by Amiee Smith
I briefly put Nick on speaker. Opening the Alexa app on my phone, I shuffle Chet Faker. Wishful thinking.
“Blue Dream? That’s a new addition to your stash,” I say, returning the phone to my ear.
“It’s my friend’s favorite. His wife made us dinner.”
“Are they Pasadena folk?”
“No. You’ll meet them… soon.”
“I’m a fan of stoner couples, so I look forward to it.”
Nick laughs again. I hear him moving.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“Upstairs. To bed.”
He must have been in his backyard. The image of him lounging on the sextional elicits pulses of arousal throughout my core.
“Can I come?”
“Yes. I was hoping it would be one of those calls,” Nick says.
“You wouldn’t tease a woman who went from having hot sex every day with an even hotter man to kickin’ it with her, while well-made and expensive, vibrator?”
More chuckles from Nick. I appreciate that he gets my smutty humor.
“What are you wearing?” Nick asks.
The most classic question to start “one of those calls.”
“My writer’s uniform. Yoga pants, a Sleater-Kinney T-shirt, bra, panties. You?”
“A John Varvatos dark blue dress shirt and BOSS charcoal trousers.”
“Oh, baby, I love it when you talk designer fashion,” I coo.
Part joke. More sex.
Nick laughs.
“Togliti i vestiti.”
My heart jumps into my throat.
“What was that?”
“Take off your clothes… in Italian.”
I rise from the sofa and hurry down the long hall to my bedroom. The room is illuminated by the shining crown on my bedframe.
“Really, Nick? You waited almost a week into our relationship to tell me you speak Italian,” I tease.
I remove my pants, underwear and twist out of my bra, letting my clothes fall to the floor. I push open the curtains encasing my bed and lie in the center. It’s unmade, so I easily find a cozy spot between the comforter and the sheet.
“I’m fairly fluent. I grew up speaking it with my mom and aunt. I took Italian in high school and college.”
“I’m good with my mouth, but not that good,” I say.
Another chuckle from Nick. I mentally create a new hashtag: #HotGuyLaughing. His laughter is an aphrodisiac and I want to do crazy things. Like hop on a plane to L.A., so I can strip naked in front of him and drop to my knees with my mouth wide open. I’m so grateful that I can be the smuttiest, horniest version of myself with him without any fear of judgement.
“Lynn, are you naked?”
“Almost. Just my shirt, but I need to put the phone down. Are you naked?”
“I am.”
“Are you in bed?”
“Yes.”
“I miss your bed.”
“I’d rather be in bed with you,” Nick says.
“What would you do… if you were here?”
“Suck your nipples. And I wouldn’t stop because you’re bumping and grinding for my dick. I’d stop when I’ve had enough and I’m ready to fuck you.”
My breath catches. I use my free hand to caress and pinch each of my nipples, instinctively lifting my hips. A moan escaping my mouth.
“I’m so wet. For you.”
“I know, love. Shirt off. I want to imagine you completely naked.”
I put the phone on my fluffy pillow and lift my shirt over my head. The minute the cool air of my bedroom hits my nipples, I’m on fire.
“I want to run my nipples over the tip of your cock,” I say, picking up the phone.
Nick gasps. The sound is music to my smutty soul.
“Touch your pussy, Lynn. With your hand. No toys.”
Of course, Nick is not going to let me have an easy-bake orgasm. Tonight, we’re starting from scratch. My middle fingers circle the spot over my clit.
“Nick, I want you inside of me.”
I can’t shortcut my way to orgasm with a toy, but I definitely can move this call along.
I want to come. Only for him. Forever.
“I want you to come for me. Forever. Use three fingers, Lynn.”
I do as I’m told and arch into my hand, whimpering and moaning with each curl and extension of my fingers. The walls of my pussy tighten, my orgasm approaching.
I want Nick to be as close as I am.
“If I were there, I would let you bend me over your sofa or bed or desk in your office and beg you to slide your big hard dick into my dripping wet pussy. Again and again. Until you’re ready to come all over my tits.”
