Come As You Are

by Lauren Blakely

  The cardinal rule of journalism is to be fair and get it right.

  You can’t be fair if you’re sleeping with the subject.

  You simply cannot.

  And the story matters more to me than the guy, than the sex, than the stupendous spark, and the sizzle I felt with him last night and again tonight. Like when he leaned in close and told me all he remembered, and when he asked me about the first outfit I ever stitched together. When I shuddered from his nearness, from the way he seemed to want to own me. And, truth be told, the way I want to be owned. I want to hand over the keys to my body to someone who knows what to do with me.

  To Flynn.

  “Stupid fate,” I grumble.

  I dig my hand into my purse and take out my panties. They’re clean. Freshly washed. I narrow my eyes. How the hell did the dude have time to launder my underwear? This is New York City. No one has a washer and dryer. We go to laundromats, or we send out our laundry.

  Unless we’re rich.

  Super rich.

  Lucky bastard probably has three washer-dryer combos.

  Now I’m jealous, but it’s also a reminder. Flynn and I live in different worlds. We’re from opposite sides of the tracks. He’s millions and I’m pennies, and it’s for the best I learned this now. Opposites don’t attract. They repel.

  After I make myself a cheese sandwich—I do know how to rock it when it comes to cheap eats—I FaceTime my brother.

  “Want to hear a funny story?” I ask him on the screen.

  “Of course I do.”

  “The guy I like?” I ask, since I told him this morning I met someone.

  Kevin wiggles his eyebrows. “Oooh, guy talk. I was hoping for some guy talk before I returned to St. Thomas Aquinas.”

  “Oh stop. My guy talk has always been more interesting than a philosopher’s mumbo-jumbo,” I tease.

  “Perhaps because it often requires me to be philosophical,” he says, then flashes me his dimpled smile.

  “I wish I could give you a knuckle sandwich through FaceTime.”

  “No, you don’t. You love me and my non-knuckle-sandwiched face. So, tell me what happened. Did this one take off for Chile? Nova Scotia? The Arctic Circle?”

  “He might as well have,” I say with a sigh. “It turns out he’s the guy I’m covering for my new article.”

  “Ouch,” he says, frowning. “That would be a bit of an ethical quandary. Are you going to recuse yourself?”

  I recoil, staring at him as if he were speaking in tongues. “No! I didn’t know who he was when I met him at the party. I’m going to start this with a clean slate.”

  He nods, a thoughtful look in his eyes.

  My chest squeezes. I need the money from this piece. My bills are looming. “Don’t tell me you think that’s a bad idea,” I say, nerves thick in my voice.

  He holds up his hands in surrender. “Of course I’m not going to say that. I’m simply processing the news. Trying to consider all the angles.”

  “Do you think I’m crossing a line?”

  He sighs, and I brace myself for a yes. Kevin has always been a barometer for doing the right thing, and I’ve needed that, especially since our mom rarely does. Hell, our mom is the reason I don’t eat roast beef. For my twelfth birthday, she asked what I wanted for a special dinner, and I told her I would love one of her delicious roast beef sandwiches.

  “Consider it done,” she said, then took me to the grocery store, snagged some cold cuts, stuffed them in her purse, and proceeded to earn her first shoplifting arrest.

  It wasn’t her last.

  I stare at Kevin, swallowing as I wait for his answer.

  “I don’t think it’s an issue,” he says, and I picture him as a pastor, doling out advice to a congregant. “Just keep things on the business level with him going forward and that’s the best you can do. You’re not at fault for something you didn’t know and I have faith you can do a fair, and fantastic, interview.”

  I smile. “Me too.”

  When I say goodbye to Kevin, I send an email to Flynn.

  Not to Duke.

  Not to Prince Charming. But to my source. To the man I’m interviewing.

  I send it from my work address.

  * * *

  From: Sabrina G

  To: Flynn Parker

  * * *

  Hello! I see we’re meeting at your office, but can we change the location? I find people are more comfortable and open up more easily if we’re not talking at their office. We can have a thoughtful conversation if we’re someplace else. Do you have a favorite spot?

  * * *

  From: Flynn Parker

  To: Sabrina G

  * * *

  How much time do you need? I have lots of favorite places.

  * * *

  From: Sabrina G

  To: Flynn Parker

  * * *

  An hour or two? Let me know one of your favorites.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, he sends me an address that strikes my curiosity.

