by Poppy Dunne
“Hey, here’s an idea. Emma, why don’t you go to the kitchen and mix those rosemary cocktails you kept raving about?” There’s Justin, doing his best to keep the peace. He’s always been a genius at that. Of course, if the cocktails hadn’t been on the menu, he might have said ‘Emma, why don’t you go strip naked and run around the neighborhood three times’ just to get me out of here. And I’d love him for it.
“Should I save one for you?” I arch my brow at Fraser Drake, who’s looking past me to the party in the living room. Already, he seems kind of weary with the whole thing. Ah, just like a snob.
“I like the classics,” he replies. “If there’s another scotch—”
“I’ll be sure to tell it hi.” I leave, my cheeks burning as I walk back to the kitchen and start the process of crafting some amazing cocktails, if I say so myself. As I make my own simple syrup, crush rosemary and muddle blueberries, I mentally kick myself for everything that just happened. How stupid could I be, not realizing who Fraser was? Maybe because I haven’t seen him in over fifteen years, and in that time he’s gone from being the kid who hates when you mess with his color-coded student planner to, well, the hunk of all time.
Come on, Emma. These drinks aren’t going to fancy themselves.
Pretty soon, I’ve got a full tray of cocktails—and a few ginger beer mocktails for the kids. I hustle it out into the party room, where Mom’s already wondering what’s happened to her birthday toast. She’s seated in the center, everyone crowded around her. Just the way she likes it. Sebastian, in all his adorable two-year-old glory, is bouncing on her knee and yanking at her strands of pearls. Mom pinches his cheek in an absent, ‘don’t muss up Grandma’ kind of way.
“Aren’t we going to toast me? You only turn sixty-five once,” she says, passing off Sebastian to Charlotte.
“I’m amazed you admitted your age without two stiff drinks in you,” Dad mutters to the pineapple. No one pays him any attention but me. I give his shoulder a squeeze, and he smiles up at me.
Sebastian starts crying as Charlotte bounces him, shushing in a tight, panicky voice. She looks harried, her hair coming out of its ponytail, and a not-so-inconspicuous barf stain on one shoulder of her sweatshirt. I take Sebastian, and she gives me grateful eyes. My nephew chortles in my ear. Is there a sweeter sound? Trick question, there is not.
“Here, Mom.” Justin has taken the tray and is passing out drinks. “Emma made these.”
“I found the recipe in Rachael Ray’s new book.” I’m proud of my knowledge, even as Fraser throws me a sharp, pointed glance. You’ll enjoy the drink, buddy. Justin, Lily, Dad, Fraser, soon everyone is served. Glasses in hand, we raise a toast to Delia Brightman, family matriarch.
“Happy birthday,” everyone says, clinking glasses. I smile at my siblings, my sister-in-law, and even Fraser. Yep. The moment of embarrassment is over. It’s smooth sailing from here on out.
“Thank you, my loves. Thank you all for coming to celebrate a frail old woman like me.” Mom laughs heartily, implying that we all need to laugh extra loud and tell her how much nonsense that is. Everyone laughs but Fraser. Heh.
“I love all my children so much. And especially Emma, bartender extraordinaire!” Mom winks at me, taking me by surprise. Wow. She never singles me out! That’s enough to make a girl misty-eyed. Until she follows it up with, “My favorite old maid! Cheers!” Then she makes everyone toast, while Justin shoots me an ‘I’m sorry’ look and Fraser throws back his drink like only alcohol will save him.
Remember that smooth sailing I mentioned? Spoke too soon. Iceberg, straight ahead.
2
Fraser
Some men want the world, but I’d settle for twenty-seven secure gorillas and my morning cup of coffee. Cheryl, my assistant, rings into my office with the latter, and my email boasts the former. As Cheryl delivers my coffee, she can’t help peeking across the desk at my monitor. She smiles and shakes her head, those dangly turquoise bead earrings clacking as she does.
“Where is that? Tunisia?” She sets the coffee down as I click through the photos one last time. Nigel, my man on the ground, has a damned good eye.