“Fuck, Lynn.”
“Yes, please. Soon.”
“Horny Girl, is this what long distance would be like with you? Night after night, you throw the kitchen sink of fuckery at me until I cave and move because I can’t stand being away from you?”
“Too much?”
“No, love. It’s perfect. You keep me alert and on my game.”
“Oh, Nick. I want you. So much.”
Nick rattles off a string of words in Italian. Each inflection is a flick over my most sensitive parts and fills my heart with all things divine and magical. This is so very good.
“Nick, I’m so close.”
“Me too. Come for me, Lynn. Only me.”
I increase my speed, rubbing my clit each time I push in and out of my pussy. It’s been so long since I’ve gone manual, the first wave of my orgasm catches me by surprise.
“Sei così bello, my love.”
I cry out, letting my climax disrupt my thinking and shooting my mind to some distant galaxy. My body contracts again and again. Nick is so quiet on the other end of the phone, I only hear rapid inhaling and exhaling. Chet Faker’s “Gold” coos in the living room.
My breathing returns to normal.
“So wonderful. Thank you,” I say.
“Any time.”
“Nick it’s so late… you need to sleep.”
“I will. You need to eat, Lynn.”
“I definitely will. Sleep well.”
“You too.”
CHAPTER 32:
NICK WILLINGHAM
I check the time on my phone again. It’s 5:18 p.m.
I’m sitting in the conference room of Johnson Architects. My dad’s face is on the screen mounted to the wall across the room. We are video chatting on a Google application for businesses. Maybe Lynn wrote the instructions for the app?
We’re four hours into a debate on what the company name should be post-merger. While I was initially worried, after our meetings yesterday I knew my dad would agree. He loves the money and prestige of owning one of the top five construction companies in L.A. Joining forces with a financially healthy, equally as prestigious architecture firm in the Bay Area would extend his influence throughout the state.
I want to text Lynn about going out tonight, but I don’t know when I’ll get out of here. She plans her weekends in advance. Reaching out to her now would be disrespectful to her… and whomever she’s committed to spending her evening with. I hope she’s not with some dude. I wish I had mentioned the merger to her last night, but it wasn’t the time. I want to tell her in person.
“What about W & J Build and Design?” Greta says off camera.
She’s taking the minutes for our meeting.
“Sounds good to me,” Paul says.
He’s ready to go home to his lady. Paul has checked his phone three times in the last five minutes. Besides, the name doesn’t really matter. We’re both going to hustle to make this merger a success.
“Name recognition matters in our field. How will people know it’s us?” his dad, Samuel Johnson asks from the end seat at the conference room table.
“Dad, we are going to send out a press release. All of our clients will receive notification of the merger,” Paul says.
“What about Willingham and Johnson?” I suggest.
“Excellent. Let’s go with it,” Paul says.
I peer at the screen; my dad writes something down. I hold my breath, hoping he doesn’t come up with another objection. Getting on the same page with him and Sam has been more of a challenge than the thirty-page proposal Paul and I worked on a few nights ago. I understand. These men gave everything to building successful companies. Even though a merger makes them twice as strong and ensures their legacies will live on, it’s still a big transition.
“I think we should vote on it,” my dad says.
With the merger, I not only tripled my salary with profit-sharing, but I became a voting partner. Marie was right. This move is proving to be the breakthrough I needed.
“All in favor?” Greta asks, her round face and dyed burgundy hair now visible on the screen.
“Aye.”
We agree.
“It’s settled. I’ll have our admin draft the press release and we’ll inform the teams on Monday. Greta, please schedule a meeting with the attorney for Tuesday afternoon,” Paul says, gathering the papers in front of him.
“Will do. I can draft the press release as well,” Greta says.
“Why don’t you collaborate with Alexis?” I suggest.
“Good idea,” Paul says.
I look forward to working with Paul every day. Smart. Laid-back. Hard worker. After-hours stoner. We’ll be a great team.
