by Abby Stern
“It’s not like that,” I insist.
“It’s always like that,” she maintains. We roam around my walk-in closet trying to figure out the perfect outfit for me to wear tonight.
“We had courtside seats at the Lakers game on our first date, what’s he going to do to top that? Charter a plane to Cabo for Taco Tuesday?” Her facial expression still asserts she’s right. “I think it’s sweet that he’s actually putting effort into the date and that it’s private and intimate.”
“Oh, I have no doubt it will be intimate,” she agrees.
“You know what I mean. We’re both out so often that it will be nice to have some mellow one-on-one time.”
“Mmmhmm.” She’s convinced this date is designed to get a girl into bed.
“I regret asking you to come over and help me pick my wardrobe,” I joke.
“Me, too. This is so much more Holiday’s domain,” she comments. “You couldn’t have tried stuff on for her on FaceTime?”
“I really haven’t talked to her since she’s been gone. A text here and there but we’ve both been pretty occupied. I haven’t even told her I’m going on a second date with Nick. I wore skinny jeans on our first date. What do you think of this?” I hold up my black miniskirt and a plaid button-down. “Yay or nay?”
“I love it! The skirt is supersexy but the button-down says ‘I’m not trying too hard.’” She reviews my choice again. “Since when have you needed anyone’s style approval? I know you’ve always had an inner fashionista but you’ve never asked for assistance styling yourself for a date.”
“That’s because my dates were with Ethan. He didn’t care if my clothes matched. Hell, he’d barely have noticed if I had worn my pajamas on a date if I threw a Maje leather jacket over them,” I tell her with an all-too-familiar roll of my eyes.
“Don’t hate … Maje leather jackets give any outfit carte blanche,” she warns me.
“I’m not hating. It was kinda nice that he didn’t care but it’s also nice to date a guy who cares about his own appearance.”
“Have you spoken to him? Ethan,” she clarifies.
“Nope. Radio silence. I haven’t heard a word from him since he broke up with me. It’s in the past. I just want to move on.”
Jess realizes she’s hit a nerve and changes the subject back to a man who doesn’t make me feel like the clothes even Goodwill won’t accept. She navigates herself out of her ex digression.
“What’s his style vibe?”
“Effortless and perfect,” I muse, turning my frown upside down. She laughs over how smitten I am. In the midst of the honeymoon phase, Nick could order a drone strike on civilian targets and it would be difficult for me not to think he’s anything short of amazing. “I’m not kidding,” I assert. “He dresses better than I do and has more designer clothes. Hmm, is that a deal breaker?” I joke. Jess curls her lips. “No, but he’s really masculine and rugged. Like, he may be wearing a six-thousand-dollar suit but something tells me he wouldn’t mind if I ripped his shirt off and ruined it.”
That description gave her a visual and she gets it now.
“So, yay or nay?” I repeat.
“Yay! With heels and make sure you wear a black bra that can peek out a little,” she advises.
“I’m beginning to see why you think that everything is an advance for sex,” I tease.
Jess shakes her head with a smile. “Alright, girl, I’ve got to get back to my blog. The Internet waits for no one. My readers are already begging for a new post after the one from this morning. You’ve got the outfit, you’re gonna look hot. Text me and let me know what happens tonight.” She turns to leave my room. “Or should I say tomorrow morning?”
“I’m not listening to you,” I say. I change into the outfit we picked and am satisfied. It’s sexy but not slutty and is stylish without being avant-garde. Now it’s hair, makeup, and anticipation.
* * *
“Hi, sexy.” Nick kisses me on my lips as he ushers me into his Sunset Strip condo.
“I brought a bottle of rosé. I hate red wine so I split the difference between red and white. I hope that’s okay.” He takes the bottle from me and places it on the dining-room table before returning for a more extended kiss. “I will take that as a yes?” My hands wander toward his chest, which is covered with a blue-and-white personalized Williams-Sonoma apron. I let out a giggle. It’s so dorky and out of character for the Hollywood power agent that it’s endearing.
