by Amiee Smith
Lynn pinches pink salt into the pot. The quinoa is for her “assemble more than cook” recipe. I place the cut-up vegetables on a cookie sheet after tossing them with olive oil, salt and pepper.
I scan the list Lynn made for the menu:
Nick Hosts the Mafia Dinner Party
(aka Alex’s Sales Dinner for Michael Ahmed)
• Guest arrival time: 7:00
• Roasted Chicken- 2 whole; 8 chicken breasts (in the oven at 6:15)
• Roasted Vegetables- butternut squash, carrots, parsnips, potatoes (in oven at 6:45; use bottom oven)
• Quinoa Dish- cranberries, apricots, green onions, almonds and avocado (finish by 6:30; take out of the refrigerator 15 minutes before dinner; remember avocado slices, lemon juice & salt.)
• Arugula Salad w/ a Lemon Vinaigrette (Prepare the dressing before 7.)
• Select wines (Cabernets & Pinots)
• Set table
To my amazement, we managed to pull off a vegan-friendly dinner party in an hour.
“What’s next, captain?” Lynn asks, covering the quinoa and turning off the burner.
She has been a great sous chef. At first, she seemed flustered. Then she made the list and settled in, keeping us both on track.
“We just need to select some wines and set the table.”
Lynn winces as I say table. In the last hour, in between food prep, she OCD-cleaned my dining room table three times. (The table was perfectly clean.)
“Are you sure we can’t do a buffet? Let people sit and eat… wherever.”
I kiss her forehead. “No, love. My roasted chicken recipe deserves a table.”
We set the table with white plates, flatware and white linen napkins. This is the first time I’ve had this many people over for dinner, and I will admit (privately) I’m excited to host.
I choose bottles from the wine rack and hand them to Lynn. I had the cabinet custom-built into the island to accommodate my growing wine collection.
She’s fidgeting— running her fingers through her hair, and shifting from side to side.
“Please stop tripping. The table is fine.”
“Oh, I’m over that. I’m worried about my friends.”
“You don’t think they’ll like me IRL?”
I’ve spent a lot of time with the girls, but always in a party setting.
“No. They will love you. You’re incredible. I’m worried about you liking us.”
“What do you mean?”
“We really are a mafia, but without the crime. Though the jury is still out as to how Brit is able to afford her lifestyle.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”
CHAPTER 19:
LYNN SCOTT
“This house is immaculate. Did Nick remodel it himself?” Dana asks, pouring more wine.
“He designed it. He did some of the work himself, and hired help for the rest,” I say.
The girls and I are in the backyard, sitting on the sectional. I’m mentally calling it the “sextional.” I could be embarrassed, but I have a feeling Nick and I will eventually have sex all over this house. Except for the kitchen— though our food prep make-out sesh was almost orgasmic. My lips, still swollen from the dirty flirty kisses we exchanged before everyone arrived.
The Mafia is doing what we do best: drinking and running our mouths. Nick, Alex, Jon, and Carlos are upstairs. Michael has yet to show up. Before we came out back, Alex kept ogling the door, like a puppy waiting for its master.
“Now I know why you didn’t leave. The house and its handsome owner,” Claire says.
Claire is in a yellow blazer, jeans, white silk camisole, and red heels. Her French-manicured nails are wrapped around her wine glass. It’s the most relaxed I’ve seen her since beginning her campaign for chair of a local political org. Heck, lounging on the sextional, she’s almost chill. Born in North Africa, Claire’s features are dark and exotic, but she acts more like her adoptive conservative white grandmother.
“Yes. Nick is very… handsome,” I say.
“So, what’s going on between you two?” Jen asks.
Jen is sitting next to me, wearing black skinny jeans, a champagne short sleeve blouse, black heels, and her vibrant ginger hair holds a loose curl at her shoulders. Only a few inches taller than me, she too has D-sized boobies, but she refers to hers as “the best investment I ever made.”
Jen puffs on a 24-karat gold joint Dana brought and passes it to me. It was a gift from one of her clients. Since I’m still buzzed from the wine-n-weed bath earlier, and don’t know what strains are in it, I pass it along to Brit.
