Most Eligible Bastard: an enemies-to-lovers romantic comedy

by Annika Martin

  Latrisha helped me make that list. A two-bottle-of-wine list right there.

  Needless to say, my dating history veers toward cooks, musicians, and students on the ten-year plan. My longest-running boyfriend was a cook, a musician, and a student on the ten-year plan; he wrote songs for me that I hated, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him.

  Newsflash: acting like you’re into a song that a guy is singing really soulfully while looking deeply into your eyes is harder than faking an orgasm.

  So that one didn’t work out.

  “Are you going to put Smuckers’s name on the medallion?”

  “That’s what I was thinking, but it might not be fun enough,” I say, then I sketch out the words Smuck U.

  “I love that too much,” Latrisha says breathlessly. “With his little sweet face? It’s like it means kiss you or fuck you or love you or hate you. What are you going to wear?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re part of Smuckers’s entourage. Sort of like, the organ grinder and the monkey—they both get the little vests, right?”

  “I hope I’m the organ grinder in this scenario,” I say.

  “Oh, def. Henry can be the monkey.”

  “An entourage. I didn’t think of that. Or what I’m going to wear, jewelry-wise. ”

  “Girl, you’re a jewelry maker and you didn’t think of the accessorizing component to all this? It needs to be just as fun as what we’re doing for Smuckers.”

  For seven years I’ve funneled my creativity into earning respect. The idea of ultra-subtle class. I never go for wild provocation. But she’s right.

  I feel this shiver of excitement as I flip my blank book to a new page. I’m imagining bright colors. Gorgeous, playful imagery. Sassy, irreverent sayings. I start sketching. Designing this line is the jewelry-maker’s version of playing hooky. And when I imagine his gaze landing on me and Smuckers in coordinating shit? The fun only doubles.

  Henry wants to fucking go? Oh, I will fucking go.

  Eight

  Henry

  I push into Chantisserie. “Two. Booth.” I set a hundred dollar bill on the host stand.

  Brett gives me a look. You could be nice—that’s what the look says. But between his fake nice request and my very straightforward hundred-dollar bill, I know which one this guy would choose. Every fucking time.

  People are not that complicated.

  The host peers over his glasses at us, then down at his book. “This way. ” He leads us to a booth by the window.

  Brett orders two scotches on the rocks even though it’s early afternoon.

  “It’s mood alteration o’clock somewhere,” I say.

  “The second one’s for you.” He pulls out his iPad and slides it over to me. “The good news is that they found the loophole you thought they would.”

  I nod. I felt sure our lawyers could find a way to twist the “qualified to serve as permitted by state law” clause to eject her on grounds of incompetency. “And something like this would fall under private mediation, right?”

  “That’s what they say.”

  Our drinks come. “Shouldn’t be hard to prove, considering half a dozen people have witnessed her channeling the thoughts of a dog. Where’s the bad news?”

  He reaches over and swipes the screen. “They have to file, then get on the schedule. It’s going to be slow.”

  “So we grease some wheels.”

  “We can’t pay to speed it up. It has to go by the book. We gotta do this Boy Scout or it might get challenged.”

  “How long?”

  “Weeks. I don’t know,” he says. “They don’t know.”

  I swirl the ice in my drink. This is bad. She refused the money, which means she thinks she can get more. The best way to do that is to make things bad enough that we pay. It’s a hostage situation.

  He looks at me, waiting to see what I say. They always expect me to have the answers, the battle plans. Usually I do. But working under the direction of an unpredictable scam artist who pretends to know a dog’s thoughts?

  “So we manage her.”

  A perverse thrill shudders through me as the idea takes hold. I take a swig of my drink. Set it down. Close my eyes. Breathe. I focus on the calm of it spreading through me.

  When I open my eyes, Brett’s watching me. Waiting.

  “Never imagined I’d feel nostalgic for Kaleb’s minimum profit-per-square-foot ball and chain around my ankle,” I say.