Paul, Sam, and I rise from the conference table.
“I want to speak to you, Nick,” my dad says.
“Have a good weekend everyone,” Paul says.
He and his dad shake my hand and wave at the screen before leaving the conference room.
“Good night, Greta,” I call out.
“Good night, Nicky, my boy. Congratulations.”
I hear the door close on his side of the screen.
“What’s up, Dad?”
“Son, I’m very impressed. This merger is the exact direction the company needs right now. I thought it was a matter of time before you moved on after you passed your license exams. I’m excited to work alongside of you until I retire, which is now a possibility.”
Paul was right. My dad wanted me to take some initiative. Not only for his future, but for my own.
“Thank you, Dad.”
My throat tightens with an emotion not normally shown among Willingham men.
“When will you be back in L.A.?”
“Monday. I’m going to meet the team here and we have a video conference scheduled for the executive meeting. I’ll fly out afterwards.”
“Very good. Your mom and I hope to spend some time with you here in Pasadena before you relocate. I’ll be in the Bay Area the week after next to meet the team. I would like the opportunity to get to know…ah… Lynn,” he says.
Last night, after I got back from Paul’s house in Berkeley and before calling Lynn, I spoke with my parents about my relationship with her. It was the right thing to do, though I would have supported a merger if I’d thought of it sooner.
Surprisingly, they weren’t too alarmed by it and only cautioned me to take my time to get to know her before moving in together. I made it very clear Lynn is in no rush to give up her place or have me live with her.
“Lynn is back to work on Monday. Her schedule can be a little unpredictable during the week. I’ll discuss it with her.”
“Please do. I’ll sign off now. Your mom and I have a reservation at Skye in an hour. Tomorrow is Monte Carlo Night at the Club. Wish you could join us. Talk soon, son.”
“Good night,” I say.
I’ve had dinner at least once a week at Skye or the Club with my parents for the last ten years. A chapter of my life, now over. I gather my notes and walk to my new workspace. In L.A., I have an office with a window overlooking Colorado Boulevard. Now I have a desk next to Paul’s in an open area and I couldn’t be happier. I’m ready for change.
I unlock my desk drawer and place the papers and pad inside before leaving the now mostly empty office. Michael has a dinner meeting and I don’t want to impose on Lynn’s night, so I’m not sure what to do this evening. I usually spend Friday nights at a J + J organized event or on a date. Since neither of those are an option, I’m feeling a little out of body.
I walk down Shattuck Avenue toward the Downtown Berkeley Bart Station and stop into an independent bookstore. I haven’t read an actual book since college. Even in grad school, our textbooks were digital. As I stroll through the bookstore, my plans take shape. I’ll buy a book and have dinner at Vine in the City. I’ll be the guy eating dinner alone and reading a real book on a Friday night. I smile. Being a jock, a popular kid, and the hot guy, as Lynn would say… I’ve never been that guy. I welcome the departure.
I peruse the biography section and the architecture and design shelf. Nothing jumps out at me. A display near the check stand seizes my attention: “Bay Area Writers.” Since I’ll be a resident soon, I scan the books on display. On the bottom row, a hardback copy of “BreakerFall.” The black cover and red title letters with Lynn’s name in white call to me, and the next thing I know, I’m at the counter checking out. This book will be the perfect dinner companion.
“Is this a gift for your girlfriend… or your mom?” asks the young gothic chick with a dozen piercings.
“Ah…no. I’m going to read it,” I say, pulling out my wallet.
“You’re really progressive, man. I’m not usually into romance, but this one is really good.”
I hand her my debit card.
“The author is my girlfriend,” I say before I can stop myself.
“Lynn Scott? Really? I follow her on Facebook. Tell her she has lots of fans in Berkeley.”
“Will do,” I say, smiling as I sign the receipt.
I enter the Bart Station and buy a ticket. After a twenty-minute wait, I board the train and head into the City. I read the first chapter of “BreakerFall” and I’m hooked. Her words draw me in like a lover’s embrace.
