The Real Heat

by Aurora, Lexi

  "Hey, you," he answered lamely, not returning the kiss. She pulled back and narrowed her eyes at him, her hands now on her hips. She was hot, there was no denying it, but he didn't think she made the same impression as the last time. He didn't think it was because he was hungover instead of drunk this time, either. His mind catapulted back to last night, back to Liza shimmying out of her silk dress and letting it fall to the floor. She was nowhere near as lean as the hostess, and in Wesley's book, that was a very good thing. Come to think of it, he didn't see how he could go back to anything less voluptuous than Liza in the future. He honestly didn't see himself wanting anything less.

  “Um, Wesley?” the hostess insisted, her eyes even narrower and her cheeks infused with two bright spots of color.

  “Yes?” he answered, wishing profoundly that he didn’t sound so fucking pathetic and unsure.

  “You don’t remember my name, do you?” she asked, the question sounding more like a statement.

  "Sure I do," he said with false confidence, "it's Margrette, right?" He held his breath, watching her face closely. By throwing the name out, he was going for broke, putting all of his cards on the table. It didn't take a genius to see that it was a miss.

  "No, actually, it's not. It's Melody," she answered coldly. He had no doubt that she would have slapped him in the face if they weren't standing in the foyer of her place of work. If it had been a less prestigious place, say a Denny's for instance, she might have changed it and done it anyway. Instead, there was the look, and in his current state, Wesley was grateful. He could only handle one difficult woman in a day, and his dance card for that position was all filled up.

  “Shit, I’m sorry. I’ve got a hell of a memory,” he apologized, running a hand through his hair.

  "Are you meeting someone?" she asked, the icy stare apparently permanently fused on her face. Her mood for flirtatious chit-chat had come and gone. Wesley wasn't sorry to see it go.

  “Yes, my mother,” he said, smiling as sunnily as he could manage.

  "Fine, okay, I think I know exactly who you're here for," she said briskly. She turned and started towards the dining room quickly, but not before he saw the change on her face. She still wasn't thrilled about him forgetting her name but knowing he was there to see his mom went a long way towards smoothing things over. It was good, he guessed, but it didn't do anything to improve his own mood. When he caught his first glimpse of his mom, he understood that his mood wasn't going any direction but down.

  “Wesley! Wesley, have you any idea how long I've been waiting? I've already been through most of my first glass of wine!" she cried admonishingly. Melony, not Margrette, flounced off back towards the safety of her hostess stand, and Wesley got the idea that she was pleased to be done with the both of them. He sighed and sank into his chair. All he wanted was some time to soak up the air conditioning, a little bit of peace, and maybe a bourbon. The last two not necessarily in that order. What he got instead was the full weight of his mother's attention, which was no small thing. He held out for as long as he could without making eye contact. It was a game he had been playing with himself since he was a little boy. Even as an adult, he hadn't gotten much better. She was the kind of woman who demanded what she wanted in a way that was virtually impossible to ignore. At the moment, what she wanted was her younger son's attention.

  "Wesley," she barked, punctuating the point. He looked up, another game of chicken lost. Mother looked like she had recently come from the beauty salon, her hair the rich blonde it had been for as long as he could remember. It looked like she was keeping her plastic surgeon in business, too, with Botox at the very least and possibly a facelift as well. She was wearing one of her beloved Chanel suits and tapping her perfectly manicured nails on the glass table. She had that look on her face that said she was waiting for him to confess to something. As was so often the case, he had no idea what that something might be.

  "Hey, Mom, I'm sorry. I got held up at-" he started lamely. He knew she would cut him off before she even opened her mouth. It was what she was likely to do when she was in a mood, and her sparring partner shared any sign of weakness.

  “Please, Wesley, spare me. I really don’t want to hear one of your patented excuses. I believe I’ve heard them all and not one of them impresses,” she said, her tone conveying both boredom and disappointment. He shrugged his shoulders and took a sip of his water, more to buy himself some time than anything else. He was grateful when their waitress showed up, bright-eyed and eager to serve. He smiled at her, ignoring his mom’s pronounced roll of the eyes.

