The Brooklyn Book Boyfriends
Page 44
Xo Aunt Dolly
P.S. Yes, I’m tipsy. I’m enjoying two fingers of your Scotch, Matt.
P.P.S. Bernadette, I also enjoyed one small glass of the Malbec you had out on the counter.
P.P.P.S. All I really meant to say is: enjoy your night of celebration and passion in downtown Manhattan. You deserve it. Harriet and Daisy are fine, and I promise not to invite any boys over.
TO: DOLLY KEMP
CC: BERNADETTE FARMER
FROM: MATT MCGOVERN
Thanks, Aunt D. See you in the morning.
TO: DOLLY KEMP
CC: MATT MCGOVERN
FROM: BERNADETTE FARMER
What your effusive nephew meant to say was: we love you too, Dolly. Thank you for the wonderful email. You were missed at the opening, but we very much appreciate you choosing to look after Harriet for the night. Matt and I are on our way to the hotel now. To bang each other.
Xoxo BF
Today 3:05 pm
BF: Hey, Esquire! Would you be able to pick up a couple of orders of sweet potato fries from down the street on your way home? Harriet finally tried the leftovers from Aunt Dolly’s takeout, and she loved them. I just started working on a new piece and don’t feel like going out. Nanny Lee had to leave early.
MM: Yes.
BF: Surly!
MM: Heading into meeting.
BF: That’s more like it.
FROM: MATT MCGOVERN (personal)
TO:
Subject: Hi.
Meeting over. Sorry about earlier. Was running late. Happy to hear that Harriet has finally agreed to eat an orange-colored food. So much to celebrate.
Babe, there’s a lot that I’ve wanted to say to you, since date night. But there were always other people around. Or else we were too busy getting busy. It’s still hard for me to say this kind of thing out loud anyway. Unless we’re convergesating. Maybe if I have two fingers of Scotch and a glass of Malbec I’ll be as articulate as Aunt D.
But here goes...
You are stunning.
Before I met you, the only thing in life that surprised me in the good way—was Daisy. You’re trained to render three-dimensional space on a two-dimensional surface, but for me, you made a two-dimensional world three-dimensional again. The way it was when I was a kid.
Since meeting you, I can see the beauty in almost everything. The way green and red blends together on an apple peel. The tiled walls of a subway station. The shadows and the curves and the way the sun illuminates the pretty pinky beige against the silky smooth creamy white… I swear I wasn’t thinking about your nipples at first but being able to see them when the morning light was streaming in through the hotel window on the weekend, while you were sleeping… That memory is going to get me through a lot of meetings about data and licensing agreements. You know how much I love your drawings and paintings, but you are and always will be my favorite work of art.
I know I’m your anchor so you can be the dreamer, and I will always be that for you. But you have done the impossible. You made me a dreamer too. And then you went and made our life together even better than I dreamt it would be.
I guess I’m doing better than I thought I would here, but I’ll never be able to explain how much I love you and our baby and our dog.
I have to start drafting a contract now, but to answer your question: Yes, Bernadette. Of course I will pick up two orders of sweet potato fries on the way home. I will give you and Harriet and Daisy everything that I can give you. Always.
Yours,
Matt McGovern, Esq.
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Also by Kayley Loring
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SLEEPER (Shane and Willa’s story) – listen to Teddy Hamilton and Mackenzie Cartwright perform the audiobook!
CHARMER (Nico and Kat’s story) – coming to audio summer 2020
(The New York/Brooklyn standalones)
REBOUND WITH ME (Vince and Nina) - coming to audio summer 2020
COME BACK TO BED (Matt and Bernadette) - available in audio
TONIGHT YOU’RE MINE (Chase and Aimee) - available in audio
THE PLUS ONES (Keaton and Roxy) - available in audio
BACK FOR MORE (Wes and Lily) - available in audio
HELLO DARLING (Evan and Stella) - coming to audio summer 2020
SEXY NERD (John and Olivia)
EVERY INCH OF YOU (Brad and Vivian)
The Work Less/Play More series of standalones
Tonight You’re Mine
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019, 2020 by Kayley Loring
All rights reserved.
COVER DESIGN: Alyssa Garcia, Uplifting Designs
COVER PHOTO: ©MaeIDesign and Photography
www.reginawamba.com
COPY EDITOR: Expressive Editing
To those eyes and those lips and that hair and those hands…
“Love is an angel disguised as lust
Here in our bed until the morning comes”
~ Patti Smith & Bruce Springsteen, “Because the Night”
THAT NIGHT
1
Chase
There’s something inherently optimistic about walking into a bar on a Friday night. It could be the beginning of a bad joke or the beginning of the rest of your life, but it’s always the start of something. No matter how many bad choices you’ve made in a bar in the past, the future always holds the possibility of better music, just the right number of drinks, and finding the one person who just might matter more to you than anyone else.
