Pucker Up: (Kiss Talent Agency Series, Book Four)

by Virna DePaul

  I tried everything I could think of to avoid this redo dinner. I think I worked harder on this than anything else in my entire life.

  Oh, the things I tried. I’ve bookmarked plenty of websites on how to book a flight under a different name. If the blogger suddenly up and moved to Vienna, a redo dinner just wouldn't be possible. It would be so sad, but, well, that's life. I may have even talked with a realtor about condos in different cities around the world, the further the better.

  At work, Human Resources probably thinks I'm having a mental breakdown after hounding them about available positions in other sister firms abroad. But then I realized that if I disappeared at the same time that the blogger did it may seem slightly suspicious. So that plan was out the window.

  Then I turned down the invite through my blog, stating that I prefer to keep my anonymity. But Lee solved that, too. He'd close down the restaurant. He'd keep all the lights off save for the fire fixtures. Oh, and he suggested we wear masks. Trust me, I had several wild dreams involving Lee and I in masks surround by candlelight, ripping off all of his clothes and just leaving the mask on ...

  I resist the urge to close my eyes and fall into that fantasy and instead warily peek over at the clock.

  7:15.

  If I put on makeup and did my hair, I'd be giving myself more time before I had to decide. Because if I don't start getting ready now, I'm not going. But if I was ready, I could go or I could just huddle under the covers and deal with the fallout tomorrow. So, putting on foundation right now is not me saying I'm going. I may be going. Or I may not.

  Shit, I need a drink.

  If I go, I'm giving up control. Once I reveal who I am, everything is in Lee's hands. He may laugh at me for not telling him and for being typical Jenna overthinking things. He may wrap me in his arms and kiss me and tell me he shared something special with the blogger and he's so glad it's me.

  Or he may not. He may see what I did as a betrayal. And he may see my ensuing silence as further proof of my betrayal. He may point one finger toward the door and say not a single word, but I’ll know exactly what he’s thinking.

  Get out.

  Get out of my restaurant.

  Get out of my life.

  I pause with my blush brush filled with a bright, cheerful pink and hesitate before I swipe it across my cheek. My life without Lee? A month ago, before my birthday, I think I could have handled that. I basically was handling that. He did his things with models and flashing cameras and fake smiles and I did my thing with the same work every day and the same tired look and the same mask behind the blog. Our paths had diverged, and it was only a lot of wine and a lot of pent-up frustration that crashed us back together.

  But after everything that’s happened these last few weeks, I don’t think I can handle a life without Lee. It’s not just the sex. It’s the person I want to be when I’m around him. The person he makes me want to be. I want to make crepes without a recipe and try fruity pebbles on bacon and close my eyes and leap.

  Going to the dinner may give me everything I always wanted. Or it may destroy, forever and irreparably, everything I’ve built on the long path towards what I always wanted.

  I watch 7:30 flash across the clock, and I’m still staring at the door which leads to the hall which leads to the elevator which leads to the lobby which leads to the road which leads to Lee. I’m still staring and holding my blush brush. It’s just another mask. Why can’t I put it on?

  7:45. If I left now, the only way to get there on time would be if traffic were perfect. Only if every light turned green and every tourist near Times Square paid attention to the God-damn flashing red hand on the crosswalks. But it doesn’t matter, because I’m still sitting and still staring.

  8:00. Lee is not worried at this point. Fifteen minutes late in New York is fifteen minutes early. I could still go. I’ll just add an apology for being late to all the other apologies. What’s one more, in the grand scheme of things? Lee is probably dipping his finger into a new sauce as he sings to himself. He’ll then add some random ingredient no one but Lee would think of. But it would complete the dish, elevating it from amazing to indescribable.

  The thought of Lee in his kitchen, leaning over a hot skillet or sizzling pans or steaming pots, makes me happy. At least one positive thing has come from this mess.