“The Congo, Cheryl. That’s where all freed gorillas are sent. Didn’t you see that ghastly movie back in the nineties? The one with killer apes and a Romanian Tim Curry?” I take my first sip of the day as Cheryl pulls a face.
“Ick. You had me at killer monkeys, but lost me at Romanian Curry.”
I chuckle, and send her back to her desk. Once the door is closed, I look over the snaps Nigel sent me once more. No, I’m not technically in the gorilla-saving business. It’s merely one of the perks of my job. And what is that job, you may ask? Possessing a great deal of wealth, and utilizing it in the most advantageous way possible, for the world and for myself.
I prefer to put the world first.
Years ago, my American great-grandfather made a great deal of money on the railroads at the same time that my British great-grandfather lost all the wealth that supported his fancy title. My grandmother came husband hunting to America, just around the time my grandfather was looking to make some real money in crude oil and fancy hotels. I manage the estate now, the hotels, the oil company, all of it. And in return, I ensure that our companies donate generously to as many global charities as possible. Some of them are in response to current crises—the refugee situation, starvation in Africa. Some are personal projects held near to my heart since childhood.
Enter the gorillas.
We rescued a group of them from illegal traders and cowardly ‘big game hunters.’ The kinds of men who hire someone else to corner the poor beast so they can get in a killing shot. If there is any type of man I despise, it’s the one who stacks the odds in his own favor. Thankfully, my charity stepped in and resolved the situation, and now the gorillas are home.
Home. It’s odd to be home, back in Los Angeles after all these years. When Justin called to invite me to his mother’s birthday party, I like to think I didn’t sound insultingly surprised. After all, we hadn’t seen each other since the night his sister vomited all over my tennis shoes.
Emma.
Still spilling drinks on clothing, yes. But nothing else about her is the same.
Apart from her sharp tongue, that is. That’s always remained. When we were younger, I remember hiding in Justin’s room from his infuriating younger sister. Nothing about her is infuriating now. More arousing than anything. Her distracting habit of flipping her hair, the scent of her perfume. The way she stood with her hands on her hips, one hip cocked out. The way she jutted out her chest, allowing me an extra glimpse of a world-class pair of breasts. Every soft curve of her body, so inviting.
The instant I realized who she was, I froze. Then I went into my rather good impression of a humorless android. I’m told by my employees that they love it. Though I think they tell me that to keep their jobs.
I wouldn’t fire them for something that trivial, but they don’t need to know.
Staring at Emma wasn’t going to do any good. It’s not going to help me. I came back to Los Angeles to find myself a new life, and that does not entail chasing my high school friend’s little sister around the city. Though something tells me Emma would relish the chase. She seems to have grown feistier since we were kids, if that’s even possible.
Fuck, thinking of the way she mouthed off is getting me hard.
I click off the gorillas, and in an instant I find myself typing Emma’s name into a search engine. The blood hums in my ears; it’s sheer bloody madness to even entertain the notion of getting closer to her. I should cut myself off at the source. I shouldn’t find her so alluring, or want to know more about her.
I shouldn’t search her name.
I shouldn’t click on the first article that mentions her.
I shouldn’t press play on this YouTube video she’s uploaded to her channel.
I shouldn’t be surprised Emma Brightman has a YouTube channel, or that she’s called it BrightWoman.
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But maybe watching her from the safety of my executive suite overlooking the Hollywood Hills will suppress this tight, coiling, yearning…pressure I’ve got going on. On a video, I won’t be able to smell her perfume, that intoxicating blend of Chanel and fresh rosemary from her cocktails. On a video, her voice will be thin and reedy, and her hair will be pulled back in some unflattering bun, the kind women wear around the house when they don’t give a damn. The video will break this manic rush of infatuation.
I won’t dream of tearing her clothes off and bending her over my desk, running my hands up her silken legs, releasing myself and thrusting—
“Do you have dirty thoughts?” Emma asks, peering into the camera.
Fuck, she sees me and can read minds. I’m about to answer her no in a bored manner, all the while logging off as fast as possible, when she laughs.