“Would you like the tour?” he asks.
“Of course.”
I can already tell that Nick’s style extends to home décor. The condo is modern but doesn’t feel uncomfortable, and he has walls full of art that would make a heist worth the risk of being caught. Original Mario Testinos and Annie Leibovitzs line the hall and he’s a guy so of course he has a rare photo of the Rolling Stones I’ve never seen before. I’d be disappointed if he didn’t.
“I love the flow,” I gush.
“I was going for ‘bachelor pad that doesn’t scream serial killer,’” he jokes.
“Mission accomplished.” It screams less sociopath and more Architectural Digest. He places his hand on my hip and lightly pushes me into the kitchen.
“And here’s what I’ve been working on in the kitchen: carbonara and a Caesar salad.” The granite countertop and stainless-steel kitchen smells how food porn looks. I take a breath deeper than I ever do in yoga and want to stick my face in the pot full of pasta.
“Stop. You did not make this.” I squint, trying to detect any indication of chef deception from Nick but he’s calm … even serene, I’d say.
“I did,” he insists.
“Mmhmm. We’ll just see about that.” I go to his trash can to inspect the contents, ready to scream “J’accuse” when I find takeout containers he’s trying to hide to pass off takeout as a home-cooked meal, but it’s empty. “Okay, so you’re successful, charming, and you cook … what the hell am I bringing to this equation?”
Nick doesn’t skip a beat. “You have a perfect ass.”
“Do I?”
He wraps his arms around me and lets them slide lower and lower until his hands are able to give my bum a small squeeze. “Yep. One perfect ass attached to a sexy, smart woman.”
“This perfect ass will be about two sizes bigger after this meal, but it smells delicious.”
“Are you hungry? We can finish the tour later,” he suggests.
“Starving.”
“Good.” He begins to plate our dinner.
“Wineglasses?”
“Top left cabinet,” he instructs. I pour the wine and put it on the table as he serves dinner. Much to my dismay, he’s removed his apron. “To glamour and love?”
“To glamour and love,” I repeat. I take a sip of wine for good luck but am dying to dig into his meal. I take a bite and drop my fork on my plate as the pasta awakens my taste buds.
“Oh my God. Are you serious?”
“Is it okay?” he asks, quickly tasting his creation to make sure he hasn’t poisoned me with an overzealous amount of crushed red-pepper flakes or something.
“Okay? This is like the best thing I’ve ever eaten. Where did you learn to cook like this?” I want to know more but I’m too busy trying to daintily eat the delicious pasta (when all I really want to do is unhinge my jaw and shovel it into my mouth) to be bothered to talk.
“My mom.”
Oh. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to talk about her or if it’s a sensitive subject. “Is it hard for you to talk about her?”
Nick has lived through what’s currently my biggest fear. His eyes fall to his plate and he takes a small breath before bringing his gaze back to me and answering. “Not anymore. It was for a long time, especially since she was the only parent I had, but I’m able to focus on all of the good memories now. The sadness is still there but it doesn’t overtake the happiness I get when I think about her.” I twirl my carbonara on my fork and then untwirl it and then retwirl it. “How’s y
our mom doing?”
“We had her first chemo treatment yesterday,” I tell him.
“How was it?” He puts his fork down.
“Scary and weird. I never imagined my mom would be sick like this. Sitting there with her and my sister, knowing she wasn’t getting to leave after it was over killed me. But as awful as this sounds, in a totally fucked-up way it’s the first time in recent memory that I had fun with both my mom and my sister,” I tell him. “Trust me, my sister is usually not fun and we usually do not get along.”
“I know what you mean. You feel like you’re expected to be serious and somber throughout a parent’s illness but you’re still allowed to enjoy your time together even if it’s under less than ideal circumstances.”
“I never thought of it that way,” I tell him.
