Prude

by Hilaria Alexander

  “Ouch! You are literally the worst trainer ever! I totally hate you!” I say, narrowing my eyes at him.

  “No you don’t,” he says with a grin on his face. “You love me. And if I were straight, you’d love me even more!”

  He winks at me, the bastard. That’s why I need him, because he loves to watch me suffer. If I had to do this myself, I would get zero accomplished. I’m drenched in sweat by the time I get back home. The gym is not that far away from my apartment, so I try to stay away from the gym’s showers.

  After I shower at home, I actually start writing something. By the time the evening rolls around, I’ve written maybe five pages. Anya pops up on my screen, calling me on Skype.

  “Prueeeee! How are you, darling?” Prue is her nickname for me. The nicknames you can get out of Prudence are few and far between. I don’t like Prude or Deena. Dence sounds like dense. So there’s not much else really. My mom should have thought about it before giving me my grandmother’s name. I have been called Prudence my whole life, but every once in a while, the nickname Prue pops up. I don’t even like it, but I love Anya, so I don’t make a big deal about it.

  “I’m good, party girl! What’s up?”

  “You have been keeping secrets from me, Prue! Whyyyyy?” she says in an exaggerated tone.

  “What secrets?” I ask, frowning.

  “I talked to Ben today. He said you guys hung out at the beach. Why didn’t you tell us?”

  Oh, that. When I went back to the hotel that morning, we had to get out quickly. They were still hung-over, so I had to drive. I hardly drive, and I’m not very good at it, so I wasn’t really looking forward to it. In the car, they were still out for a while before the Ibuprofen kicked in. After a stop at Starbucks, they were finally awake, and the questions started rolling in.

  What did you guys do, where did you go, how was it and so on. It was like listening to two teenagers quizzing you about your first date with a guy. But it wasn’t a date, I kept reminding them. It was a business dinner—he wants to be my agent. I had a pleasant time, sure, but I never mentioned meeting him at the beach. It was a casual encounter, and I thought it was pointless.

  Apparently not. Anya is dying for details.

  “Why do you need to know everything? You’re not going to use this in your next hot novel, are you?”

  “Why?” she says excitedly, rising up from her chair and clapping her hands. “Should I? Is it juicy?”

  “No. There is nothing juicy about it. I was lying out, he saw me, and he came over. He sat next to me for a while. We chatted until I came back to wake you guys up.”

  “Uh-uh. Is that all?”

  “That’s about it. What else do you want me to say? I haven’t been around him in a while. He is beautiful though,” I say, sighing. “And he’s a surfer. I can even talk to him about books! Do you know how rare that is? That alone is totally crush-worthy.”

  I stop her before she says anything about that, holding up my finger, “No. Not going there. I don’t have a crush on him, not interested in getting one.” Not again.

  “Well, I get the vibe that he likes you,” she says, not backing down.

  “How? Did he tell you that he likes me?”

  “Well no, not exactly.”

  “Then he doesn’t like me. Stop putting ideas in my head. I’m sorry, I know you mean well, but I have enough going on as it is. I need to focus on me. On work.”

  “Oh work! Blah! It’s not like you can’t afford a few days of messing around. Anyway, he did say you’re a really nice girl, and he can’t wait to work with you. He said he really hopes you say yes. But, you know, it’s kind of out of character for him to go out of his way to get a contact with an author. He usually doesn’t need to take them to a restaurant on the beach, in the Hamptons, if you get what I mean. A phone call is pretty much all it takes. Coffee, if you live in New York. So, you know, there’s that,” she says, letting me know with a look what she is hinting at.

  “Well, he also wanted to know what happened with Cora. It’s no secret he has this weird connection to Mr. Hunter. He probably went to report what he heard from me!”

  “Who knows . . . anyway, he really is good at what he does, Prue. I speak from experience. I wouldn’t be where I am today if it wasn’t for him. He really helped me out a lot. My books would not be as popular if he hadn’t gotten me the contract with Biblio.” She looks at her phone and says, “I got to go. I have to go pick up the kids at soccer practice.”

