by Julia Kent
“You do? Okay, Kitten.”
She smiles. “Like a sex kitten.” Sniff.
“Right.” I put my free arm across my lap because this conversation is having a very obvious physical effect on me.
“You’re really good at this sex stuff.”
Oh, come on. I look up at the ceiling, as I can see God up there, pointing and laughing at me.
Funny how he looks like Zeke.
I lean in to Carrie, moving my hand from her back to her shoulder, and plant a kiss on her cheek. “If we’re going to convince everyone out there, we might need a little practice.”
Her breath comes out of her nose in these short little rasps, sniffs here and there slowing down. Our faces are inches apart. I’m still in scramble mode from the road trip here, half starved, mind going a mile a minute, so my rational brain isn’t exactly at full attention.
Unlike my other brain. The one in my pants.
Leaning in, I kiss her on the lips, soft and slow. No tongue. Don’t want to push it.
Carrie kisses me back, hands going to my shoulders, sliding up to the back of my neck. I kiss her again with more urgency, our mouths slanting, her lips capturing my top lip, nipping. My hands cradle her face and I go for it as her lips part, my tongue exploring her. God, she tastes like spun sugar, fired by the heat of my blood, and soon one of my hands has a fistful of her hair, years of hunger coming out in this kiss.
Tap tap tap.
“Carrie?” a woman says from the other side of the hotel room door. “You there? It’s Angela. Jenny’s downstairs having a meltdown and I could use your help. The florist is bailing on the wedding and Jenny and her mother are acting like a meteor hit Boston.”
“Just a minute!” Carrie calls, staring at the back of the door, her fingertips against her lips as her eyes lock with mine.
I stand up. Damn. I resist the urge to rearrange.
“Uhhhh,” Carrie says.
“That was great. Good practice, C-Shel.” I give her my best flirty half-grin while I dig my cardkey into my thigh like I’m pulling a bone marrow biopsy. “Let’s show ‘em how it’s done.” I walk to the door and open it just as Angela has her fist in the air, ready to knock again.
“Oh!” she says, then looks me up and down. “Ooooooohhhhhh,” she says, drawing this one out. “You must be Ryan. I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?”
“No,” Carrie says. I die a little inside but don’t show it. “You didn’t. Sounds like I need to go downstairs,” she says, giving me a pleading look that either means Pretend to be my horny boyfriend or Get out of the room so I can get ready.
I go with the former, grab her around the waist, and plant a huge, over-the-top kiss on her neck.
“Sorry,” I say to Angela, clearly not sorry. “Four hours away from her and I just need to recharge my Carrie battery, if you know what I mean.” I flash Angela a grin. “How about I get you two some lemon water while Carrie freshens up. Not that she needs to.” I kiss her cheek. “I’m just inventing reasons to leave you alone to figure out how to help the bride.”
“Actually, we need to go now,” Angela says, giving me a wild look. The whites of her eyes get big. That’s what weddings do to women — turn their eyes into the color of the wedding dresses.
“Then I’ll just meet you downstairs,” I say, pleasant and smooth.
With that I leave her and Carrie speechless, eyebrows up.
And get the hell out of there so I can breathe.
Chapter 8
CARRIE
The big dining room for the wedding reception is full of round wooden tables, not yet covered with their linen tablecloths. In a storage room off the main dining room, one table is littered with shells, boxes of pillar candles, and bags of smooth stones. On another, clear glass containers are stacked in a pyramid. Huge buckets of beach sand rest on the floor.
A dozen or so women in cocktail dresses and perfect hair are standing around in small clusters, talking nervously. Jenny, who is weeping, is being comforted by her mother and sisters.
“What’s happening?” I ask, confused. This is the problem with always running ten minutes late. I’m forever trying to figure out what everyone else already knows.
“These centerpieces were supposed to have been assembled by the florist!” Jenny moans. “We paid Petal Pushers fifty dollars each for twenty-five ‘Beachscapes’ -- that’s over a thousand dollars! And she’s gone and we have nothing for the tables!” Her mother is frantically dabbing Jenny’s cheeks with a handkerchief where the tears are streaking her makeup.
