you might need this. You seem . . . not yourself,” she says, taking tentative steps toward the counter and setting the bar down gently, like I might attack.

  I smile faintly at the gesture. “I do need this. Thank you.” I grab the bar, rip open the wrapper, and bite into the corner, just as the bell tinkles.

  Shit.

  I can’t eat chocolate at the register. I can’t eat anything surrounded by all this silk and satin and lace.

  I’m a piggy-pig-pig.

  I shove the candy under the counter, checking my fingers to make sure I don’t have evidence of my chocolate therapy on them.

  “Was it good?”

  I raise my face, relieved to see Daniella. “It was delicious,” I admit.

  “You okay?” she asks, striding over to the counter.

  Marley steps in, smiling brightly. “She’s great. I was just raving about this chocolate, and I brought her some and made her eat it, and it’s all my fault.”

  I laugh, but I can’t let her take the blame for my indiscretion, especially for something so innocuous and so clearly my responsibility—my sad, sour mood.

  “Actually, I’m in a funk, and Marley is Wonder Woman, attempting to save the day by delivering my favorite thing.”

  Daniella smiles at both Marley and me. “I had a feeling you were in a funk. I read your blog.”

  I gulp. “Sorry. You must have caught it before I took it down earlier. I shouldn’t have posted that.”

  She’s not the first one to notice the blog. Amy called me this morning, and Lola did too. “Was that a cry for help?” Lola had asked.

  “Because it sure seemed like one,” Amy had seconded.

  They’d proceeded to conduct an early morning therapy session that consisted of a lot of “chin ups” and “But are you sure that’s what he meant?”

  Yes, I was sure.

  I’d raised the issue of more with Tristan. I’d tried to talk to him. I’d made it as clear as the blue sky above.

  And what did he do?

  He thanked me.

  He motherfucking thanked me last night.

  If that isn’t a “he’s just not that into you,” I don’t know what is. The man clearly wanted to bang me—you’re so pretty, I want you, blah blah blah blah blah—but that was all he wanted.

  Friendship and lingerie.

  Nothing more.

  That’s why I didn’t answer his missed calls this morning when I saw them wallpapering my phone. I didn’t even listen to his voicemails. What’s the point?

  And you know what? It was all my fault. I can’t even be mad at him because I asked him for this very thing—be my tester, help me out, and oh, I’m hot for you, let’s have a bang-a-thon.

  I set myself up to fail.

  And now I have to suck down all these icky feelings and be the best damn bra saleswoman I can be. I wave a hand, dismissing my mood as if it’s a dust mite, and I smile at Daniella, returning to her question. “I’m all good. It was a momentary funk.”

  Daniella narrows her eyes. “Was it?”

  “Of course. Funk be gone. Enough about me, statistical goddess. Tell me how the math bra went,” I say, zeroing in on her.

  “It was great. I feel great. But I didn’t come here to talk about lingerie. I came to talk about you.”

  I blink. “What about me?”

  She sighs sympathetically. “I was worried about you. Because of your blog. It’s not like you to post something like that. And I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  My heart squeezes at the gesture. The lovely gesture of a customer checking up on me. “I’m going to be fine.”

  “You really liked the guy, didn’t
you?”

  A lump forms in my throat. “I did. Well, obviously I still do. The feelings didn’t go away overnight. Wish they did.”

  “Why do you like him?”

  I shake my head, not wanting to answer.

  But she’s persistent. “How do you feel with him?”

  Marley pipes up. “She feels amazing.”

  I snap my gaze to my assistant, who’s not normally so outspoken. “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, you’re always a good-natured person, but in the last week, you’ve come into the store with this spring in your step, a saucy secret in your eyes, and a grin you can’t wipe off your face.”

  Damn. My cheery, go-getting assistant is an observational guru too. A traitorous smile twitches across my lips, but I wipe it off.

  “Like that,” Marley says, pointing. “You can’t stop smiling. This guy, this project—he makes you happy.”

  Yes. Yes, he does. He makes me feel like the sun and the moon and the stars. He treats me like a goddess and looks at me like I’m a work of art.

  “He does. He makes me incandescently happy.” I sigh, full of the weight of unrequitedness. “But he doesn’t want the same thing I want.”

  Daniella tilts her head. “Are you sure though?”

  I nod, dejected. “I’m positive. And you know what? I have a whole store full of lace and silk to help me get over him.” I rub my palms together. “Now, as for you, why don’t you let me help you find another sexy little number that’ll make you feel like a Botticelli?”

  “If you insist.”

  “I do.” I happily help her because I love what I do, and I welcome the distraction.

  She chooses a stars and planets bra, and as I ring her up, I ask about her plans for the week.

  “I am on the hunt for a fun new girls’ night out activity. I’m in charge of planning it this time, and I have nothing so far,” she says.