  I haven’t been there. Ever.

  And that’s saying something, because New York is mine.

  I write back telling him I’ve never been there before, but that I’m looking forward to it.

  I have a feeling that Flynn Parker is going to be one hell of an interesting guy to get to know over the next few days.

  That’s all he’ll be though.

  He’s not the duke. He’s not the guy from last night. I’ll need to erase those fun, fond, flirty memories from the banks of my mind. These last few messages should help—they’re so professional. So worky, worky, work.

  I flop down on my bed, grab my laptop, and bury myself in research for the piece. A little later, my phone lights up with an alert. Probably an email from a friend, or a note about a new yard of fabric for sale at my favorite discount shop.

  But some insistent little voice nudges me. Tells me to check it now because . . . what if?

  I slide open the inbox, a flutter of excitement racing through me. The email is from Flynn, and it’s not about the interview. It’s a simple question: Why should you never date an apostrophe?

  I scrunch my brow and then shout, “Aha!”

  My fingers fly on the keys, tapping out a reply before I risk him sending me the answer: Because they’re too possessive!

  He answers swiftly, but this time his note zips over the transom of text. He’s switched gears, shifting back to who we were last night.

  The name I gave him on my text blinks.

  Duke.

  My heart dares to skitter in my chest, to bounce around madly.

  * * *

  Duke: What do you call Santa’s elves?

  * * *

  Clutching my phone as if it’s a source of joy, I squeeze my shoulders in delight, my grammar nerd heart lighting up. I swear it’s glowing in my chest, and the warmth from it spreads to my toes, then my fingers. I think and think, and then the answer materializes, and I grin as I reply. This is more fun than 80s Trivial Pursuit. This is better than Boardwalk.

  * * *

  Angel: Subordinate Clauses!!

  * * *

  I’m rewarded with another grammar riddle seconds later.

  * * *

  Duke: What should you say to comfort a grammar nerd?

  * * *

  I narrow my eyes and chew on my lip, considering. Then, it hits me, like a bucket of social media grammatical errors slamming into me all at once.

  * * *

  Angel: They’re, their, there.

  * * *

  I feel like we could go on all night. I want to, even though I know it’s silly. Even though I know it’s pointless.

  But maybe that’s the point of us flirting.

  That it goes nowhere.

  That it’s a momentary buzz.

  It’s a quick whiff of expensive perfume in the department store. A nibble on a bite of decadent chocolate. A dance with the best-looking guy you’ve ever met.

  You ta
ke your snippet of pleasure and you move on. That’s all you get.

  * * *

  Angel: Did you know the last four letters in queue aren’t silent?

  * * *

  I wait, and I wait, and three minutes later, his name appears.

  * * *

  Duke: I bet they’re just waiting their turn.

  * * *

  Now it’s my turn to move on.

  14

  Flynn

  * * *

  “In retrospect, maybe I shouldn’t have sent that apostrophe email.”

  I wait for a response from my audience. She gives me none. I pace across the living room, checking out the view of Gramercy Park. “But in my defense, it was a good joke.”

  Still no answer.

  “She liked it. I swear, she liked it,” I insist.

  Silence.

  “Look, you’d have done the same, Zoe.”

  A delicious smile is my reward. My niece coos at me.

  This kid. This sweet little baby. She melts me. “See? I knew you would laugh! You love my jokes. You cracked up when I told you the broccoli joke the first time I met you in the hospital room.”

  She smiles again, like the Mona Lisa, and I’m ready to give this little blonde baby anything in the cosmos she wants. I bounce my niece higher in my arms then drop a kiss to her soft forehead, taking a moment to inhale her baby scent as I pace around my sister’s place, waiting for her to return from her morning workout.

  “Knock, knock,” I say, then answer for Zoe. “Who’s there? Broccoli. Broccoli who? Broccoli doesn’t have a last name, silly.”

  She emits a gurgling sound that makes it clear she remains my number-one fan, enjoying the joke as much as she did on her Birth day.

  A lock clicks and the door to my sister’s home opens. Olivia returns, her face flushed, her hair a little damp from sweating. “Who is my favorite brother in the entire universe?” She points both hands at me as Zoe squirms at the sound of her mom’s voice. “I knew you’d win the Best of the Twin Brothers Olympics today.”