“I know we all have them. I mean, do you have dirty thoughts at the most inappropriate time? Like, you’re waiting in line for your dry cleaning and out of nowhere you start imagining Rami Malek naked? One minute it’s sorting the sweaters from collared shirts, and then the next second it’s.” She loses her words at this point, illustrating her idea by balling up her fists and sort of grunting. You’d think this would be a turn off for me. I like women who are well-heeled and graceful.
There is nothing well or graceful about my fascination. Or my wavering erection.
While Emma keeps talking, some kind of merry, bopping acoustic guitar music plays faintly on the soundtrack. I can see some of her apartment space behind her. There appear to be endless bookshelves. Staring into this woman’s private life feels like an invasion.
I wonder if I can read the titles on the shelves.
“So I read Callie Delilah’s new book, which is incredible.” She picks up a hardcover of some book with a shining blonde woman on the cover. It has a title that I see and immediately forget; The 50 Day Smile sounds about right. “She gives a lot of information on sudden, inappropriate thoughts at work or in public.” As Emma says this, she snaps her fingers. An animated word balloon goes off in front of her. The words appear: DON’T LINGER!
There are exploding hearts, as well. I knew there would be.
“What Callie means by ‘don’t linger’ is…well, exactly what it sounds like. Don’t linger on thoughts that are inappropriate, or hurtful. Not that, you know, inappropriate is hurtful. Sometimes it’s very helpful, you know?” She winks, and laughs. It’s not the giggling of an uncertain girl, but the full-throated laugh of a woman.
Dear God, there aren’t enough rescued gorillas in the world to make me stop having inappropriate thoughts about this woman. I took the complete wrong tack with this idea, and stop the video at once. I lean back in my chair, considering Emma Brightman’s face on the screen. She’s in the middle of starting a sentence, and her mouth is slightly agape, her eyes squinting. It should be an unerotic image; it’s not.
Perhaps I should call her up, for old time’s sake. Revisit our shared past. We could have a calm, rational discussion over dinner. Then I could take her home and unzip her dress while—
Gorillas, Fraser. Think of the sad gorillas.
My phone goes off, and I pick up the receiver. “Gorillas,” I say by way of introduction. Fuck.
“Yes. You have some very nice gorillas,” Cheryl says slowly, like she’s speaking to a three year old. “You’ve also got a call on line two.”
“Cheryl, tell whoever it is I’ll call back in an hour.” After I wrestle my inner Emma-Brightman-banging demon back into submission.
“She says it’s urgent. Her name’s Gillian Hanson?”
There is only one woman on this planet that could take Emma Brightman off my mind at this moment, and Gillian is that woman. I have Cheryl patch me through, and then I hear her voice. Gillian’s voice, still husky and soft, still rich with that upper crust accent. When we first met at Cambridge, Gillian teased me about sounding American. When I crossed over into having the hybrid I sport now, the teasing grew worse.
I used to love her teasing.
“Used to” is the operative word choice.
“Fraser. It’s good to hear you again,” she says. She lets out a thin, breathy sigh. I close my eyes at the sound of it again, after so long.
“Gillian. You made the trip safely?”
“Just fine. I wanted to ask about tonight. Where should we meet?”
“Somewhere close to your hotel. How about the Algonquin Lounge?” It’s an old place, at least, old by Los Angeles standards. Here, anything from the 1920s is some crumbling old ruin. Meanwhile, my college dormitory room used to be an eleventh century monk’s outhouse. It puts a great deal into perspective.
“You always think of everything,” she purrs. I grip the arm of my chair. Gillian’s always had the purring type of voice. I used to love that about her.
Love being the operative word.
“Let’s meet for cocktails. Would seven suit?” She agrees, and we end the call. I have Cheryl add it to my schedule, and turn my attention back to Emma’s face. I click off the website as fast as I can. Emma Brightman is a woman with exploding animated hearts and fifty day smiles. She shows karate moves to little girls, spills drinks, and laughs as if she has nothing to lose.
I came to Los Angeles hoping for a fresh start, and Emma is the very face of that desire. But the call from Gillian reminded me: I am a man with a past.