  He snorts. “The fuck! Right?”

  Kaleb never understood the new economy. He never got the memo that you sometimes make a bigger profit by taking a loss up front. That once in a while it’s worth it to make cool shit. You can’t put a price on being known as a builder that makes cool shit.

  No, it’s all about profit margins to Kaleb. The man is so 1980s it sprains my brain.

  “Manage her. Keep her busy. Keep her from fucking things up. Keep her…favorably disposed.”

  “Should be easy for you. She’s not with anyone,” Brett says.

  I nod. According to our PI, she’s led a quiet existence. No boyfriend.

  Brett grins. “So you can play good cop and I’ll play bad cop. I’ll gather evidence and work the lawyers and keep the PI digging, and you just keep her on her back.”

  I look down at my fingers around the glass, remembering the way she stared at them.

  “You’re into it, right? One of New York’s ten most eligible bachelors? You could do a very good good cop. You could keep her sated until we yank the firm.”

  I snort. One of New York’s ten most eligible bachelors was a title given to me out of spite by a journalist ex. Trust me, nobody who gets a title like that is ever happy about it.

  “Get her into the Henry fan club,” Brett continues. “Take her out. Charm her. Romantic picnics in the park. Billionaire helicopter rides.”

  I try to imagine doing the whole picnic-blanket-and-chilled-champagne-in-the-park thing with her in a way that wouldn’t be fake or cheesy, but I can’t. All I can see is her adjusting her glasses, brown eyes peering at me hard, like, really? “No, that approach—it’s not right for her.”

  “What, are you suddenly a grifter expert?”

  “It’s too generic for her. The picnic thing and all that, it says, Look at me, I’m romancing you.”

  “Kind of the point.”

  “Vicky won’t go for it,” I say with a certainty that surprises even me. “This isn’t a woman who wants a heart-shaped box of chocolates. She’s—”

  What I almost say is that she’s too good for that.

  God, she’s a grifter looking for a payday. I push the scotch away. “I’ll handle her, don’t worry. She can’t give fucked-up orders if she’s got a cock in her mouth.”

  “There’s the good cop spirit,” Brett says. “Now, what about the press? What if they find out that Smuckers is heading up the board? That little bit of news could fuck up a lot of projects. The stadium? They want an excuse to say no.”

  “I won’t let anything fuck up the stadium deal.”

  “Well, they’re looking for an excuse to say no.”

  I swirl the ice in my glass, trying to think how to keep a lid on something like a toy dog controlling a billion-dollar corporation, trying not to think about Mom, because that leads nowhere good.

  And then I get it. “We go public with the dog thing. Full disclosure.”

  He narrows his eyes. “Not entirely tracking here.”

  “What Mom did is so hosed up, who would believe it? So we make it look like a charity stunt. Oh, no! Bernadette willed her empire to the dogs. Look! The fucking dog is in control and giving money to dog charities. Oh, no! Wink-wink-nudge-nudge.”

  A smile spreads across Brett’s face. “Like it’s just a PR stunt.”

  “Exactly. What mother would leave a company to the dog and not her CEO son?” I manage to say this without emotion. “We write an over-the-top press release. We give a big cardboard check to some dog pound. And guess who g
ets to be in charge of choosing the charity?”

  Nine

  Vicky

  I take Carly and Smuckers out to a sidewalk café where we order whatever we want without looking at the prices, and for dessert we get our favorite treat: ice cream with a stupid amount of candy in it.

  “Everything’s good now,” Carly says, searching my face for confirmation.

  “Def,” I say, because I want that for her, even if I don’t have it for myself.

  I still get spooked when groups of people seem to be looking at me; I think they recognize me, and that they’re silently condemning me. A built-in flinch reaction.

  I remember being shocked a few months back when people were looking at Carly and me down on the subway platform, and that whole hunted, hated feeling rushed over me.

  Then I looked over at Carly, and she was grinning at me. She put her hand on her hip, gave me a cocky look, and said, This coat is so badass nobody can even believe it.