I get off the train at Civic Center and walk the half mile to Vine in the heart of Hayes Valley. When I started consulting on projects for Paul, I fell in culinary lust with their French and Northern Italian cuisine. It is my absolute favorite restaurant. Typically, you need a reservation. It’s a little after 6:30, hopefully I can get a spot at the bar. Wine, a good meal, and Lynn’s book is a great way to spend a Friday night.
CHAPTER 33:
LYNN SCOTT
It’s Friday night and I have no plans. I always have something on my calendar for Friday night. Always. I could drop a text and link up with one of my SF friends, but I’d end up at a happy hour— flirting. Even casual flirting seems wrong until Nick and I figure out what’s going on between us. After reviewing my “Act Like I’m on Vacation” List, I decide to have dinner at the bar at Vine.
(I wish Nick and I were meeting for dinner.)
Even if I can’t spend tonight playing in the field of attraction, I still want to look nice. I flat iron my hair— parting it down the middle and leaving it straight. I apply makeup— foundation, powder, mascara, eyeliner, a dust of blush, and a rose-colored lip gloss. I get dressed— dark blue skinny jeans, a black form-fitting peplum top (the last Raquel pick to be worn), flat black ankle boots (my favorite night-out in the City shoes) and a white leather jacket.
It’s exciting to fix up and go out. Other than my run this morning, I’ve been inside all day. I spent the afternoon in yoga pants, curled up on a sofa at a café, reading a tattered copy of Julie Garwood’s “Castles” for the hundredth time. I admire my appearance in the mirror. Both edgy and feminine, it’s totally a San Francisco outfit.
(I wish Nick could see City girl me tonight.)
I pack my bright pink Coach crossbody with all the necessities and leave for dinner. The ten-minute walk to the restaurant is refreshing. The weather is mild and there is no wind, the sun fading in the distance. I mentally plot my night: I’ll have dinner, return home to wine-n-weed, and then try to get a rise out of Nick with some smutty text messa
ges. Ah… but he’s probably out. Guys like him always have plans on a Friday night.
(I wish Nick had plans with me.)
I enter the restaurant.
“Hi, Lynn. Long time.”
Julie, the Asian hipster hostess, greets me. She lives in the neighborhood. I often see her walking with her white Pomeranian in hand. Before going vegan, I ate at this restaurant at least three times a week. Now, since I’m limited to the chef’s choice vegan dish, I only stop in once every few weeks.
“Hey Julie. Is there room at the bar?” I ask.
“I think so. If not, since you’re my favorite diner, I can have a table ready for you in twenty.”
Moving out of the entry way, I scan the crowded expansive, mahogany bar for a seat.
(I wish I may, I wish I might.)
My body buzzes before my eyes find him. Gorgeous and impeccably dressed in a crisp, light blue button-up shirt, navy chinos, tan leather Oxford shoes, and matching leather belt. All I can see is Nick’s profile. His muscular arms and shoulders and big hair, hunched over. He’s reading. Not a tablet, but a real book. A glass of red wine sits in front of him. Totally a pic and hashtag moment. As luck would have it, there is one seat open next to him.
“Is this seat taken?” I ask.
“No.”
He passes a quick glance and returns to reading before registering who I am.
“Lynn.”
I slide onto the barstool, crossing my legs.
“Hey,” I say, my voice like honey-butter melting over a warm biscuit.
“I thought you would be out tonight,” he says, folding the corner of the page and closing the book.
My chest swells with gladness— he’s reading my book. On a Friday night. At a bar.
“I am,” I say, smiling.
Nick looks me up and down.
“Are you meeting someone?” he asks.
I don’t get a chance to answer.
“What can I get you, Lynn? We have Lucky Star Vineyard’s Pinot Noir 2011 by the glass tonight.”
“Wonderful, Troy. I’ll have that.”
“Bring the bottle,” Nick says, his brilliant eyes never leaving me.
“Nick, it’s a $350 bottle of wine,” I whisper.
