The Perfect Find

by Tia Williams

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  He nodded pensively. “Good night, Jenna,” he said, and left for good.

  CHAPTER 16

  The morning after Jenna’s soiree from hell, she sat her desk, squinting at Fidelity.com and attempting to figure out the difference between low-risk and moderate-risk investments. She typed her abysmal financial information into Fidelity’s user profile—but with every click on her keyboard, her brain screamed: “I’m-in-so-much-trou-ble-I’m-in-so-much-trou-ble…” She couldn’t get the details of the night before out of her head. Not her party; she’d come to terms with that epic disaster. It was Eric.

  Jenna was too old to try to trick herself into denying the truth. She was lusting after Eric. No, it was more than lust, which was so much worse.

  She’d wanted badly for him to stay—and without her saying a word, he just knew. She’d told herself that it was innocent, that she just wanted to hang out with her friend. But before she could get her bearings, they’d had that blistering moment on her couch. He’d had her coming apart at the seams—and he never touched her. What if he had? What if he’d stayed two minutes longer? What if she’d had one more drink? She knew the answer.

  Out of the millions of men in New York, out of all the appropriate options, she was attracted to this man—who happened to be the wrong man. She had to figure out a way to hide it. And hide it so well that she’d believe her own lie.

  Eric had spent fifteen minutes in his cubicle, preparing himself to be normal when he saw her for their 9:30am meeting. Now, as he walked up to her doorway, he saw that she was the one who wasn’t normal. As usual, she was sitting at her desk, squinting into her computer screen. But, she was wearing black horn-rimmed glasses—the kind preferred by 1950’s bobbysoxers.

  Eric knocked on the door. Jenna looked up, and ripped the glasses off her face. She pasted on the maniacal smile she’d worn when he’d first stepped into her office, with Darcy.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey you! Sit down. Hi!”

  It was obvious that she felt weird about last night.

  Don’t make it weirder, he thought.

  “So…hey,” he repeated, making it weirder.

  Eric had intended to pretend like nothing happened. Because nothing did happen. He hadn’t strayed an inch from this proper place in the Friend Zone. But watching her with that dude? It almost broke him. He’d gone over there with the clear-eyed goal of helping her land a boyfriend, and ended up completely cock-blocking. And when it was just the two of them, alone, Eric was hit with a feeling so potent, it levelled him completely.

  Elodie was right. He wanted her. Badly. And he’d had no idea; the feeling had snuck up on him. It was like he had no say in it. He did things he’d never done with a girl—and without thought or intention. Attempting to fight for her (beneath him), washing dishes with her (cozy), co-obsessing over an obscure movie with her (nirvana). It all felt like he was doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing.

  Everything Eric thought he knew about women, about what he wanted or didn’t want, was turned upside down.

  “Surprise, I wear glasses!” Jenna gestured to the specs discarded on her desk. “When I’m tired my eyes get blurry. I…I didn’t really get a good night’s sleep.”

  “Neither did I. Why were you up?”

  “Too much on my mind. Work stuff.”

  “Right. Me too. Work.”

  “Right. Anyway, that’s why I’m wearing those. They’re so doofy.”

  “No, you look like you’re out of a vintage Pepsi ad or something.”

  “Exactly. Doofy.”

  “I love them,” he said with an embarrassing amount of fervor. “Thank you.”

  She slid her specs on top of her head, and then slipped them off again. “But that’s just ‘cause you’re into old things.

  What was your quote? ‘Older is sexier?’”

  “Yeah. And it’s true.”

  “I used to agree. But learning from you, I’ve gained a whole new appreciation for young guys.” Jenna caught herself, breaking out in a sweat. “I mean, young people! I mean…you’ve taught me new ways of doing things.”

  “I know what you meant,” he said, trying to keep a straight face. “But I’ll always want what’s older.”

  Jenna rubbed her lips together, nervously, and then said, “Anyway, thank you for complimenting my glasses. They’re silly, but…yeah.”

  There was a moment of hesitant silence. Jenna folded and unfolded her glasses, Eric tapped his fingers on the arms of his chair—and decided he couldn’t take the tension. So he made a joke.