“Oh no… who would do that? She probably just ran out for more coffee or something,” I soothe. “I’m sure she’ll be back.”
Jenny just hands me her phone.
The text on the screen reads: My band just signed with UMG leaving on tour tonight so sorry have a great marriage! Nova
“Okay, not coming back,” I concede. Jenny gives a ragged sob.
I look over the raw materials spread out on the tables. “Jen,” I say slowly, “listen. I can do this. I’m a designer. No problem.”
I lift a glass container from the stack and set a fat white pillar candle in the center. Using an empty cardboard coffee cup, I scoop in enough sand to hold the candle in place. So far, so good. I drop in a few shells and arrange them evenly.
Angela comes up beside me and watches for a moment. “I’ll help you,” she offers.
Jenny looks torn between hope and guilt. “Oh Carrie… could you really do this? But, oh, the rehearsal dinner tomorrow and then the bachelorette party — your new boyfriend is here — it’s too much to ask…”
“Ryan will be fine. He can talk to some of the other O people. You go to the dinner. Angela’s going to help me.”
“I will, too,” Diane volunteers. “If you can show me what to do?”
“Thanks,” I smile at her gratefully. “With three of us, it won’t take long at all. Go on now, Jen, everyone will be looking for the bride.”
“I’ll check back in a little while,” she says. “You guys are the best friends ever! I don’t know how to thank you!”
“A bottle of wine would be a good start.” I wink at her. “And three glasses.”
“Coming right up.” She heads for the door, followed by her posse of female relatives.
I turn to my two assistants, who are already taking off their heels, getting into craft-project mode. “If you two can set the candles and fill in the sand, I’ll do the stones and shells. I think this raffia is to tie around the outside.”
Diane is unwrapping candles. “So, Carrie,” she asks curiously, “I didn’t know you were dating Ryan. Is that new?”
Could there actually be someone at O who hasn’t heard the whole gruesome story? Must be because Diane’s in accounting; they’re on a different floor of the building, separated from daily spa operations.
“Pretty new,” I answer cautiously. I have to make this story believable. “You know, when Jamey broke up with me, I was a wreck. Ryan was totally there for me. He held my hand, and he listened no matter how long I went on, and he let me cry on his shoulder. He did all these really nice things to try to cheer me up.”
So far, all true.
I look at Diane’s face. This woman, a strong and successful executive, is listening with rapt attention, like a little girl hearing a fairy tale.
Because it is a fairy tale.
“We were already friends, but then one day I just looked at him and realized that he’s the perfect guy for me.” Zeke’s script flashes in my brain. “I mean, I used to wonder sometimes what it would be like to, you know, be with him. But we were just good friends. I was dating Jamey. But then I wasn’t. Dating Jamey. Obviously.”
“Ryan is so handsome,” she sighs.
“He is,” I nod. “And he’s really smart, and funny. He makes me laugh, even when I’m in a bad mood.” This is also true. “He even braids my hair.”
“Wow,” Diane whispers. “It’s like it was meant to be. I wish somet
hing like this would happen to me.”
Ha. I wish something like this would happen to me, too.
“I always thought it would be incredible to date one of the O guys,” Angela comments. “You’d get professional massages for free, anytime! They know everything about a woman’s body. And just watching them dance, you can tell by the way they move that they’d be amazing in bed.”
She looks at me for confirmation.
“Right!” I agree, not quite meeting her eye. “Ryan is amazing... in bed… he, um, does this thing with his tongue...” Here I stop short. I’m on shaky ground. I have no idea what he might do with his tongue, besides talk, eat ice cream, and slurp Tom Yum soup.
Jamey didn’t even like to French kiss, never mind French-kissing anything below my waist.
Angela and Diane both sigh. So do I, but for a different reason.