“I hope you never have to go through what I went through and I’m sure your mom will be fine but if, God forbid, something happens, you’ll be glad you have a few family memories with some levity from this time, too. You’d regret making it so intense and all about the doom and gloom of the situation later.”
I pick my fork back up and take another bite. I was a little nervous about our second date since there wasn’t that much to actually talk about during the Lakers game, but I didn’t need to be. I feel like somehow we are connected to each other, that we flow well together. After Nick’s third glass of wine he gets a little bolder with his conversation.
“Okay, I’ve gotta ask…” He pauses, pours himself another glass, and takes a sip before continuing. I feel trepidation as I wait for him to reveal his question. “You’ve gotta tell me more about how this thing with The Life works.”
I’m relieved to hear it’s nothing more salacious or a curiosity about why Ethan and I broke up. “What do you want to know?” I ask. “I’m an open book for you tonight.”
“Really? That easy?”
I smile.
“Just like that, huh?” He was expecting a little more of a challenge.
“Just like that. I’d say you’ve earned it with this meal.”
“Give me everything, then.” He reclines in his chair, taking a sip of wine, before I begin.
“I guess I should start with my secret identity.”
He leans forward and slams his elbows on the table when he hears this. “Secret identity?” I give him an evasive smile. “Now your love of martinis makes sense,” he jokes. “Secret identity, please proceed. I want to know more.”
“So, when I was first assigned to cover the Chateau I made the reservation under Bella because I usually get a byline and I’m sure you know they have an insanely strict no-media policy. I ended up going there at least once a week and was there so often I kept running into the same people I was running into when I covered clubs, so I had to be Bella all the time to maintain my Chateau cover.” He’s hanging on my every word and takes a gulp of wine before encouraging me to continue. “I was Bella so often that she kind of became my alter ego.”
“What’s the difference between Ella and Bella?” he asks.
“Ella is a little more grounded and responsible. Fun but not a party girl. Bella is easily convinced to have that one last drink and will slip into whatever role she needs in order to get her story.”
Nick is listening intently. “That’s so hot. Go on,” he urges.
“Ella arranges Bella’s Chateau nights with her boss, usually on Fridays since celebrities usually leave clubbing on the weekends for the amateurs. And for the nightclub stuff, you know, there’s usually one or two nights a week per club that are considered the hot night for celebrities to go, so the magazine tries to divide them up between all of their freelance club girls; but if I have a particular in with a promoter on a certain night or a door guy I know who will always give me VIP access I can request a specific club or a specific night. The clubs always go through cycles of being popular to being forgotten, so they will generally try to have us cover the same club on the same night each week so we work our way into having the most access and the best coverage. Like, for example, I am pretty much always at Ambiance two nights a week right now.”
“How did I not know about this?” he wonders.
“Because I would be very bad at my job if you did,” I tease. “And I’m very good at my job.”
“I knew that media outlets had sources, but I didn’t know that they planted some of their own all over town.”
“The things you don’t know…” I tease.
“I’m intrigued and terrified.” His face begs me to continue.
“One thing that can be annoying on my end is there are a lot of last-minute assignments. The Life has a source tip them off that a particular newsworthy celeb will be at a bar or restaurant on a certain night and sometimes it’s even their publicist that gives us the heads-up. Like, if their client just had a bunch of rumors going around about him cheating they will let us know where he and his wife are going to dinner so my boss can send me to observe them and report back on how lovey-dovey they were with each other.” I check in with Nick and he’s fascinated. “And sometimes it’s as simple as doing observation at a party. Trust me, the reporters aren’t only on red carpets at parties. And that’s pretty much how it works.”
He finishes his wine and stares at me, still digesting all of the information I just gave him along with his carbonara. I finish my glass, too, and Nick finally snaps back to his usual self.
“I’m full. Do you want anymore?” he asks.
“That was delicious, but no. I don’t think there’s a speck of Parmesan cheese left on my plate. I feel like a beached whale. I don’t think I can ever eat again.”