“We’re together. I’m staying the week, and we’ll figure it out from there,” I say.
“But when did this happen?” Jen asks.
“CliffsNotes version: We hooked up on Friday. Went on a dinner date on Saturday. Danced at the Pasadena Club on Sunday. And he asked me to be his girlfriend this afternoon.”
I’m trying to be chill, but I know what’s coming.
“That’s really fast, honey. Have you thought it through?” Dana asks, receiving the joint from Brit.
She’s all-powerful in her navy pencil dress, matching blazer, and nude-colored heels. Her thick, dark hair is cut in a shoulder length bob, and her deep bronze skin reveals her Mexican heritage. Tall and lean, she is the most fit of all of us. Dana spends two hours a day with her personal trainer, six days a week. We often joke she’s either working or at the gym.
Brit jumps into the convo, “They surprisingly have a lot in common. Lynn has found her match. Last night was the first time I haven’t seen Lynn flirt her ass off with a guy she’s into.”
“What?! That’s your thing. Blitzing dudes with sexual innuendos and cleavage. I’m kind of jealous of how good you are at it,” Jen says, winking at me.
“Thank you, honey. I love flirting,” I say.
Flirting is my favorite hobby. Maybe it’s because of my short attention span, or I really am a horny girl, but I love playing in the field of attraction with a guy— exchanging feel good, sensual energy. Yes, it does sometimes lead to sex. But more so, I get off on the playful conversation, the delicate arm touches, and the lightheartedness of expressing my sexuality through my words and facial expressions.
One thing is for sure, I don’t flirt with Nick. I can’t. He’s too real. Everything I say or do with him… meaningful. Special.
“It’s different with Nick,” I blurt out.
“Oh, my word, Lynn Scott. You like him,” Claire says.
Fighting a smile, I nod and shrug my shoulders.
“She totally does. Alex thinks you’re great for Nick. Except for the Michael Ahmed situation. Alex is afraid he’s going to bounce on the development deal if he finds out you and Nick are together, killing his chance to bring Michael on as a client,” Brit says.
Her voice drips with concern, but I’m not sure it’s for my budding relationship. I want to inquire, but Dana cuts in.
“Michael Ahmed? How is that douche in this situation? Ugh, a couple of years ago I sat through at least five meetings with him when he was trying to be an executive producer for films. He’s a waste of flesh and money,” Dana says.
(I love Dana.)
I share the details of what occurred last night and today with Michael.
“OMG, honey. I’m so sorry you had to go through that. I know you hate to be interrupted during your writing time,” Jen says.
“What does Nick think about it all?” Claire asks.
“Oddly, I think all this drama with Michael led him to ask me to go steady.”
“A little competition has a way of lighting a fire under dudes,” Jen says.
“Yeah. Nick is really competitive,” I mutter.
Oh, no. What if Nick doesn’t really want to be with me, but doesn’t want to lose me to anyone else? Particularly Michael. I resist the impulse to go upstairs and ask him. Nick would tell me the truth. And tonight... he’s truthfully into me.
“Yeah, but Nick isn’
t a fool. He wouldn’t risk the deal if he wasn’t into you,” Brit says, echoing my thoughts.
“Will you move back to L.A.?” Dana asks.
“She’s gonna have to move. Nick spent a year renovating this place,” Jen shares.
“Yeah, but Lynn spent months hunting for her place in the City. She’s only been there two years. It’s not enough time to see a significant return on her investment,” Claire says.
Though I will not share it with the girls, I won’t move back to L.A. This area has a way of weighing me down. After undergoing my physical and professional transformation, I’m not ready to descend. Even for gorgeous, generous, mind-blowing Nick Willingham.
“Lovely Lynn Scott. I knew it was you the moment I looked down from the windows,” Michael calls to me.
He exits the French doors with Alex, Carlos, and Jon. Nick looms in the rear, carrying another bottle of wine. I can’t stop staring at my superstar. He’s sporting designer gray jeans, a periwinkle button-up, and gray suede ankle boots.