And as if on cue for an O dance routine, Ryan appears in the door, with two bottles of wine tucked under one arm, a bottle of sparkling lemon water under the other, and four glasses in his hands. He’s wearing a navy jacket over a pale blue dress shirt, no tie. His light brown hair is brushed straight back and curls a little over his collar. Seeing him dressed like this, he looks different. He looks… manly is the only word for it.
What would he be like in bed? What lovely things might he do with his tongue?
We are all staring at him. He heads straight for me. “There’s my girl,” he says, setting the glasses down. I take the bottles from under his arm. “Working hard. Carrie makes every room more beautiful. Decorations not needed.”
His hands now free, he takes my face and gently, lingeringly, kisses my lips. His breath is warm and delicious. I wobble a little bit on my heels. Who needs wine with kisses like that? Diane and Angela watch intently.
Don’t overplay it! I think, opening my mouth to say precisely that, but then I just moan. Even syllables won’t form.
He grins.
“I don’t want to distract you ladies from your work,” he says, pulling a corkscrew from his pocket. He twists it into the cork, which slides out with a little pop, and he pours the wine. As he hands me my glass, he runs his other hand slowly down my back. “I just wanted to be sure you have everything you need.” His voice drops low on the word ‘everything.’
“Thanks,” I answer faintly. “We’re good. I’m good.”
“You sure are. ” He kisses me again, this time on my temple, his hand migrating down my waist, very publicly squeezing my ass. His palm is so warm. So big. Kinda rough.
Funny. I never knew how good a little rough could be.
And with that, smiling, he takes his glass and leaves.
Angela and Diane watch him go. Their mouths are open just a tiny bit.
So is mine.
As he heads out the door, Jenny is headed in. Ryan pauses and kisses her cheek, chats for a few seconds, then continues on his way.
“These look amazing!” she cries when she sees the assembled centerpieces. “You are amazing! Thank you so much!”
“It’s really not a big deal, Jen. We’re just assembling what’s already here. But at least you don’t have to worry about it now.”
“There’s a lot of worrying involved with a wedding,” she says ruefully. “I’ve never worried this much in my life! Will it rain? What if I forget to pack my shoes? What if my cousins who don’t speak get seated next to each other by accident?” She pauses. “What if my brother figures out he’s gay and breaks up with my dear friend a few weeks before they’re both in my wedding? Are you sure you’re okay?” She gives my hand a squeeze and smiles at me with a knowing look.
“Oh, well,” I laugh nervously, “that was kind of a surprise, but it turned out fine.” I suddenly become intensely interested in tying the perfect raffia bows around the glass containers.
Bows have meaning, you know? Tying the knot?
“Seems like it,” she says, watching me speculatively. “I just ran into Ryan on my way in. And Jamey and Kevin are around here somewhere. Maybe it did all work out for the best, but I have to say, it’s a little hard to get used to.”
“I guess it all happened pretty fast. For something that’s been coming for years.” I turn to her suddenly. “Jen, was it really a surprise to you? Did you know? About Jamey, I mean.”
She thinks. “Yes and no. Jamey was never the kid playing ice hockey or blowing up mailboxes with cherry bombs, but that doesn’t mean anything. And he always had a girlfriend around. And then you two were going out… didn’t you know?”
“No. Maybe. No.” I sigh. “I don’t know.”
“You and Jamey seemed like such a perfect match, but now I have to wonder if I just really wanted you to be part of the family forever. It was so convenient, my best friend and my brother.” Her brow wrinkles a little as she considers. “Maybe you were a perfect match for the rest of us.”
I put down the ribbon and the scissors I was holding. “You’re not losing me, you know! You think I’m going to give up your mom’s manicotti because of this?”
“Ryan’s a big change,” she observes. “The total opposite of Jamey.”
I burst out laughing. “I know, right? I don’t know what to expect next with Ryan!”
I don’t know what to expect next with Ryan.
Exactly.
RYAN
If this is pretend, then Carrie deserves an Oscar for best performance. That kiss was anything but pretend. The kiss back in the hotel room, too. Leaving her alone with Jenny and all the wedding details like that isn’t just me being a guy who doesn’t want to get embroiled in all the crazy details. Who cares about raffia ribbon or the correct ratio of lilies to hydrangeas?