  And I wanted to cry from relief. And happiness. My beautiful sister with her bright red hair and orange faux-fur coat. People stare at her and she decides she looks amazing.

  That night after she’s asleep, I go to my old jewelry collection, sifting through the pieces I’ve collected over the years. I finger a charm bracelet, one of the few beloved things I still have from my childhood, and that’s when the brainstorm hits.

  I’m thinking high-end charms crossed with Valentines candy hearts. I'm thinking fun animal faces and playful sayings. Smuckers’s face with Smuck U. A cat with meow, mofo. An owl: GrrOWL.

  I start sketching and scribbling, coming up with increasingly outrageous messages. I stay up all night designing and making reckless decisions. It’s just a one-time outfit, so who cares?

  I work up a bracelet and a necklace, all animal medallions the size of quarters set in neon pink alloy. The fact that Henry partly inspired it all adds to the crazy, fuck-you fire of it. But really, it’s not solely inspired by him. It’s the city and the battle of the jungle and droplets of water on windshields, the flashing perfume billboard out our window, bright desserts on a tray and me having some fun for once.

  Somewhere around four in the morning I redesign everything to make it double sided, with the animal face on one side and white letters on the pink metal. I design sandal charms and hairpins, too. It’s fucked up and wild. I forgot how much I missed color.

  I drop my sister off at school and head to the makers space. Almost nobody is around. I make medallion molds of different sizes and work out how the lettering will go. Everything feels new. It’s a lot of work for a one-time outfit, but sometimes you make shit just to make it.

  The place fills up. I work through lunch, and suddenly Carly’s calling. It’s already time to get her.

  It’s only when I stroll out of there into the hot afternoon that I realize things I’ve been making don’t feel new at all.

  They feel old. Like Vonda stuff. I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry when I realize that.

  My insane collection is ready two days later, matched perfectly to the large Smuck U medallion that adorns the back of Smuckers’s throne.

  I show Latrisha the bracelet and necklace set.

  “You’re really committing to the madness,” she observes.

  I inform her that there will also be a large zoinks medallion in my ponytail.

  She’s just looking at the necklace. “I kind of want one. Exactly like this.”

  I tell her I’ll make her one. A few other artisans come around. By the end of the day I have orders for ten pieces. I’m thinking about putting it on Etsy. I force myself to go back to my serious collection—Saks is tomorrow—but when I open the box I keep it in, my heart seems to sigh. Not a good sigh. A sad sigh.

  Even tucked into elegant black velvet, the pieces look sad. I’m selling safety. Invisibility. Being on trial. Jewelry for a girl who wants desperately to be trusted. Wants not to be hated.

  And I realize I want more.

  Ten

  Vicky

  The prebuyers frown. “This is completely different,” a woman in mod stripes says. She’s rail thin like so many in the fashion industry trenches. “You can’t switch.”

  “The old stuff was about women hiding their true personalities, and that’s not what I’m interested in anymore,” I say. “Jewelry should express something.” Even as I say it, I’m wondering if I’m committing too much to the cray. But I can’t deal with the old collection. It’s like I’ve developed an allergy to it overnight.

  Her blue-haired partner, who looks like he’s eighteen, is not happy. He closes the case and slides it across to me. “We worked up a whole new-biz casual strategy for the other, and that’s not this.”

  “We had this designated for a specific niche,” the woman says.

  The main buyer comes in. They both look really nervous. “We might have to postpone this,” the blue-haired buyer says. “This isn’t the collection we were slotting. This new one…no offense.”

  The main buyer frowns. “Usually when somebody says no offense, there is some. This I gotta see.”

  “I brought one that wasn’t requested,” I explain, not wanting to throw the prebuyers under the bus. “I wasn’t thinking. I’ll go back through the channels.”

  She makes a come-hither motion with her finger.