  “You know, you were right. You’re a hell of a hostess. Wanna throw my birthday party next month?”

  Jenna smirk-glared at him. Then, the pressure to pretend that they hadn’t almost slid into the mess with which they started dissipated a bit.

  He smiled. “Too soon?”

  “I’m not throwing another party, for a very long time. Maybe May’s Sweet Sixteen.” Jenna took a deep, sobering breath, and exhaled like she’d been holding it in since the night before. “I have good news. During my insomnia bout, I’m fairly certain that I came up with our series concept.”

  “Something good came from my insomnia, too!” said Eric. “Before you tell me your idea, I gotta show you something.”

  He reached in his pocket. The muscles in his bicep worked. He noticed Jenna do a startlingly obvious double take. It always momentarily threw Eric, the way that Jenna unconsciously broadcasted everything she felt. He wondered if she knew how naked she was to him.

  “Here,” he said, sliding a flash drive across her desk. “Plug it in.”

  As she stuck the flash drive into her laptop, he said, “I was thinking you needed a trailer for the first video. Just a quick this-why-Jenna-Jones-is-so-dope, to reintroduce you to the audience. So, I did some research on you. I ran through your TV appearances, judging spots, and whatever I could find online. And I came up with this.”

  Jenna knew Eric was talking, but his voice barely registered because the images she was seeing were so breathtaking, she couldn’t process any other information. Out of all the zillions of quips she’d given, ridiculous faces she’d made, and overly earnest on-air exchanges, the vignettes he’d chosen were the ones that were the most her. The intro opened with her as a twenty-two-year old intern saying, “Hi, I’m Jenna Jones and fashion is my passion, but I’m fuh-reeezing,” on the set of a Bazaar bikini shoot in Alaska with a baby-faced Naomi—the clip had ended up in Jenna’s goodbye reel when she left the magazine (and had somehow made it to YouTube). He had a shot of her laughing so hard with Joan Rivers on Fashion Police that she toppled out of her chair. The best was a shot that was too raunchy to make America’s Modeling Competition—it was Jenna in the makeup chair, telling that week’s guest judge, Kris Jenner, that her famed reality show should’ve been called, The Kardashians: More Butts Than Ashtrays.

  “It’s glorious,” she gushed. “You’ve known me for five minutes!

  How did you capture me so clearly?”

  “I studied you all night,” he said. “I have a PhD in Jenna Jones now.”

  She marveled at what he’d done for her. “You didn’t have to do this.”

  Yes I did, he thought. I had to. Because seeing you on my screen is the only way I can keep my hands off of you and feel sane.

  “Let me show you my favorite parts,” said Eric, trying to keep focused.

  He dragged his chair closer and pulled her laptop so it was between them. He leaned in, pressing the forward button on her laptop and scanned the clip’s highlights. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jenna’s eyes traveling up his arm, his shoulder, his profile—and he wished he could crawl inside her mind.

  Whatever. He knew exactly what she was thinking.

  Eric allowed himself one quick glance at her. Being this close was excruciating. Her perfume, which smelled like honey, vanilla and summertime, made him want to bite her. And the look on her face
was maddening. A mixture of “you’re my hero” awe and “fuck me up against the wall” lust.

  No woman had ever made him feel this out of control. “Eric,” Jenna said softly. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” He suddenly felt a wave of shyness over his little project.

  It was a love letter.

  “So, Miss I’m-fuh-reezing,” said Eric, cracking his knuckles, “you ready to tell me your genius idea?”

  “Yes! By the way, I’m boycotting Greta Blumen’s shoes. I’m wearing some today, but never again.”

  “I need to see the shoes you almost risked our jobs over,” he said, playfully. “Stand up.”

  Rolling her eyes, Jenna stepped to the side of her desk. She cocked her leg a bit and put her hands on her hips. She was wearing nude stilettos with a faint tone-on-tone print (flesh-toned heels were an old fashion trick; they made your legs look endless).

  Eric relaxed, his eyes traveling lazily all the way up her legs and just past the hem of her short skirt. He stopped there—right there—staring blatantly and shamelessly, letting her imagine what was going through his mind, and then his gaze moved up her body, lingered at her breasts, and finally stopped at her face.