It’s the middle of spring and Brooklyn looks so fucking beautiful but I’ve been declining every invitation so I can stay late at the office to work. I’ve had zero fun and given zero fucks about anything other than keeping our startup in the black. Keaton practically begged me to meet him for a drink. He had dinner with his parents tonight and he always needs a drink after seeing his parents. He’s late for meeting me, as always, but I’m glad I’m here. It’s been a while.
Bitters is my favorite bar, mainly because they stock my favorite Irish whiskey. It’s pretty busy, even for nine on a Friday night. They’ve got strings of warm white lights hanging from the ceiling, and I don’t know what it is about them that makes me want to be in love, but I’ve suddenly got that yearning. A quick scan of the crowd presents a few promising options, but no one who grabs my attention.
“McKay! Where ya been, man?” Denny the bartender holds his hands up in the air and greets me like a long-lost friend. We are old friends, actually, I’ve known him since we were kids.
“The office, mostly.” We half-ass a bro-hug over the counter.
“Mr. Bigshot CEO over here.”
“Not as glamorous as it sounds, believe me. How’s your dad doin’?”
“He’s all better. It was just the flu, he got over it. The usual?”
“Give it to me.”
I take a seat at the bar. I had spent so many hours at this counter, dreaming up my business. With my whiskey, my notebook, and sometimes Keaton. Now that the company’s a reality, and the owner of this bar is a client, all I can think about when I sit here is that I should be back at the office. As soon as Denny slides that tumbler of Redbreast in front of me, though, I’m game. I reach for my wallet, but he insists it’s on the house. One of the perks of providing a service for local businesses—everything’s free.
That first sip is always the best, and I revel in it, eyes closed, before turning to face the door.
I’m still feeling the glorious burn down my throat and into my chest when that door opens, and the warmth in my chest spreads everywhere. Warmth and satisfaction and a gentle ache for more. But it’s not the whiskey that’s making me feel this way, it’s a face. It’s the face that I can’t look away from. Open and friendly and inquisitive and surrounded by the most luxurious dark hair that makes me want to reach all the way across the room to run my fingers through it. We’re both tall enough that I can see her over the shoulders of the people standing in between us. Her eyes stay locked on mine as soon as she sees me too. She isn’t smiling and she isn’t frowning, but she’s really looking at me.
She’s nothing like the women I usually go for, and everything like the woman I could see myself coming home to every night.
She starts walking right towards me, determined but a little hesitant, like she’s heading for a train that she needs to catch but she isn’t quite sure if it’s the right one. She’s no ingénue, but there’s something so pure and graceful about her expression and the way she moves. It’s captivating.
It isn’t until she stops in front of me that I realize the full extent of her … everything.
The pencil skirt, the knee-high boots, the tight sweater under the trench coat that doesn’t hide her curves. The subtle swirl of fragrance—like walking past a florist shop where someone’s burning incense and drinking a Hot Toddy.
Who is this woman?
I want her.
I want everything with this woman.
Her eyes are hypnotic. With the same combination of white and the warmest shade of blue, they remind me of my mom’s collection of Italian pottery. Like those ceramics that I grew up with, she is beautiful in the way that everyday things are beautiful. While she doesn’t look at all dainty or fragile, I find myself wanting to be extra careful with her. This is special. Somehow, already, this says “home” to me.
All she says is: “Hi there.” It’s the voice and directness of a woman who’s been to business school. I recognize it instantly.
“Hi.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Chase McKay.” I hold out my hand to her. “Who are you?”
“Aimee Gilpin. Nice to meet you.” I can hear her crystal clear over the Beastie Boys, which is impressive in a noisy bar. She’s just as smooth and soft and warm as she looks, and I don’t want to let go of her. We just stare at each other like we’re trying to figure out if we’ve seen each other before. I know I haven’t, because I would have remembered. “Hi,” she says again. She giggles as she pats my hand, releasing herself from my grasp.
“Can I buy you a drink, Aimee Gilpin?”
“Oh, sure! Thanks. I’ll have whatever you’re having.” So friendly. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s either from Canada or the Midwest.
“You like Irish whiskey?”
“I don’t know. Guess I’ll find out.”
I laugh. “I like your attitude.” I signal to Denny that I want another glass of what I’m having. He nods, but he’s busy chatting up some hipster chick.