  “Hello, sir!” she chirped, “May I take your drink order?”

  "Yes, as a matter of fact, you can. Why don't you bring me an old-fashioned, darling? I'm feeling nostalgic today," he asked charmingly. She laughed and blushed, then turned quickly towards the bar. She failed to notice Mrs. Baker's almost empty glass of Chardonnay in the process, which earned another eye roll.

  “Really, why do girls like her get hired at places like this?” she said disgustedly.

  “Mom, come on. I think she’s nice,” he admonished gently.

  "Of course you do, you would. I think she belongs at an IHOP," his mom sneered. Wesley cleared his throat and wished his drink would hurry up. He loved his mother, but he hated the rampant elitism more than almost anything. It was one of many reasons for his avoiding family time, which his mother well knew. Instead of trying to keep it at a minimum, though, she seemed to enjoy throwing it in his face.

  “So, Mom, how’ve you been?” he asked, hoping to navigate the conversation into less troubled waters.

  "Oh, Wesley, you know how things are. There's always so much to do and so very little time to do it in," she answered woefully. Mrs. Baker hadn't worked for a day in her life, so far as Wesley knew. Her family had come from the kind of money most people couldn't conceive of. With no siblings, she had inherited it all when her parents died, early and of the type of complications that only came with a life of true decadence. Wesley's father came from money as well and had used it to catapult himself into genuine business stardom. Currently, the Baker family was well out of the range of millionaire and deep into the billions category. It was something he didn't like to think about, as grateful as he was for his early opportunities. He had a hard time associating himself with the kind of lifestyle he'd grown up with, the one his family of origin still led. More to the point, they had a hard time coming to terms with the kind of life he'd chosen for himself. When his parents had discovered his intentions to become a television personality, his mom had shit a brick, and she hadn't let up about it since. It was a typical topic of conversation at their little lunches, that, and how wonderfully his brother, Charles, was doing. Wesley winced just thinking about it and nodded at the waitress gratefully when she set down his drink. He might have told her that she was the best thing he'd seen in his life, but his mother already had the poor chick's attention. She didn't even bother speaking. She just picked up her glass and waved it in her face.

  "What is it? What's got you so stretched for time?" he asked. The question was meant innocently enough, but he could see her defenses go up immediately.

  “Oh, I suppose our little lives don’t amount to much, do they? Not when they’re stacked up against your illustrious career as a reality tv personality,” she said caustically.

  “Come on, that’s not what I meant. I’m genuinely interested.”

  “Well, if you must know, your brother is coming into town. He’s bringing his fiancée, isn’t that lovely? She’s just so wonderful,” Mrs. Baker trilled, more pleased than she ever sounded when talking about him.

  "Sure, fantastic," he said dryly. He was happy for Charles, honestly, but the constant comparison to the golden boy was way past old.

  "Please, don't act jealous, Wesley," his mother chided, "it's so terribly unattractive. You could have the same thing, you know, if you would just make an honorable woman of that girl. What's her name again?"

  “Megan. Her na
me is Megan, and you hated her,” he answered mildly. It wasn’t a sore spot so much as a source of amusement. The one time his mom and Megan had met, both women had come away using some of the foulest language he’d ever heard coming out of a female’s mouth. Saying there was no love lost between the two of them was an understatement.

  “Please, don’t be so vulgar,” she gasped, by all evidence mortally offended. “I don’t have anyone, and certainly not that girl. Perhaps you should bring her around to the house again. You can come when Charles brings his girl. Wouldn’t that be so nice?”

  “It might be, except that Megan and I are quits,” he said it quietly and waited for the other foot to fall. As was usually the case, his mom didn’t disappoint.

  “Oh, for the love of God, again? Please, tell me you’re joking,” she cried.

  “Nope, not joking. You should be glad; I don’t think she was exactly everything you’ve been hoping for in a daughter-in-law.”