  8:15. Lee’s probably adjusting the garnish on the appetizer just the tiniest amount to make sure it’s extra perfect. I can practically see him clap his hands together and kiss his fingers together like some Italian chef cartoon. I wonder what he’s wearing. A suit? A tuxedo? I glance at the midnight blue gown covered in delicate sequins that’s draped over the coffee table. It dips down low in the back, the material elegantly draped. I even purchased a mask to go along with it. Silver feathers. I wonder what Lee would say about it and about me.

  But I’m still holding the blush brush and I’m still holding onto the mask. Not the feathered one. My own.

  It’s 8:30. Then 8:45.

  Forty-five minutes. That’s when Lee would start to worry. He’d keep ducking his head out of the kitchen, looking around the grand dining room lit only by the fire from the gorgeous sculptures. He’d double-check his phone, even though he just looked at it. Things will start to run through his mind. Did something happen? Is the blogger still coming? Did I do something?

  9:00. I flop over on the couch and groan. I’m the worst. I’m just the fucking worst. I kick my feet in frustration and pound my fists like a little kid.

  Too fidgety to sit still, I hop up and pace back and forth, biting my lip. I could call him. I could call the restaurant and still make this right. I could call Lee and tell him I know why the blogger didn’t come. But, I’m not going to. I know I’m not going to.

  9:15. By now, Lee knows. There’s no way he doesn’t know that the blogger isn’t coming. Is he worried about the implications for his investors? Is he wondering what happened? Is he vowing to never message the blogger ever again?

  My stomach feels so tight. I am the fucking worst.

  9:30. Lee is probably dumping the food into the trash can. Such a shame. I bet the dinner was fantastic. Anytime he puts his heart into something, it’s always fantastic. I bet he’s shutting off the lights, putting out the fires, and –

  My phone rings somewhere in the apartment, making me jump. I know it isn’t my work phone, because that ringtone is Work Bitch by Britney Spears. Lee got a hold of it after our adventures on my desk. I still have to figure out how to change it …

  No, it’s my personal phone, and I search for it, mostly because I’m curious as to who it could be. When I find the phone, I’m both surprised and not surprised whose name is flashing across the screen.

  It’s Lee.

  I almost don’t answer, assuming it’s some butt dial on his subway ride home from the restaurant, but just after the fifth ring, I answer.

  “Um, hello?”

  “Jenna?”

  “Lee?” I don’t hear the sound of the subway.

  “The blogger didn’t show.”

  I summon whatever I can remember from a drama class I took back in high school.

  “Oh, man. No way.”

  “Yeah,” he sighs.

  “Do you want to, like, come over or something?”

  “You’re not busy tonight?”

  I stare at the mess of my couch. “Not really.”

  “Well, I think I have a better idea.”

  “Yeah ….?”

  “I have all this food cooked here at the restaurant. And well… you could come help me eat it.”

  “Right now? I’m not exactly fit to go out.” I look down at my sweatpants and catch a glimpse of my half-done face in the window.

  “Jenna, you’re beautiful. Just come.”

  What’s another bad decision in a string of very bad decisions?

  “See you in thirty.”

  Chapter 16

  Lee

  * * *

  I hang up with Jenna and commence pre
paring our food. In the next thirty minutes, I still have a lot of cooking to do. Final touches, garnishes. Because the dinner I’d cooked for “the blogger” was ruined, and I wasn’t going to serve Jenna anything but a delicious meal, even if she had stood me up yet again.

  Truth was, I’d been prepared for it.

  I’d known by the blogger’s response to my dinner invitation. I’d expected Jenna to make an excuse to get out of it. Instead, her response had been: Of course.

  Of course? What the fuck?

  I messaged her and asked, Are you serious? You're going to come?

  Sure. Sounds like fun.

  Sounds like fun?

  Sounds like fucking fun?

  Why wouldn't I? she had typed.

  I couldn't believe it had been that easy. I sat there in my office at Torch and drummed my fingers on the desk. There’s no way it was that easy.