“Good. You could stand to gain a few pounds. You’re a little too skinny.”
“Nick Williams, are you trying to get me into bed? Because saying that is pretty much pure seduction.” I don’t know if it’s the wine or our chemistry or his compliment or my big mouth but I think my sexually charged comment just took things to the next level and I’m glad I listened to Jess and wore that sexy lace black bra.
“You know we never did finish the tour,” he suggests.
“No, we didn’t,” I agree. He gets up and offers me his hand. Our energies pulse through each other and I feel like I could spontaneously combust any second from all of the anticipation building up in my body.
“Shall we?” I follow him to a closed door that I’m assuming is his bedroom. He pauses and is trying to figure out how to tell me something before we go inside. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Of course. This is just my luck. Here I am thinking how lucky I am and there’s someone else he’s hiding in the bedroom and he probably wants me to be some monogamish, polyamorous hotwife or sister wife or something. He opens the bedroom door and twelve pounds of golden fur rush over to him.
“What can I say? I have a thing for blondes?” My relief is noticeable. “What? Not what you were expecting?” He revels in the joy that he set me up.
“Thankfully, no! I’ve been around a lot of quirky people, clearly for too long.”
“Ella, meet Lizzie.”
I kneel down next to Nick and scratch her behind her ears. “Hi, Lizzie!” She licks my knees and it tickles, and she moves on to my calves and ankles. “I think she likes me.”
“Did you put lotion on today? She’s a lotion whore.”
I giggle. “That’s okay. She’s so sweet.” I can’t stop petting her.
“She’s my girl.”
“How long have you had her?”
“About eight years.” Nick scratches behind her ears. “Lizzie, your dinner is in your bowl,” he tells her with a pat. She runs out of the bedroom and Nick closes the door behind her.
He pulls me into him and kisses me deeply as his hands travel up, down, and all around my body in no order in particular and leaving no landscape unexplored. They move from the back of my head to my butt to my breasts to my face and as they are about to charter the area between my legs, I rest my chin on his shoulder with the sid
e of my face resting on his and take a deep inhale. I will never get enough of how good he smells.
He unbuttons my shirt and helps me out of it and does the same with my skirt. His hands on my skin are energizing. Nick picks me up and I wrap my legs around his waist and we fall into the bed.
I proceed to unbutton his shirt and I finally get to see the body I’ve been fantasizing about since I spilled my drink on him. I remove his shirt and his body descends on top of mine and he kisses my neck then moves on to my cheek and my décolletage before moving to unhook my bra, still kissing me.
“Wait, wait,” I moan.
He takes his lips off me.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. Great!” I kiss him as reassurance. “It’s just, will she be okay out there by herself?”
Nick moves his lips back to my neck and between kisses is able to convince me. “We had a nice talk earlier and she said she understands that while she’s my number-one blonde, I’m a man and I have needs and right now I need a different blonde,” he says, continuing with his funny metaphor. He nibbles on my ear and I forget everything I was just saying. Hell, I forget the last letter of the alphabet.
Nick’s kisses are delicate but passionate and my whole body is so alive. He moves down and kisses my stomach. He suddenly stops and looks up at me directly in the eyes. We share a smile that somehow manages to say everything we’re both thinking. I guess Jess was right.…
Sixteen
There’s a bounty on Not-So-Innocent Oversexualized Pop Star’s head and the prize is our jobs. Victoria called a last-minute mandatory meeting at the office for the freelancers this morning, and ironically, if she hadn’t I might’ve been able to get some intel, since I was supposed to go to chemo with my mom and I seem to get something on her every time I’m at the hospital. I felt horrible canceling. I called my mom and explained the situation. She totally understood. Robin, on the other hand, sent me a text message that was less forgiving.
Robin: I can’t believe you’re bailing on chemo …
I reply as I walk into the meeting.
Me: I feel horrible. My meeting is mandatory, what can I do?
