Yes. At least she could do that for him. Fill space in the smallest apartment in the building he owned.
“I only got you that job as temporary work,” he grouched, settling back into his sweet spot of disappointment combined with magnanimous gestures.
“I’m a writer, Dad. It is an actual job.”
“Is it?”
She stuffed more gnocchi into her mouth and stared hard at her water glass. If she’d been making even a few hundred dollars more a month, she’d never have accepted her dad’s offer to live in his building. She’d known exactly what it had meant. But she’d spent her life savings trying to make ends meet in New York. When she’d come home to start over and try again, she’d thought maybe—just maybe—she’d find a soft place to fall.
She’d been wrong. “Just tell me the market rate on the apartment and I’ll pay it,” she said, not for the first time. “Then you won’t have to worry about my job or my decisions.”
He gave the same answer he always did. “You can’t afford it.”
The problem was that he was likely right. As small as the apartment was, it had a nice kitchen and a fireplace and it was in Jackson. It was a place she definitely couldn’t have afforded during ski season, but she told herself that a yearly lease wouldn’t be quite so much. It wouldn’t be like living in New York. Nothing was that expensive.
She set her fork down hard. “I’d better go,” she said. “I need to get ready for the show.”
“Knock ’em dead,” her father said, already looking at his phone again.
He was always like this. She knew it had nothing to do with her, but it was sometimes hard to believe it when he was directing his arrogance at her. “Sure, Dad,” she said. She gave him a kiss on the cheek. He patted her hand, then got back to his phone.
Maybe her plan to see her dad tonight had actually worked. She was still nervous about the show, but she had a little anger to energize her now. She stalked toward her apartment, pissed that her dad was such a self-absorbed ass and mad at herself for failing so hard at life that she was relying on him again. She was living one of her Dear Veronica letters.
“Dear Veronica,” she snarled as she jammed the key into her apartment door, “I’m a stereotypical twentysomething who couldn’t quite make it out of the nest and now whines nonstop about it. What should I do?”
She slammed the door behind her and looked around at the furniture that had once filled a Brooklyn apartment she’d shared with two virtual strangers. “Shut your mouth,” she told herself, “stop whining and find something you’re good at.”
Actually...
She stared at the stylish little chair she’d found on the curb in front of a nice brownstone near her subway stop. It had been one of her most triumphant moments in the city, sadly, and she still loved that chair.
Find something you’re good at.
Hadn’t she already done that? She was good at writing. Her editors in New York had rarely offered anything less than praise, and her boss seemed happy with her work here. She was a good copy editor and she was surprisingly good at giving advice, despite having zero qualifications for it. Aside from the normal trolls, commenters on the paper’s website seemed thrilled with the column and eager to contribute their own thoughts. So maybe “Find something you’re good at” wasn’t the right advice.
It wasn’t her work that was the problem; it was...everything else. And everything else was a lot harder to fix than the wrong job.
She needed advice. And she was good at giving it. She just had to dig a little deeper.
Veronica made herself move slowly as she got ready for her show. She couldn’t rush or she’d panic and lose all this hard-won calmness. So she changed from jeans and a sweater to the dress she’d already laid out on the bed. It was a cute little blue A-line number she’d found at a charity store in New York.
She’d found a lot of her clothes there. So many women in New York would wear a dress only one or two times before they moved on.
She added high-heeled ankle boots and a silver necklace that looked expensive but had been on clearance at a department store. Her hair was already styled, so she freshened her makeup, darkened her eye shadow and put on some earrings that swung and sparkled when she moved.
Her transformation was complete.
She’d never thought much about her apple cheeks and blue eyes before she’d moved to New York, but once there, her look had drawn attention. Men had called her Heidi on the street, as if she were fresh off the mountains of Switzerland. They’d called her “baby doll,” yelling out that they’d love to dirty her up a little. Her stupid round cheeks had flamed with mortification every time, which made the men howl with laughter and get even filthier. Catcalling was not something she’d grown up with in Wyoming, and it had taken months for her to school her response.
But she’d done it. Walk taller, tune them out, don’t look at them, don’t respond. She’d learned to put on heavier makeup, a mask to hide behind, along with high heels and a long black jacket anytime it was less than eighty degrees outside. Stare straight ahead. Look impervious.
It had worked moderately well with the catcallers, and the rest of New York, as well. Don’t let them see the real you.
Don’t let them see the real you... Wasn’t that what she was doing in Jackson, too? Hiding behind this costume she’d assembled in the big city?
If she wrote in to her own column, the answer would be easy. If you feel like you’re faking your way through life, then stop faking it. Let people see the real you. Take a chance. If you don’t open yourself up to others, then they won’t be open to you.
It wasn’t even complicated. It wasn’t something she needed to research. But it was still scary as hell. Letting people see the real you.
Veronica stared at the big-city version of herself in the mirror. The smoky-gray shadow made her eyes even bluer. The blush gave her cheekbones. The lip stain made her lips fuller. But she could tone it all down. Be the natural girl she’d been when she’d flown to New York all those years ago. Let people see her.