  “Sneaky little minx,” I whispered to myself like a villain in his lair. If I had a mustache I would have twirled it right then and there.

  In that moment, I knew exactly what Jenna was doing. She was simply setting herself up to more easily escape my trap. By pretending to be totally down with it from the start, any last-minute excuse she used wouldn't be doubted.

  She’d done it before, with that whole spring break fiasco.

  And she was going to do it again.

  She had done it again.

  Now she was coming to dinner, as Jenna, not the blogger, thinking she was safe, but she wasn’t. I couldn’t give either of us that safety anymore.

  Twenty minutes later, I hear Jenna’s voice.

  “Lee?”

  I dip my finger in the sauce for one last taste. Needs just a smidge more orange zest.

  “Be right there, Jenna.”

  I add the orange zest, then slip out of my apron and head into the dining room.

  Jenna stands there, facing away from me, in the glow of the fire in a stunning evening gown that dances in the light. Her hair cascades down her bare back in gorgeous curls. She turns around and smiles, and I forget all about everything.

  All I see is her.

  “Um, hi,” is the only thing I manage.

  “Um, hi,” she laughs, looking down at herself. “I didn't know the dress code.”

  I walk over to take her hand. “Jenna, I don't care what it's for: beach party, boondock barbeque, doctor's appointment, yoga class. This dress, the way you look now, is always, always the dress code.”

  She gives me an adorable little bow. I lead her to the table, hold out her chair cause, yes, I can be a gentleman, and pour her a healthy glass of wine.

  After taking my seat across from her, I raise my glass and say, “To life – which is never predictable, never controllable, but always exciting.”

  Our glasses clink.

  Jenna looks at me over her wine glass. “You're full of surprises, now aren't you?”

  “You have no idea,” I say.

  Well, this is it. This crazy game she and I have been playing is going to end in the next couple of minutes. I am surrendering, calling it quits, giving it up. Essentially knocking my own king off the board. But if losing this game means winning something much greater, it will be worth it. Or at least, I hope it will be worth it.

  My skin feels sweaty, and it’s not just the heat of the flames. I’m suddenly thirsty, too. And jittery. Very jittery. Before Jenna can start noticing my telltale signs of fear and nervousness, I pass over the leather-bound menus we use at Torch.

  “I'm starving,” Jenna says, opening the menu. “Let's see what you got, chef.”

  As her eyes skim over the page, I take the opportunity to gulp big mouthfuls of my glass of wine. Jenna flips to the next page, her eyes starting to squint in confusion. I can tell her mind is rapidly trying to figure out what exactly she’s reading. She expected a menu.

  What I gave her is not a menu. Jenna looks up at me with daggers in her eyes.

  “Lee, what the fuck is this?”

  Chapter 17

  Jenna

  * * *

  I have no idea why it takes me so long to make sense of what I’m reading. I graduated from Harvard fucking Law. I may be crazy, but I’m pretty sure a minimum prerequisite for even getting accepted into Harvard is the ability to fucking read. I’m also certain the page inside the menu is typed up in English. It’s not like it’s in Spanish.

  Hell, even if it is Spanish, I still shouldn’t have this much difficulty comprehending the words. Maybe some dialect of Arabic or some Scandinavian language, Norwegian or Swedish or something, then maybe my confusion is justified.

  But no, it’s sitting there in my lap, clear as day, and I don’t get it. I reread it three times. I flip the page and read that one, too. Then read it again.

  “Lee, what the fuck is this?”

  As I look up at him, I can’t decide exactly what I’m feeling. It’s all a mixed drink of confusion, hurt, disbelief, and a large dose of serious anger. He seems to be assessing whether I’m going to stab my steak knife into his chest or my fork into his eye.

  “Jenna, now listen –”

  “How long?”

  Oh God. Oh fuck. The implications spin through my mind. Oh fuck.

  “Lee, how fucking long?”

  “Jenna, please don’t be mad. This is a good thing. I –”

  “Don’t say another word, not unless the words out of your mouth are the answer to my question: how long?”