  At the exact same time, my phone starts buzzing . . . somewhere.

  “Call me, honey! Let me know what you decide,” she says, blowing me a kiss.

  “I will. Bye, love ya!”

  “Love you too!”

  After finally finding my phone buried in the pillows of my couch, I see I have gotten a few messages.

  Unknown Number: Why do I have the feeling you’re going to blow me off? You’re never going to say yes, are you?

  Unknown Number: Do you want to have dinner with me?

  Unknown Number: Tonight?

  Unknown Number: Say 7:30-8:00?

  Hmmm, what? Who is this? Wrong number? I don’t have any stalkers as far as I know. I hope it’s not who I think it is. Okay, I’m lying. I totally hope it is who I think it is.

  Me: Who is this?

  Unknown Number: It’s Ben. Didn’t I save my number on your phone?

  Unknown Number: Never mind. Now I remember I sent a text from your phone to mine.

  Keep it casual, I tell myself.

  Me: Hey, how’s it going?

  Ben: Pretty good. Great, if you’ll have dinner with me.

  Me: On a Tuesday night?

  Ben: Why? Don’t you have dinner on Tuesdays?

  Point taken, but I don’t see why I shouldn’t mess with him a little more.

  Me: No, usually I don’t. It’s a protein bar and an apple kind of evening.

  Ben: Really? That makes me sad for you.

  Me: Tell me about it!

  Ben: Let’s go out then! ;)

  I try to come up with a different excuse. Every time I type a message, I erase it. He must be seeing those three dots appear every few seconds and think I’m writing a poem. What I don’t understand is—why is he so insistent? I’m confused by the sudden amount of attention I’m receiving from him. Of course, I’m secretly pleased about it. I go to my kitchen and scan the contents of my pantry, trying to check if I have everything. I check the clock. It’s 6:30.

  Me: How do you feel about pasta?

  Ben: I feel great about pasta. Do you have a place in mind?

  Me: My place, 7:30. We’ll cook.

  Ben: What makes you think I can cook anything?

  Me: You get to help. Bring some red wine. Do you know where I live?

  Ben: Text me your address.

  Chapter 6

  “PRESS THE garlic with your palm!” He is about to do it, then he stops. And turns to me.

  “Are my hands going to be stinky after this?”

  Seriously?

  “You’ll wash them. It will go away.”

  “Will my breath stink?”

  I huff.

  “Why, are you planning on kissing someone?” I don’t know why I just said that.

  He just stands there and smirks at me.

  “No, it will not stink unless you eat it.” I quickly add.

  He finally presses the clove of garlic with the palm of his hand.

  “There! Now do the same with the other clove. Okay, now place it in the pan with the oil. Good, now we wait until the garlic turns a golden color.”

  I glance at him and laugh, while I go to the counter to open the bottle of wine he brought over. It is pretty entertaining watching Ben attempt to cook.

  “Okay, now fill that pot I got out with water and place it on the stove.”

  He turns toward me, looking a little baffled.

  “You know, when you told me to come to dinner at your house, I didn’t think I would be cooking dinner. That’s
why I wanted to go out. I have been at work all day, you know!”

  “Oh, don’t be such a drama queen!” I say, chuckling.

  He got here straight from work, with his suit on, looking like some model out of a GQ spread. I made him take off his jacket, roll up his sleeves, and then I put an apron on him. He objected. I told him tomato sauce was going to splash all over his clothes.

  “Hmmmm,” is all he replied, while I tied the strings of the apron around his waist. He looks undeniably nerdy. And cute. Definitely out of his element. I smile at him while he is all focused on opening a can of tomatoes. My first intention was really to make him help me, or just do it on my own, but when I asked him if he ever cooked and he said no, I felt compelled to teach him to make pasta sauce.

  “You already admitted to not knowing how to do laundry, and now you say you don’t know how to cook. What are you going to do if we end up in a zombie apocalypse?”

  “Humanity is not going to be devoured by zombies. Maybe by its own greed, but not by mentally dead monsters.”