  Jenna looked giddy. She was high off of his reaction to her.

  “Is that a print on your shoe? Or am I just delirious?”

  “It’s a really faint tonal print,” she said, sticking her leg out, torturing him a bit more. “You can tell from that far away?”

  “Not really. I think I need to see it up close.”

  Jenna glanced out the door. The StyleZine floor was a huge rectangle loft space, and her office was in the corner. Darcy’s office was across from hers, but she was out at ad meetings all day. A huge conference room was to the right, but it was unoccupied. And far off to the left, out of view, were the maze of cubicles where the rest of the staff sat.

  Anyone could walk by at any moment…but probably not.

  Jenna took two steps toward Eric, stood in front of him, and planted her foot on the seat of his chair between his legs. Her leg was inches from his mouth. Her skirt slid high up her thighs. His almost undetectable intake of breath was the only sign that she’d affected him in any way—that, and his hands, which gripped the arm of the chair.

  “Can you see the print now?”

  “Polka dots.”

  “Right,” she whispered, keeping an eye on the door. “This is bad.”

  “The worst.”

  “Worse than you think.”

  “I doubt that vividly.”

  “There’s something I haven’t told you.”

  “Better say it, quick.”

  “I haven’t had sex in three years.”

  “You haven’t had what in what?”

  “I haven’t been touched in three years. Not until you.” She glanced at the door again. “So me being this close to you again … it’s…it’s almost too much.”

  He blinked, taking in this information. Then he reached out an arm and pushed the door closed. Darcy did tell them to lock themselves in her office till they came up with their series.

  “Being this close to me,” he repeated, “is too much?”

  She nodded. She looked like a naughty nun in confession.

  “Why are you over here, then?”

  “Can’t help it.”

  Jenna knew that what she was doing was inexcusable, unprofessional, unlike her. But the power she felt, standing over Eric like that, knowing she was overwhelming him—it was a rush. And Eric had never wanted to touch a woman so badly. For a fevered five seconds that felt like five hours, Eric negotiated with himself. (I shut the door and now I can do what I’ve been dying to do. I can finally…no, wait, not here. I’m not an animal!! I’ll just kiss her. That’d be enough. I just need to touch her again…)

  He leaned forward and dipped his head toward her inner thigh, his mouth achingly close to her skin. He heard Jenna’s breath quicken, and he looked up. Her eyes were closed, and her cheeks were bright with carnality…or trepidation, or triumph. Or some savagely sexy combination of all three. She couldn’t have known what she looked like. She couldn’t have known, and expected him to control himself.

  He couldn’t. Eric planted a hot wet kiss right there, softly biting her—and then her legs buckled and she let out a jagged, desperate little moan. When he heard this, he crashed back to his senses. If he didn’t stop right now, he wouldn’t stop.

  “Move.” She didn’t.

  “Move,” he said again. “This is a dangerous game, Jenna.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause I’m seconds from fucking the shit out of you. Move.” This snapped her out of her trance, and blushing, Jenna rushed over to her chair. Eric slumped down into his with a tortured groan, rubbing a hand over his face. Jenna dropped her forehead onto her desk, the loud “thunk” reverberating through the tiny office.

  “Jesus, Jenna, you trying to kill me?”

  “Did I just…did you really just do that? I can’t be trusted around you, Eric. Who am I?”

  “A cougar,” he joked.

  “I’ve only been forty for three months,” she exclaimed, slamming her fist on the desk. “I’m too young to be a cougar!”

  “You’re too old to be acting this slutty at work.”

  “Oh, like you’re such a damsel in distress,” she whispered. “You just gave me a thighgasm in my office.”

  “What was I supposed to do? I’m a man, Jenna. You serve it to me, I’m eating it.” He watched her fan her flushed face, trying to pull herself together. She was trembling. He plucked a bunch of yellow Skittles out of the bowl and handed them to her. “Take these, you’ll feel better.”

  She took them gratefully and chomped in wide-eyed, distressed silence, while fidgeting with the delicate gold bracelet on her arm. She focused on it, in an effort to block out the scorching tingling where Eric’s mouth had been. Jenna had weirdly small wrists, so bracelets never fit—and then she stumbled upon this petite one at a Clinton Hill flea market. It had been the perfect find.