Between his big dark hair, the hazel green eyes, the five-o’clock shadow, and his real-man scent, it took all my energy to focus on making the uniform knife cuts he required as we prepped dinner. It should be a law, horny women with an attention disorder should not be forced to use a knife in the presence of a man so beautiful the angels bow in his company.
Michael approaches us wearing designer jeans, a tucked-in crisp white dress shirt, and brown leather loafers, with a wine glass in hand. Each piece is tailored to perfection and reminds me of something Nick would wear. He’s attractive, with amber eyes, dark, voluminous, brushed-up hair and trimmed, stubble beard. Though Michael’s radiance pales in comparison to my superstar. So yeah, I like Nick.
“Hey, Michael. I hear you’ve been trying to reach me,” I say.
Not getting up, I allow him to kiss my cheeks.
Michael flashes a piercing white grin, “Yes, I had my assistant on the search. Turns out, all I needed to do was meet up with Alex. He really does meet his clients’ needs.”
Oh, hell no. Michael caused so much trouble today, and he didn’t make a single call himself. Freakin’ billionaire. I dig deep, pasting a smile on my face as fake (and as attractive) as Jen’s boobs.
“Michael, these are my friends. Brit Palmer. Claire White. Jen Manning. And you know Dana Sandoval,” I say.
The girls give him a collective “hey” combined with their own unique versions of a snake eye. Totally Mafia. If Michael Ahmed oversteps, he may not get out alive. Jen and Dana have Tasers in their oversized purses (J/K).
The guys settle in around us. Nick sits last, opting to sit in the space between where I’m sitting and the corner of the sextional. He’s all up in my personal space… and I love it! I curl my legs into him, resting my hand on his muscular thigh.
“Ahhh,” The Mafia coos.
They break from their watchdog duties to toast us. This is the first time they’ve seen me with a guy. Well, a guy I really like.
“Brit, you were so right. Lynn has found her match,” Jen whispers.
Michael misses the entire moment because he’s typing on his phone.
• • •
Dinner becomes the Nick Inquisition. A total superstar, he shines. Masterfully answering each question fired his way.
“What do you do for a living, Nick?” Claire asks.
“I’m in construction. Residential. Though I’ve been doing more design as of late,” Nick says, cutting into a piece of thigh meat.
“Michael just selected my brother’s design for a condo development. When you work with me, it’s a family affair,” Alex says, in the direction of Carlos.
Bless his heart. Alex still thinks this is a sales dinner. He doesn’t realize the Mafia has taken over. We’re liquored up and ready to run the world, or at least this table.
“New construction or remodels?” Dana asks.
“Both. I prefer remodels. Modernizing interiors and updating exteriors,” Nick says.
“Oooh. You can advise Lynn on the remodel of her rental unit when her tenant moves out,” Claire says.
The first of us to buy her own place, Claire was my real estate guru when I was purchasing my duplex. She encouraged me to start a separate savings account in anticipation for the remodel.
“You live on Haight between Market and Gough, right?” Michael interjects.
“Yes.”
I guess he paid enough attention today to know where his assistant sent flowers and donuts.
“I was trying to buy your duplex, actually I was trying to buy the block. This crazy lady kept increasing her offer at two o’clock in the morning. In my opinion, she overpaid,” Michael says, smiling.
My friends laugh. Like, full-on belly laugh.
I was that crazy lady.
It was a crazy time in my life. My last year at Google, I had just signed my book deal. I was doing the revision to “Lowlight” and writing another manuscript at the same time. I had asked to work from home for a week. I’d write instructions for a Google video conferencing application, take my dinner break, and craft and edit my stories late into the night.
At like, midnight, I’d hit my vape pen and get really high. (Ah, I don’t use concentrates nearly as much as I used to. I miss them.) At around one in the morning, I’d click through the pictures of my duplex online, and send my agent an email increasing my offer. I only slept four hours a night because I was so excited to buy my own place. The purchase took a hacksaw to my savings, but it was worth it.