  “But you don’t know that,” she insisted, “you can’t possibly. Give me one reason why.”

  "Let's just say she wasn't exactly a Wellesley girl and leave it at that, shall we?" he said with a wry smile.

  "Fine, make everything a joke, then. Laugh all the way into your old age. You might as well; you won't have anything else," she practically hollered. Several of the restaurant's other parishioners looked at her curiously, but she didn't notice. She was well into her second glass of wine now and really feeling her imaginary pulpit. Later, when he tried to get a handle on what made him do it, he thought maybe that was it – that holier-than-though tone, like she had all of the secrets of life and he didn't have shit. He thought that was it, but he would never be completely sure.

  "You can stop freaking out, Mom. I met somebody else," he said quietly. He watched her face closely and felt a mean little satisfaction when he saw her level of surprise. For a second she seemed to be speechless. He could count the number of times he'd seen that happen on the one hand. It made it a victory in of itself. She took another deep sip of her wine and moved in for the kill.

  “You’ve met someone, have you? Let me guess, another one of your heiress party girls with nothing to contribute,” she scoffed.

  “No, actually. Nothing like that. She’s different. She’s different than anyone I’ve ever been with,” he said matter-of-factly. When he heard the words he understood that they weren’t just a front; as far as he could tell, it was true. Maybe his mom could see it, too, because she leaned back in her chair and looked at him for a long while before she spoke again.

  “Alright, Wesley,” was all she said, making him uneasy. He squirmed in his chair and took another sip of his drink.

  “Alright, what?” he asked hesitantly.

  “Alright, I’ll give her a chance. When do I get to meet her?”

  As far as he could tell, the rest of the lunch went well. Better than well, actually. It was the most amicable time they had spent together in a long time, and he was hardly able to pay attention to any of it. All he could think was what kind of mess he had just gotten himself into.

  Chapter Seven

  Liza Morris

  "I don't get it, what's your problem?" Melony asked loudly. Liza winced and pulled away from her phone. Just once, it would have been great if they could have had a conversation that didn't wind up hurting her ears. Nevertheless, she was grateful for the conversation. If possible, she was even more nervous about this second not-date than she'd been about the charity thing. She was in the process of trying on her fourth dress, and there was a pile of the ones she had already discarded behind her on the bed. She tugged at her current choice, a black thing that looked like it had been painted on, and blew her hair out of her face loudly.

  “What?” Melony laughed, “What’s wrong? I can practically see you doing that thing where you blow on your hair. You’ve gotta stop doing that, by the way. It makes you look like a cartoon character.”

  "Oh. Oh, great. Just what I needed. Another thing to be nervous about. Fantastic," Liza squealed. She scoffed and bit her lip to keep from screaming. It wasn't Melony's fault that she didn't understand. She couldn't possibly; she was missing basically all of the important details. Liza had thought about telling her about a thousand, but every time she opened her mouth to do it, she couldn't quite bring herself to. How exactly was one supposed to say, by the way, I'm dating this guy for money? Oh, and don't forget I kind of, sort of accidentally slept with him the other day, too. Even thinking about it made her want to be sick.

  "Please, chica, you'll get zero sympathies from me. You're going out with a freaking star tonight!” Melony shouted, oblivious to the way Liza’s brain was tormenting her.

  "Yeah, that doesn't help, either. If you're trying to make me more nervous you're doing a bang-up job," she said weakly.

  “I’m not, so cool your jets. Just tell me what you’re wearing. And keep in mind, this may be one of the most important outfits of your life.”

  BY THE TIME HER UBER pulled up to the swanky bar, Liza was going on thirty minutes late. That was like a lifetime for her, and it made her jangling nerves about a thousand times worse. Still, she could hardly make herself open the double glass doors. With some prodding from Mel, she had chosen the black dress. Now, she felt like it was a terrible mistake. She had no idea how sexy a person was supposed to look at a wrap-up party. She had never been to anything remotely similar. The odds that she was leaning more on the side of hooker than appropriate date seemed good, if not great. The urge to turn, march right back to her Uber and go back home came on so strong she hardly had the will to ignore it. Ignore it she did, however, and marched into the bar with her head held high.