  I slide the case to the middle of the table and open it. She pulls out the necklace and studies the animal faces with their weird little messages.

  “Hmm,” she says, stopping on GrrrOwl.

  I try my best not to slump or appear to crumble. Did I go overboard in all of my enthusiasm? Lose my judgment? Yes.

  But it felt good while I was making it.

  “What do you call it?”

  “Smuck U,” I say.

  She looks confused.

  I pull out the sandal medallion. “Inspired by my dog, Smuckers.”

  She tilts her head. “What’s the thinking?”

  I look up and down. She thinks I’m crazy already, so it can’t get worse, right? I pull out the bracelet. “People have tried to push Smuckers around. Take things away from him. Smuckers wears bowties, and he’s cute and fluffy, but he is so done with people pushing him around. So done.”

  Everyone is looking at me now.

  “Cuff bracelet. All metal is a pink alloy. This is what you wear when…” I pull out the choker and hold it up to my neck. “Well, it’s what you wear whenever you feel like it. It’s high-end, but not playing the high-end game.” I pull out a bracelet and lay it flat. On the front of each medallion, the size of a quarter, is a fun painted animal face. On the back are the various messages. Zoinks. Hell no. Hell yes. Smuck U. “It’s not about what the world tells you to be. It’s about what makes you feel alive. This is for a woman who’s so done with being pushed around.”

  Do I sound like a crackpot? Probably.

  The buyer gazes at the prebuyers. Back at the Smuck U collection. Back at me. “I like it, but it doesn’t work for us, and especially not…it’s not what we had slotted.”

  I thank them for their time and get out of there, down the elevator, out onto the sunny sidewalk where I’m jostled by pedestrians and assaulted by the scent of diesel trucks and burned hot dogs.

  I just blew the biggest meeting of the year.

  I might be making sequined dog collars for the rest of my life.

  And I feel…happy.

  Eleven

  Henry

  She’s late for the board meeting. Almost ten minutes late. I’m surprised. I keep watching the elevators across the vast empty space that, since this is Manhattan, costs more per square foot than a Bentley.

  Brett rocks back in his chair and says, “Somebody didn’t read the bylaws as well as she should’ve.”

  The bylaws stipulate that if you’re fifteen minutes late without alerting anyone, the board votes your percentage. It’s a rule that was originally created so meetings wouldn’t get held up if our grandfather decided to grab a dozen glazed bear cla
ws from Jolly’s on the way in from Long Island.

  “Let’s do this.” I pull up the motion to strip her of her votes and enter it into the agenda with a sense of disappointment.

  I was looking forward to today. Perverse, I know. But I’m curious to see what’s next in the pretty little scammer’s playbook. Does she cram on the bylaws? Bide her time until she attains expertise in all things Locke, and then go in for the kill?

  Or does she play bull in the china shop, making us suffer and squirm until we make her a better offer?

  Does she cut in a lawyer? Somebody to read everything that comes up for vote? I definitely wouldn’t blame her if she did that, considering what we pulled in that last meeting.

  Mandy seconds the additional agenda item and moves that we consider it first.

  Kaleb seconds the emotion.

  At thirteen after, right as we’re about to vote her off the island, the elevator doors open.

  I sit up, heart pounding. Saved by the bell, I think, folding my hands in front of me, ready to give her the amused smile that seems to annoy the fuck out of her. Ready for another one of her prim-but-strangely-hot librarian outfits.

  But it’s not her.

  It’s a pair of mimes, and they’re carrying something large between them—a piece of wooden furniture with shiny detailing, like some kind of fancy high chair. They start across the floor with the thing hoisted between them.

  Vicky steps out of the elevator after them with Smuckers on a leash.

  Her hair is tauntingly confined in that polished ponytail. Her simple brown dress has a slim, shiny belt that matches the dark brown of her glasses. But it’s not her outfit that gets me—it’s her bright gaze, her flushed cheeks, just the energy of her.

  It charges the air around her. It sends shivers across my skin.