“It was listed at 1.1 million, Michael. I got it at 1.2. It comped out at 1.6, so I’m really happy with my purchase price,” I say, meeting his attractive gaze.
If it were B.N. (before Nick) and I hadn’t spent the day cursing him, I might be flirting with Michael— pursing my lips and leaning over the table so my cleavage is in full sight. But tonight, my low-cut top makes me want to snuggle up to Nick sitting next to me.
“I’m not criticizing you, babe. But you bought like a homeowner, not an investor,” Michael says.
He’s right. I didn’t plan to buy an investment property. After months of looking at condos, I saw the duplex in my desired neighborhood with a completely remodeled top unit and went for it.
Nick engages me in a side conversation as if I’m the only person in the room. It’s as if we’re in a bubble.
“Your place is worth 1.6? Mine is maybe at a million, fully renovated,” he whispers.
“Yeah, but your house is not in San Francisco. This would easily go for 3.5 in my neighborhood,” I whisper back.
“Easily,” Michael Ahmed says, popping our bubble. “You haven’t been writing very long. Your publisher only has three books listed for you.”
“I’ve only released three books through my publisher, and the last book in the series is in edits now. I self-published eleven books before that,” I say.
Clearly, Michael did not visit my website. If he really wanted to win me over, he should have done his own homework. Like Nick did. I want my Patagonia jacket, zipped to my neck.
“Lynn, I never considered you’ve written three books a year for the last five years. It explains why you’re always working,” Claire says.
“I love writing. I give it a lot of bandwidth in my life. I work everything around it,” I say.
“Nick, how will you deal with Lynn’s writing schedule?” Jen asks.
She’s my greatest creative ally. She gave up the socialization that comes with being a college coed to pursue her art, and received two Emmy nominations for her efforts.
“I can’t compete with writing. Then there are you girls, San Francisco, and her parents. And one day, if I earn a spot in her heart among that group, I’ll be in good company. It will be one of the greatest victories of my life,” Nick says.
His words are sincere. Transparent. Perfect.
The table falls silent.
I wish we were alone.
“I do too,” Nick whispers.
“How are you two g
oing to handle the distance? Long-distance relationships have a fifty percent success rate,” Dana asks.
“That’s all relationships,” Jon interjects.
Jon is a blond-haired, blue-eyed, six-foot tall, Pasadena bro. He played water polo with Nick in high school.
“And with L.A. traffic, unless the person you’re dating lives next door, all relationships are long distance,” Carlos says.
Carlos has remained quiet for most of the night. He’s a creative, so maybe he’s assessing the room for inspiration? Carlos also played water polo in high school. Second to Nick, he’s the hottest man I’ve ever seen in person.
“The same is true for friendships. I have the luxury of leaving the flower shop early to meet up with you guys because I’m the boss, but I definitely have to plan for it since I live 30 miles away,” Claire says.
“30 miles isn’t the same as 382 miles,” Jen says.
“You’re right, Jen. But I’m willing to do whatever it takes,” Nick states.
“That’s the way we Willinghams operate. We’ll do whatever it takes,” Alex says.
I’m not sure if it’s a part of his pitch, or simply a fact. For a millisecond, Alex gives Brit the Willingham intense-stare. She’s too busy eating and talking to notice.
“I’ve got a question for you, Nick. When Lynn does leave her writing cave, she wants to have fun. Are you fun?” Brit asks.
“I—” Nick tries to respond, but I interrupt.
“He’s remarkably fun,” I say.
“Because you’re sleeping with him,” Dana whispers.
She’s sitting on the other side of me munching on a plate of greens and chicken.
I do enjoy being naked with him.
I hear snickering as I disappear into my imagination. Where Nick is on top, adoring my tight nipples with his tongue and teeth. Stay present. I cross my legs and sip my water. Stay present. I return to my Mafia handling business. Tonight, they are setting a trap for an elephant.
“We need to address the big-haired elephant in the room. How are you two going to work together when you’re clearly into the same girl?” Jen asks after sipping her wine.