“Is Irish whiskey your favorite drink?” She manages to ask it without sounding like she’s grilling me in the way that some women do on first dates.
“I drink Scotch at home and Irish when I’m out.”
“Interesting. Why is that?”
“You’ll see. Irish is friendlier.”
“And are you Irish or Scotch, Chase McKay?”
Oh Christ. She’s got a dimple. I’m dead.
“Half Irish, half Italian.”
“All trouble?” She cocks an eyebrow and smirks.
I get that a lot. I’ve got the shoulder-length hair, the tattoos and the beat-up old leather biker jacket, but that’s just the way I look. It’s not who I am. “Looks can be deceiving, Aimee.”
She studies my face and says earnestly: “I believe that.” She finally looks away from me to scan the room. “I like this place. I’ve never been here before.”
“Meeting someone?”
“Yeah, my roommate. She’s coming from a restaurant in the East Village. You come here often?” She asks that like she really wants to know, like she has no idea it’s a line people have used forever.
“I used to. Been working a little too hard lately.”
“Me too. That’s why my friend basically blackmailed me into coming out tonight.” She studies my face again, takes a breath, and suddenly this avalanche of words tumbles out. “I just moved out here from Michigan a few months ago,” she says. “For a job. Roxy’s been my best friend since college, in Ann Arbor. She moved out here right after she graduated, but I decided to build up my resume before coming to New York. I’m glad I did. Moving here is risky, you know, but it’s something I’ve wanted to do since I was a kid, so I needed to know that I wouldn’t blow it. The last thing I wanted to do was show up in the Big Apple and get the crap kicked out of me and then have to go back home, all bitter and depressed for the rest of my life. I think it’s more important to be shrewd than ballsy. Although, the ballsy people have all the fun. Are you from around here?”
I finally take a breath, even though she’s the one who really needs to. “Born and raised in Brooklyn. But I know exactly what you mean. And I think you did the right thing.”
Denny finally shows up to pour two fingers of whiskey in each of our tumblers, then disappears.
“Here’s hoping,” Aimee Gilpin says, as she raises her glass to me.
“Welcome to New York,” I say, and we clink glasses. I notice her hand is trembling and it’s clear to me that she’s more nervous than she’s letting on. Before I can tell her what to expect, she takes a big gulp.
One second after swallowing, she sticks her tongue all the way out and makes an adorable, hilarious face while stretching the fingers of her free hand out wide. Then she slams the glass down on the counter and covers her mouth.
“Guess you don’t like Irish whiskey,” I say.
“I am so horrified!” she says, her voice muffled.
“That bad?”
“No—well, I didn’t expect it to be so sweet. But I just …” She shakes her head and waves her hand in front of her face, like she’s trying to erase what just happened. “Last week I was watching this YouTube video about face yoga exercises. This woman was making all these crazy facial expressions that supposedly relax your face and get rid of wrinkles and release tension—but I was like—I would never in a million years do those exercises because if anyone ever saw me doing them, I would die of embarrassment. And I just made one of those faces. In a bar. In front of you. So that’s awesome.”
I lean in towards her and say: “Guess we’ll have to find another way for you to release tension.”
She laughs, nervously, and then stops to look at me. “You know what? It has a really nice aftertaste.” And then she realizes the subtext of my comment about releasing tension, and her cheeks turn the most amazing shade of deep pink. “Oh my,” she exhales.
‘Oh my.’ Who says that?
The song changes to a quiet ballad, a Jackson Browne song that my mom loves. The sudden shift from thumping bass to soulful piano changes the air around u
s and the molecules inside of everyone in here, and the awareness shifts from the lower torso up to the heart. I fucking love the playlists in this bar, and I fucking love the way this woman is looking at me like I’m some deep philosophical question that she doesn’t know the answer to but she’s willing to muddle through anyway.
“Try it again,” I say, nodding towards her glass. “Take a sip and close your eyes. It’s meant to be savored.”
Slowly lifting that tumbler to her beautiful lips, she takes a sip and closes those gorgeous eyes of hers—sky blue and black. I savor her like my whiskey, so jealous of the rim of the glass that gets to touch her lips. I watch her respond to every smooth and warm, surprising flavor as it caresses her tongue—the fruity honeyed sweetness, the sherry and licorice and ginger, the peppery spice that erupts in her throat as she swallows, the hint of toffee that lingers. When she opens her eyes again and looks at me, she lets out a sigh, and I know that she gets it now. The union and explosion of unexpected soulmate flavors that can change the way you experience the world. It’s like drinking music. Just a taste and you know how big and magical and soft this dangerous collision of contradictions can be.