I got out of there because I’m damn close to losing it and telling Carrie how I really feel.
Too close.
Practically running, I get to the stairwell and pound my way to the outside door, walking fast on the long deckwalks before hitting the beach, dress shoes be damned. Deep breaths, I tell myself. Breathe in ocean air to replace the carnal need. Salt air is a balm, right? Calms the nerves. I’m nothing but short circuits and overloaded transformers right now.
A live wire with a need to connect.
“Ryan?” A bikini-clad woman on a towel next to a guy sits up, covering her topless half with a towel. “Is that you?”
Redhead. Wide green eyes. Mole above her eyebrow. Wide smile. Oh, shit. She’s either a client at O or —
“You were at my bachelorette party two weeks ago!” She nudges the guy next to her, who turns over and glares at me. “Honey, this was the stripper!”
Master masseur. But I don’t bother to correct her.
“Hey,” the groom says with as much enthusiasm I would muster if my new wife were gawking at a stripper from her bachelorette party.
I mean master masseur.
“Hey,” I throw back.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, blushing. “Working?” Her eyebrows go up, hopeful.
“I’m here with my girlfriend at a friend’s wedding,” I offer, her eyebrows dropping, husband’s face splitting into a grin.
“Perfect place for a getaway, man” the guy says. “Beautiful weather, off-season rates, stellar food.” He grabs his wife – whose name escapes me – and kisses her neck. “Lots of privacy.”
His look tells me to fuck off.
The word girlfriend made my ex-client’s eyes glaze over. “Well, good to see you Ryan. Have fun.”
Fun. Right.
I wave and get the hell out of there. I don’t really exist unless a woman’s using me to get something. Being spotted by a client is unnerving, but I can handle it. It’s not like it happens every day. Besides, this is an Anterdec resort property, so I shouldn’t be surprised.
What does surprise me is Carrie. All the thick lines around our friendship have faded to wet streaks of grease pencil, smudged and smeared until the boundaries aren’t clear.
Is this all still fake? Was some of the kissing real? I grabbed her ass back ther
e for show, but also because I wanted to. It’s a highly grabbable ass.
The line between real and fake isn’t just blurred. It’s a giant skidmark.
Back up. Not the image I’m going for.
Carrie’s feeling it, right? These kisses and caresses go way beyond pretend. Have we reached a point where we’re pretending to pretend?
My phone buzzes. An actual call. It’s my Mom.
“Lenny’s Bail Bonds,” I say, resurrecting an old joke.
“I’m not sure if that’s a worse job than the one you have, sweetie,” she says with a laugh. It took me more than a year to admit to my family that I wasn’t an engineer anymore, hiding massage therapy school from them. Mom still doesn’t quite know how much my job at O involves walking around in various states of undress.
I plan to keep it that way. She’s pretty cool, but still.
“Bail bondsmen deal with money all day, Mom. I come into contact with fewer germs even when I touch people all day for a living.”
“Wires and circuits don’t have germs, Ryan.”
“Is this a lecture about going back to engineering?” She has no idea I’ve applied for grad school back home. Ellen and Tessa are keeping my secret, but for how long?
“No. I can do that anytime. This call is more specific. Dad really wants to see you.”
“Is something wrong?” Alarm floods my extremities, cortisol suddenly flowing through my brain like a dam spilling over, about to burst.
“No, actually,” she says softly. “He just keeps talking about you.”
“Is he there?”
“Golfing with Fred and the other guys from the firm. I wanted to talk to you separately. Is this a good time?”
“I’m at a wedding on Cape Cod.”
“A wedding? Whose?”
“An old co-worker’s.”
“Do you have a… date?”
“Mom,” I say with a sigh.
“Well? Do you?”
“I’m here with Carrie.”
“Carrie your friend?” Normally, the way she says friend makes my teeth ache. This time, though, it makes me smile.
“Yes. She needed a date, and I — ”