A past that has followed me several thousand miles. Emma doesn’t deserve that; I’m not sure she’d know what to do with my problems if I revealed them.
Best if I forget her. Best for me, and best for her.
3
Emma
“Eight thousand views in two days? Man, I should do this for a living.” That’s a joke, of course, but I’m damned proud of my newest video, ‘Dirty Thoughts and Inappropriate Rami Malek.’ My friend Casey leans in from her desk opposite mine, wheeling across the carpet in her chair. She’s got the bobbed black haircut of Clara Bow, and the horn-rimmed glasses of that librarian nobody messes with because she might have poisoned apples under her desk.
“You should set a goal for yourself.” She adjusts said evil librarian specs. “If you make it to one hundred thousand subscribers, you can quit and start up your own platform.”
I blow a friendly raspberry. “I just do this for fun. Can you imagine anything more hilarious and awful than me giving my own advice to people? Before you know it, everybody’d be living in studio apartments, still single in their thirties, eating brownie mix out of the bowl.”
“What, pray tell, is wrong with a bowl of brownie mix?”
“Absolutely nothing, sweet friend.” Our ‘screw salmonella’ uncooked cookie dough parties are legend. “But you need a functioning life before you can lifestyle anyone else.”
Casey sighs and goes back to the book she’s reading. We both work at CAA in the literary department, scouring the hopefully unpublished and influentially published alike in an attempt to find the next big movie or TV franchise. I keep bringing my favorite indie self-help gurus to their attention. So far, they haven’t made any offers based on my recommendations, but I’m hopeful there’s always a first time. My absolute favorite YouTuber, Blaire Lavender, is going to self-pub her own book soon, and I can’t wait to show her off to the higher ups.
I click off my video, shaking my head. Casey’s the best gal pal a gal could ask for, but she loves me too much to be objective. I’m the one who needs all the help she can get. How am I supposed to help anyone else?
My phone rings, and I pick up. “Does Mario’s not have any more cherry Cokes?” I’m assuming it’s Gerta with our lunch orders, and boy am I ever wrong.
“Emma?” That voice, like a delicious whiskey-flavored ice cream with a chocolate wafer cookie thrust into the top of the gooey decadence.
Like I said, I was waiting on lunch. And now I’m hungrier, but not just for food.
“Mr. Walker. Hi.” I did not squeak that last word. I am a cool, profession
al woman. Just because the head of our department is one of the hottest men on the planet does not change that. It just means I need to wear extra-strength deodorant to the office.
“Emma, how many times do I need to ask?” He laughs, an easy sound. “I want you to call me Gavin.”
I know he’s asked me, but it feels a little too trendy tech startup for me to start calling all the higher ups by their first name. Things get too friendly, next thing you know you’ve left your underwear at the office, and you can’t find it when you need to collect all your personal belongings in a cardboard box before being escorted from the building. Because banging your boss is not professional in the slightest.
Banging bosses sounds good, though. Maybe it’s the ‘b’ sound.
“Are you still there?” Gavin Walker sounds worried, like maybe I strangled myself with the phone cord in the interim.
“I am, Mr. Walker.” I keep my tone bright and cheerful, but put a little emphasis on the ‘mister.’ He laughs again, and the sound glides over my skin. I get goosebumps, what can I say?
I can practically hear Casey rolling her eyes behind me.
“I need you in a meeting. Conference room C, five minutes.”
Five minutes? My stomach growls in pained anguish. That chicken club sandwich is going to come home to this desk only to find itself abandoned. What kind of monster am I?
A monster who wants to keep her job.
“See you there.” Gavin hangs up the call, and I spin myself around in my office chair. Casey’s watching me with her cheek in one hand and sardonic annoyance in her eyes. That is very hard to convey, incidentally. You really need to nail the eyeshadow.
“Any particular reason he needs a lit assistant in a meeting with his top agents?” she deadpans. I snatch my iPad in case I need to take notes and shrug.
“You ever think maybe he’s grooming me for a promotion?”
“I think he wants to groom you for something else.”