  “You are no fun . . . how do you know? It could happen,” I say with a smirk.

  “It’s not going to. And even if it did, I’m pretty sure we’d lose luxuries like water and electricity, so there wouldn’t be any cooking whatsoever,” he replies playfully.

  “But if you knew how to cook, you could be resourceful too.”

  “Sure, but you could be resourceful by opening a can of anything you can find. How is that wine?” he says, looking toward me.

  I hand him his glass and he says, “I hope the wine is okay. I’m not a wine connoisseur by any means, but I drink it from time to time. I don't know which one goes with what, so I had the guy from the liquor store help me pick it,” he says apologetically.

  “It’s a Montepulciano.”

  “So, is it good?”

  “Should be really good! Cheers!” I say, clinking his glass. The wine is damn near perfect.

  “Oh, it's more than good. It’s perfect. Good choice,” he says.

  “So you can’t do laundry, you don’t know how to cook, and don’t know how to pick wine. You’re screwed,” I say, laughing and patting him on the back. “Come on, it’s time to add the tomatoes.”

  I make him stir the sauce for a while. I pull some basil leaves from a plant growing on the window sill. I wash them, gently pat them dry, and hand them to him. He adds them to the sauce. Just the bare contact with his skin gives me goose bumps. It happens again when I take his hand and turn his palm over and I hold it while I pour the salt in his hand.

  “No measuring? You’re good.”

  “It’s a simple three-step pasta sauce. Anyone can do it.”

  “Well, apparently I can’t. I’m screwed,” he says, mimicking my voice. I intentionally bump my hip into his, and the grin that appears on his face is irresistible. I fight hard to keep a straight face.

  “Yeah, it’s too bad, really. You could definitely be one of those book characters that women love so much: you are gorgeous and successful at your job. Unfortunately, you don’t know how to play an instrument or two, I don’t think you write poetry in your downtime, and you definitely don’t know how to cook or pick the perfect wine. Oh, but I forgot. You were almost a pro-surfer. That has to count for something. Screw the sommelier shit,” I say jokingly, and I turn around to grab the pasta.

  He stops me and grabs my wrist.

  “Hold on,” he says, a playful smile spreading on his face. “What did you just say? You think I’m gorgeous?”

  Dammit, digging my own grave. Damn this wine. I need a save.

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” I say shrugging, trying to avoid his eyes. I pretend to be fiddling with something in the kitchen. Get the colander, I tell myself, opening a lower cabinet.

  “Look at me, Prudence.”

  I stand back up.

  “Yes. Yes, you are. You are gorgeous. You are beautiful. Come on, you know it. I know you do,” I confess, my cheeks flushed. It sounds almost like I'm apologizing for something.

  He shrugs. “I know you are beautiful and too often forget it.”

  Well, that shuts me up.

  His eyes are on me, dark and serious, any playfulness gone from them. We are standing next to each other, leaning against the counter in this hole of a kitchen. It would be the perfect time to throw myself at him. I can’t seem to be able to stop looking at him anyway. I love when his eyebrows pull together as he looks at me quizzically. His blue eyes with those long light brown eyelashes. The nose, straight but masculine. Those pink lips and the way they open when he smiles. And that jawline, covered with his dark blond beard, but that I still want to bite. I want to undo his hair knot and run my fingers through his hair.

  My breath is already fast and ragged. I feel my heart pounding out of my chest. I feel I’m acting silly, just like one of the teenagers in my books. This could happen, right here, right now, if I let it. He unties the strings of the apron and pulls it off his head.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I don’t think I’m going to need this anymore.”

  What’s happening? Is he leaving? I look at him, confused, but he just stares at me. I move away from where I’m standing, but he pulls me to him, and pins me against the counter, holding his hands on my hips. He pauses. He looks at me, and then leans in and kisses my lips. Gently, tentatively at first, and then he swoops in when I part my lips and bring my hands up to his neck. His tongue circles around mine, exploring my mouth, and a moan escapes from my throat. Damn it. He moves his hands to my butt and grabs my legs, pulling me up on the counter, and I’m face-to-face with him. I move my hands down to his back, holding him closer to me.