No.
She picked up her mascara and added another coat, then packed her makeup into its bag and put it away. “Not tonight,” she murmured to herself before she snapped off the light. But before she walked out of the apartment, she found a black marker and wrote a big note and stuck it on the fridge.
#1—Let people see the real you.
She’d start taking her own advice. Tomorrow, maybe. But definitely when she wasn’t standing in front of the whole damn town.
CHAPTER FOUR
VERONICA CHANDLER WAS shining again when she took her place in front of the microphone. The wide smile made her eyes sparkle. Her earrings glittered as she waved to the crowd. “Good Lord, there are a lot of you tonight!”
The place erupted in cheers. Gabe didn’t cheer, but he did clap for Veronica before picking up a beer to wet his suddenly dry mouth. Maybe it was because he was already buzzed or maybe it was because he hadn’t seen her cool, bitchy side right beforehand, but she looked hot tonight. Her legs were bare all the way from ankle to midthigh, and his eyes followed the path up and down several times. Those legs made her look like his kind of girl.
He cleared his throat at the strange thought, but when he tried to look away, his gaze swung right back to those bare legs. They weren’t thin and impossibly long like the legs of some of the fashion models his sister hung out with. Veronica’s legs were tight. Hard. As if she used them to go places and do things. Her calf muscles were cut and the fronts of her thighs tightened when she shifted.
“How have I not seen her before?” Benton asked.
Gabe forced his eyes off her legs and looked at Benton. “She was living in New York for a while.”
“You know her?”
“I met her last week. She’s friends with L
auren at the library.”
“Maybe I should be spending more time at the library.”
“Because bartenders don’t get enough female attention? Please.”
Benton grinned and raised his beer. “Cheers to that.”
Veronica spoke again, drawing their attention. “This first question is R rated. Do you guys think you’re ready for that, or should we ease in with something tamer?”
When the crowd reacted, Veronica covered her mouth and shook her head, her cheeks going pink. “I actually didn’t mean it to sound that way, but I’d say you’re definitely ready.”
“Hell, yeah!” a girl shouted from the left.
“All right,” Veronica said. “This one’s short and not so sweet. ‘My boyfriend won’t go down on me—’”
The place erupted in groans and boos and Gabe found himself laughing until his eyes watered.
Benton booed right along with the crowd. “What a punk ass,” he muttered. Gabe clinked his glass in agreement.
Veronica’s laugh echoed over it all. “Okay. Just listen. ‘My boyfriend won’t go down on me. He says he’s never liked it with anyone, but I can’t help but take it personally. What should I do?’ Signed, I Need Love. Well, I hope your boyfriend is here to listen to this! But, letter writer, it doesn’t really matter if he’s here or not. Because what you need to hear is how many of these guys think he’s a fool. Right, guys?” The place exploded with noise.
Once the cheers died down, she started again. “There are lots of men who genuinely don’t like going down, and there are also lots of women who don’t like performing oral sex. These are not bad people—”
“Are you sure?” someone shouted.
“—and I don’t think anyone should be talked into anything they don’t want to do. I have no idea what your boyfriend’s problem is, and it doesn’t truly matter. If you have to talk him into it, I doubt he’d be very good at it and I doubt you’d have a great time.”
Somebody muttered an “Amen.”
“So, letter writer,” she continued, “the truth is that your boyfriend doesn’t really matter here. You matter. And what you need to ask yourself is ‘Do I want to go my whole life without oral sex?’ Because that’s what we’re talking about if this relationship continues. Since oral sex is the way the vast majority of women orgasm, I’m going to guess the answer to that question is no.”
Gabe noticed her cheeks going pink again.
“So if you don’t want to go your whole life without it, what’s the point of going a year without it? Or five years? Maybe he’s a really great guy, but he can be a great guy with someone he’s sexually compatible with. Believe it or not, there are women out there who don’t want that. They think it’s gross or it makes them uncomfortable. I once even met a woman whose nerves were so sensitive that she found it too intense and didn’t like it. Let him date that woman. Or better yet, he can hook up with one of those girls who hates blow jobs and they can live resentfully together for the rest of their lives.”
Veronica smiled. “But you, letter writer, you can look around at this very large gathering of men who love to go down—” she swept a hand over the crowd, and several guys jumped to their feet with triumphant fists in the air “—and you can decide to choose another path. A path that involves cunnilingus, and lots of it. My hunch is that’s the path for you.”
Gabe thought of the Robert Frost poem about two roads diverging in a wood and shook his head in wonder. Probably not what Frost had had in mind, but who really knew?
Her next question was from a woman who’d received hateful messages online telling her she was fat and slutty and who’d then tracked down the IP address to her sister’s computer.
Gabe half listened to Veronica’s answer, but he was more interested in the way her voice changed from wry humor to serious concern. Was she only acting or did she really feel that deeply for these people? He couldn’t tell, but the whole room went quiet as she talked about betrayal and pain.