  The perfect find.

  Suddenly, she bolted upright, like there was a puppet string attached to her head from the ceiling.

  “Eric,” she said with urgency. “I’m scrapping my idea from last night.”

  “Wait, why?”

  “I was hired to take this site to a new level, to bring notoriety in a fresh way. Let’s really do that. Your sensibility, my connections… street style… it’s too good! Get up!” She grabbed her phone and hopped out of her chair. “Meet me at the elevators in fifteen minutes.”

  Jenna thought quickly. She’d need a place to quickly produce garments and accessories, so Jenna tracked down her friend who represented Threads Production, an inexpensive, but fairly high quality apparel factory on 39th Street. Her idea would need funding, so she set up a meeting between LVMH, herself, and Darcy for first thing in the morning. Then she called her first subject, Maggie

  M. A former supermodel, she was now one of the most in-demand stylists in celebdom (her modeling was short-lived because she didn’t have the attention span to diet.). Maggie was both terribly behaved, and one of the best-dressed woman on the planet. She was in town for the collections and the British beauty owed Jenna a few favors. In Maggie’s modeling days, Jenna had flown around the world with her half a dozen times, and more often than not, Maggie barely escaped an unplanned pregnancy, arrest, or a coke-induced coma. Each time, Jenna masterminded a way to dig her out of the scrape while keeping her secrets intact.

  Maggie’s lunatic behavior was tabloid gold. But more importantly, everyone who cared about style hung on her every move. The bodacious blonde had a real body, with a curved tummy and an ample ass, and dressed it to perfection. Her wild, Cher-meets-Kate-Moss fantasy wardrobe (feather headdresses and motorcycle boots) was breathlessly worshipped on blogs.

  Jenna’s idea was to recruit the most stylish, coolest-looking women around (all shapes, all sizes)—and, in each subject’s video, have th
em come up with an item they dreamed of owning, but could never find. Like, a trench that was warm enough to wear in twenty degree weather. Sexy sweatpants you could rock for cocktails. Chic flats that don’t make size eleven feet look like canoes. Or, in Maggie’s case, a flowy boho top that made busty girls look ethereal, not expecting.

  Acting as their Fairy StyleMother, Jenna would hang out in their bedrooms, rifling through their favorite pieces in their closets, trying on clothes and riffing about their personal style in a gossipy, fun, just-us-girls way—and then give them fifty dollars to have their fantasy item made. Their perfect find. On the site, StyleZine would sell thirty limited edition copies of each piece. Only thirty; first come first serve.

  She started with Maggie. And Eric captured her most intimate, girly moments—wiping off lipstick and starting again. Putting on outfits and then changing them, tossing discarded accessories on the bed. Re-parting her hair fourteen times in the mirror, tripping while struggling to put on jeans. Maggie came across not as a beauty icon, but as a friend-in-your-head, a woman who was so funny and cool that her looks were an added bonus. The point? The viewers had to have a piece of her magic.

  Readers mobbed the site to be one of the handful to score her Perfect Find. What style follower wouldn’t want to own a one-off piece straight from the imagination of a woman whose wardrobe they’d kill to inhabit—and for less cash then they’d spend at brunch? Jenna found the girls and Eric knew how to shoot them. No two videos looked alike. Each one was a collector’s edition, an eccentric visual delight. Eric distilled each girl’s personality down to an archetype (Retro Vamp, Hot Braniac, Corporate Goddess, Sporty Spice, et.)—and then, he art-directed, edited, and shot each girl in a film style from an era or genre that showcased her persona. The SoCal surfer turned fashion blogger, Coco Lopez, was filmed in sun-drenched, saltwater-sprayed, Endless Summer day glo tones that were so evocative you could smell the coconut oil and Coppertone. The patrician, elegant Indian-Bahamian boutique owner, Sade Ghirmay, was shot like a scene from 1939’s The Women—in velvety, Art Deco-esque black and white, as she swanned around her Upper East side penthouse serving her kids breakfast in hot rollers and an ivory satin robe.