  He drags his hand over his face and sighs. “Since the day after, Jenna. I saw it on your computer the morning after we …”

  I laugh. Because I don’t know what else to do. I shake my head and avoid his earnest eyes. I can tell he wants to talk, to explain himself, but right now, I really don’t want to hear what he has to say.

  The menu came with something else. In my lap, opened and unfolded, is a small stack of letters from editors of major publishing houses. It’s the fulfillment of a dream of anyone with a blog. I should be thrilled. It’s a way out of the life I’ve hated, the job I’ve hated, the me I’ve hated.

  Letter after letter indicate these editors are interested in turning the blog into a book. They’re offering major publishing deals. They’re right here in front of me.

  All this time! He’s known this entire fucking time. I feel like a fool, worse than a fool. Every time I acted like it wasn’t me, he knew. He let me act like a fool. I reach for my glass of wine and think: why the fuck am I reaching for a glass when there’s a full bottle sitting right there?

  Shit, I didn’t even think of all the times we talked online! Well, that’s got to be the greatest betrayal. Sex is sex and, regardless of how much loathing I feel for Lee right now, I’m not regretting the sex. But those emotional, vulnerable moments online …

  How stupid. I was weak, I lost control, and this is what I deserve: utter embarrassment, utter humiliation, utter destruction.

  “Jenna, can we please talk?”

  Lee looks absolutely wretched. His hand is stretched halfway across the white linen, turned up, urging to hold my fingers. Yeah, right. Instead, I cross my arms and stare at him with a mixture of disgust, disappointment, and lots and lots of distrust.

  “Well?” I quip, knowing I sound immature as hell. I don’t care. “What do you have to say? Was this all just another joke for you, Lee? Like at my birthday dinner? Another fun time?”

  “Jenna, no, please.”

  “Did you get a kick out of this? Was that what this was? A kick?”

  “Stop.”

  “Oh, why, Lee? Why should I stop? Why should I have any reason to believe this was not just a big ole hoot for you?”

  He abruptly stands up, his chair clattering behind him. He’s red in the face and breathing heavily. “Because I’m different.”

  “What?”

  He places his hands on the table and sighs.

  “I’m different, Jenna. Over these last few weeks, since, well, since I found out, I’ve been different.”

  “Bullshit.�
��

  I’ve never seen him look at me with more anger in his eyes. Sure, I knew he’d be mad when he found out I wrote the blog. But I never imagined this much seething anger in his eyes. And over what? Me calling bullshit?

  “You know I’m different,” he says, pointing a finger right at me. “But you’re just afraid to say it, because you know you’re exactly the same. The exact fucking same.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means that since reading that fucking blog, I took a hard look at my life and I realized you were right. I’ve started to make changes to get back to who I am, to strip away the mask I put on. And don’t fucking tell me you don’t see the difference, Jenna.”

  He’s daring me to speak now. I keep my arms crossed and my frown firmly in place and stay quiet.

  “Your drunken blog was crass and vulgar and littered with typos, but it was clear it was written by someone who cares. And I listened. I’m trying to be different.” He breathes deeply before continuing. “But you – you have someone here who cares about you and who wants to help you, and you don’t listen. Me talking to you over the internet chat is no different than you talking to me over your blog. But you’re exactly the same. Hiding. Ducking behind your mask. You’re not mad at me, Jenna. You’re mad at yourself.”

  Now it’s my turn to shove back my chair and point my finger at him over the table.

  “That is not true.” My hand shakes.

  “Is it not?”

  “No.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me it was you?”

  I remain silent.

  “Why didn’t you let me in when we were arm in arm?”

  I remain silent.

  “Why didn’t you let me love you in person, Jenna?”

  We stare at each other, angry and glaring and chests heaving. Suddenly, I throw the menu filled with the editors’ letters. It knocks a wine glass off the table, shattering on the floor. I glare down at the red wine seeping into the cracks between the wood floorboards and following the grooves of the grain.