  “Oh my God,” she said breathlessly, “what the hell have I gotten myself into?”

  "Has anyone ever told you that talking to yourself is a bad habit?" A friendly voice said very close to her ear. She yelped and jumped about three feet high. When she landed, she wobbled and almost toppled over to one side, which would have clinched the category of most horrendous entrance ever. She'd dreamed about walking into a building and having it go that badly. It was right below the one where she was walking through the hallways of her high school with not a stitch of clothing to use for cover. The only reason she didn't fall was the strong arm that looped around her waist and drew her in close. She whirled and found herself looking up into Wesley's face.

  "Jesus, I'm sorry, Liza. I swear I didn't mean to freak you out. I was just playing around," he said sheepishly. She didn't smile back. She didn't want to give into the sudden, surprising flash of anger gripping her but it was hard. Everything about this stupid party was freaking her out, and Wesley seemed like the perfect scapegoat for all of her unsettled emotions.

  "Tell me, Wesley, how exactly did you see that happening?" she asked, her face hot and her knees trembling. He still had his arm wrapped around her, and it was distracting. She took a deep breath and smelled his cologne. It was sweet and spicy with a hint of something that reminded her of a trip she had taken to Sequoia when she was young, which was her favorite trip in memory. His scent reminded her of what it was like to taste him. It worked amazingly well to quell her bubbling anger, this memory. It worked, in fact, like a charm.

  "I don't know; I guess I didn't think it through," he answered glumly. He looked like a kid whose school prank had gone horribly wrong. She softened further and reached to touch his cheek gently. A spark of electricity went from her fingertips, through her body, and down to the tips of her toes. In her head, there were all sorts of warning bells going off about keeping things professional this time, no matter what. Her muscles, though, were an entirely different matter. Her muscles were full of memories that made her want him again, no questions asked.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped at you that way. I’m just nervous, okay? I’m not used to going to this kind of thing,” she said kindly.

  “Tell me about it,” he said, sounding every bit as put out as she felt.

  "I'm sorry, bu
t I'm not buying that for a minute. You must do this kind of thing all of the time!" she chided. Her tone was different this time, though, playful, and he could tell. He let go of her waist, which left her feeling immediately let down. Then he grabbed her hand and started swinging it lightly back and forth, which sent her emotions skyrocketing in the opposite direction again. She was going to have a heart attack if she didn't find a way to get herself under control. This man was bad for her health, she thought, laughing to herself softly and shaking her head.

  "What, you're laughing at me now?" He smiled, steering them towards the bar. While she looked silently on, he ordered two glasses of champagne and handed her one with a wicked half-grin. A low, slow heat began where her upper thighs met, and she shook her head again, more discreetly this time. She was not here for a repeat of the charity ball fiasco. She was here for business, and getting along well with Wesley didn't make that any less true.

  “No, sorry, I’m not. It’s just weird being here,” she said as lightly as possible.

  “Would it help if I said I’m glad that you’re here?” he asked, his eyebrows raised hopefully.

  "A little," she smiled flirtatiously. A little flirtation didn't mean anything, she reasoned. It was all but part of the job description. She was getting paid to be a girlfriend, and she would make it convincing. If she had a little fun while she was at it, so be it. Just so long as she didn't have too much fun, she reminded herself.

  “Good. Because I am. I honestly hate these things most of the time. I’m not a fan of schmoozing,” he said, leaning in confidentially.

  “Somehow I find that very difficult to believe,” she said and smiled up at him; she liked smiling at him. She liked the way his eyes smiled back in return.

  "On my mother's grave," he insisted, "this shit is for the birds. I love my show; it's the best thing in my life, I just don't want to stand around talking about how much money it's going to make everyone."