  A million things run through my head, but mostly I keep telling myself this is not a good idea. I bring my arms up and hold him by his neck. The only sounds I hear are the notes of a guitar from a playlist I have playing on my phone, the sauce simmering in the pan, and the pot of water boiling. The sound of the boiling water brings me back to reality. I don't want to stop, but this is not good for us.

  But the kissing . . . my goodness, the kissing.

  The kissing is so good, I never want it to stop. I want more. He kisses me on the neck, right under my ear. I arch against him, and I try to speak. He holds me tight, one hand around my waist, the other cradling my head. I have to force the words out of my mouth.

  “Ben . . . Ben, what are we doing?” I say in between kisses.

  He looks straight into my eyes, holding my face.

  “I’m doing what I’ve wanted to do since Saturday night,” he says, stopping to look into my eyes. He holds my face with his hands. “I want you, Prudence, and I think you want me too. Am I wrong?”

  His words fill my head, and my brain feels like it’s floating away like a hot air balloon. I’m pretty sure my face is on fire, and I’m dizzy because of the kissing and because of what he just said. We look at each other for a moment, and then we kiss again, in a desperate, hungry way. He parts my lips with his tongue, and when my tongue meets his again, I feel all my resolve evaporate. It goes on for several seconds, until he leaves my lips to start kissing me on my neck again. I open my eyes and I force myself to say the words, even though I hate to stop this.

  “Stop. Ben, we need to stop. We can’t do this.”

  He stops and pulls back a little, his eyes wild, still holding my face with his hand. He looks at me straight in the eye.

  “Is that what you really want?” I cover his hand with mine, holding it to my face. I don't want to lose the feeling of his hands on me, but we can't continue.

  “Do you still want to work with me? Are you serious about that?”

  “Yes! I wouldn't be here if I wasn't serious about it.”

  “Then this has to stop. We can't get involved if we are going to work together. Things will get messy.”

  “Things don't have to get messy. It doesn't have to be like that, and you know it.”

  I know he knows I want him, but I’m not sure what
he is suggesting here. I jump off the counter, get around him, go to the stove, throw the pasta in the water, and add the salt. I stir the noodles in the pot.

  “How could it work? When was the last time you were in a relationship?” I turn to face him. “And I’m not a one-night-stand or friends-with-benefits type of girl. I tried it, it's not for me.”

  As I say that, Cora’s words ring out in the back of my mind. Prude. Here is this beautiful guy who wants to get in your pants, and you are rejecting him. Why? Because you are a prude. You could do the friends-with-benefits thing, you idiot. He folds his arms and leans on his side against the cabinets, watching me.

  “Don’t you know that a strong agent/author relationship can be incredibly beneficial for a writer?” he asks with a smirk. I just roll my eyes, but a faint smile shows up on my face. “Fair enough,” he continues. “You made your point. Does this mean you are agreeing to sign with me?”

  I am almost tempted to say no, and just see what he would do then. Oh, the possibilities . . . stop thinking about the possibilities.

  “Yes, Benjamin Hallstrom, I'll sign with you. I want you to be my agent.”

  He exhales, seeming not quite relieved.

  “Now, would you please pour me another glass?” I say, winking.

  I don’t know how, but we manage to make it past the awkwardness. I compliment him on the first meal he ever cooked.

  He grins sheepishly and says, “I have a good teacher.”

  “I cannot believe you never cooked anything besides a frozen burrito,” I say, shaking my head.

  “Excuse me, have you been outside? This is New York, one of the few places in the world where you can get food at any time of the day.”

  “Okay. What about cooking to try to impress a girl?”

  He shrugs and says, “I never had to impress one.”

  “Pffff. That is so lame. I’m officially turned off,” I say pointedly.

  He stares at me and then looks down, momentarily startled, and grabs a napkin to clean his mouth. I know I shouldn’t have said it. I’m messing with him. I usually don’t do that. Not when I just agreed with someone our relationship would be purely professional.