“I can’t begin to guess at her reasons. I’m sure she tells herself she has them, but she is consciously hurting you. She’s trying to damage you on the deepest level. Now, people do that all the time. There are people online who spend every day swooping down on strangers just to hurt them and they find that entertaining. But this is your sister. You can’t just ignore that. You’re going to have to talk to her, because you’re both adults and part of being an adult is doing difficult things.
“Tell her you need it to stop. And if you’re open to the answer, ask her why. Find out what’s really going on, because I guarantee that it has nothing to do with your body and what you do with it. It’s all about her. Maybe she’s having issues with your parents. Maybe they’re using your success to shame her. Or maybe she’s just depressed and angry and lashing out. Ask her why. And if you don’t like her answer, you have every right to cut her out of your life, but be honest with your family about why you’ve done it, or she will make you into the bad guy.”
The applause was more subdued this time, but Veronica smiled. “Don’t worry. The next question is about boobs.”
When she started giving advice about living with a small chest, Gabe felt less guilty about checking her breasts out. She gestured to them as she was talking, after all. People were laughing so hard it was difficult to hear everything she said about bra shopping and dress styles, but he had a perfect view of her breasts the whole time. The neckline of her dress swooped only low enough to hint at cleavage, but she made clear that she didn’t have much to show, anyway.
“Personally, I wouldn’t bother much with water bras or miracle padding. What if you attract a guy who’s really, really into C-cups and then your magic show ends with whipping off your bra and making them disappear? You can yell out ‘Ta-da!’ but I promise you won’t get any applause.”
Benton was laughing so hard that Gabe suspected it was a magic show the bartender had seen several times.
Half an hour and four more questions later, the show was over. Once the room started to clear out a little, Gabe took the opportunity to grab a free space at the bar and order another beer.
“We’re heading over to the saloon,” Benton said when Gabe returned to the table. “You coming?”
“I just bought a beer.”
“Finish it and come on.”
“I’d better not. I’ve got work tomorrow, and my shift doesn’t start at 5:00 p.m., unlike yours.”
“All right, man.” Benton slapped his shoulder. “See you this weekend.”
Gabe relaxed into his chair. If Sunday turned out to be anything like today, he might die of happiness. It was all so...simple.
But when he glanced up, it wasn’t simple anymore.
Veronica stood in the opening of the back hall, leaning forward just slightly to look around the room. He realized then that she was part of the reason he’d decided to stay, even if he hadn’t admitted it. Shit.
After a few seconds of peering toward the bar, she retreated and leaned against the wall, then closed her eyes and drained her drink.
Gabe watched her, confused by yet another sudden personality shift. She clearly didn’t want to come out, which was odd considering she’d just spent so much time in front of these people.
She pushed off the wall again and her gaze roamed the room. Her eyes skipped over him, then returned and widened. He smiled and gave her a wave. She waved back but didn’t move. Telling himself he was an idiot even as he did it, Gabe pointed at the empty chair next to him. She hadn’t been looking for him, and he shouldn’t want to spend time with her, anyway.
But Veronica smiled and seemed to wilt a little, the stiffness going out of her shoulders, and he was glad he’d offered. Relief seemed to glow from her face as she stepped out of the hallway and made a beeline for him.
“What are you doing here?” she asked as she set dow
n her now-empty glass and took a seat.
“Some friends wanted to see your show.”
“But not you?” she asked.
“Are you kidding? I’ve been following your live show since the beginning. You want another drink?”
“Oh, God, yes. Please.”
He started to raise a hand to catch the server’s eye, then realized the woman was already headed over with a drink. She winked at Veronica. “The manager says thanks for another great show. There’s more where this came from.”
“Keep them coming!” Veronica cried. When she reached for the drink, Gabe noticed her hand was trembling again.
“Do you get nervous?” he asked.
Her big blue eyes peered at him from over the rim of the martini glass as she took a long drink. “Nervous?” she finally rasped when she came up for air. “More like fucking terrified.”
“I’m surprised.” That might explain a lot of her odd behavior. “You seem totally confident up there.”
“Seriously?”
He nodded as she took another drink.
“It’s all an act. I’m scared to death.” She took one more drink, then set the glass down. Her hand was still shaking.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he said. “Anyone would be nervous talking to a roomful of strangers about cunnilingus.”
She squeaked and covered her face with her hands. Her cheeks went red behind her fingers, but when her shoulders began to shake, he knew she was laughing.
“Sorry,” he said. “It was kind of the elephant in the room. That and your small breasts.”
“Oh, my God!” she shrieked, her head bowing with laughter.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“Gabe!” she scolded, and he grinned at the way she made him feel as if he was getting away with something. He couldn’t deny that it was a turn-on having an excuse to talk to this girl he hardly knew about sex.
He smiled at the top of her head until she finally peeked up, her eyes still crinkled with amusement.
Taking the Heat Page 4