  I wipe my free hand over my forehead dramatically. “All I’ve ever wanted is to win the gold over Dylan.”

  She strides across the living room, reaching for her little girl, who squeals when she sees her mom. “Hello, my little love bug,” Olivia says to the baby, then to me, she says, “If you keep babysitting in the wee hours of the morning when my husband has to spay a dozen Chihuahuas, you could pull far ahead in the brother race.”

  “A dozen?”

  “Crazy, right? They were rescued from a puppy mill. Herb spayed them all, and now they’re going to Little Friends to find homes,” she says, naming one of the dog rescue shelters in the city.

  “That’s fantastic. Now, can you two stop being such do-gooders? You make the rest of us look bad.”

  She nudges me. “Speaking of doing good, how did your face-lift go the other night? I’m waiting for all the details.”

  I groan and drag a hand through my hair. “Too well.”

  “What does that mean?”

  I give my sister the quick update, minus the wall-sex details, but including the I-met-this-awesome-woman-who-I-can’t-see-again part.

  “And you really like this girl?”

  “I do. I mean, I did. Is that weird?”

  “Why would it be weird that you liked her?”

  “I only spent one evening with her. Isn’t that too soon to really like somebody?” I stare at the ceiling, considering. “Okay, fine we texted later that night. And we did talk a little bit last night at the bar, even though we really weren’t supposed to.”

  “So, it was almost like three dates.”

  I seesaw my hand. “Technically, one could make a case for a trio, yes.”

  She laughs, shooting me a warm smile, stripping her tone of our usual teasing. “You don’t have to convince me. I knew after my first date with Herb that I was crazy for him. We just clicked.”

  I hold up my hands. “Whoa. I didn’t say it was love at first sight.”

  She arches a brow. “It wasn’t love at first sight. It was chemistry. It was attraction. It was mutual respect. Then, the more I got to know him, the more all of my initial first impressions were confirmed. Sometimes it happens quickly. Sometimes it happens over the course of years.” She runs her hand over her daughter’s hair as the baby snuggles closer to her. “Is there really no way you can make this work?”

  I shake my head, adamant that, in spite of the grammar games, I can’t go there again with Sabrina. “She’s covering my company. I have to focus on Haven right now, and the huge opportunity we have in front of us,” I say, and point to the door. “On that note, I should make my way to the office.”

  “Wait. Why can’t you just see her when the story is over in a couple weeks?”

  I stop with my hand on the doorknob, considering.

  That’s a good question.

  I suppose we could do that.

  But doing that, or rather, planning for it, sounds a little shady. A bit like hoodwinkery. Like we might as well be getting together.

  And that’s what we’re trying to avoid.

  Plus, a bigger reason looms.

  A reason that I can’t avoid. I can’t let my desire to chat with Sabrina from the masquerade party make me forget that Sabrina the reporter might not have my best interests at heart.

  She might only have hers front and center.

  I shake my head. “I don’t even know if I trust her. There’s a part of me that wonders if she knew who I was all along.”

  Olivia stares at me, her expression soft. “You really think she was deceiving you?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. That’s the issue.”

  I power through work, focused on the three o’clock meet-up time. I cruise through contracts, review more marketing plans, make calls, and even conduct some of the other phone interviews Jennica has set up for the rollout.

  Later that day, Carson and I go over the early numbers in my office. He’s nervous, shaking his knee as we chat. “We can stave off ShopForAnything. It’s looking good so far, and I want everything to go well.”

  “Yeah, me too.” I give him a curious look. “Hey, are you okay? You seem out of sorts today.”

  He sighs heavily. “Yeah, sorry. My mom is starting radiation next week.”

  My heart sinks. “Sorry, man. How is she doing? Do you need to take some time off to help her out?”

  He shakes his head. “No, she’ll be okay. I just want to make sure everything here launches without a hitch. I can’t afford to let ShopForAnything chase us down right now, know what I mean?”

  I nod. I do know. He’s worried about his job. He doesn’t want to lose it at a time like this in his personal life. He doesn’t want us to be stomped on by the competition.

  “We are going to crush it,” I say with confidence. Complete and utter confidence.

  When he leaves my office, I renew that promise.

  “We’re going to crush it,” I say to myself.

  That’s the reason I can’t dally around with what happens in two weeks scenarios, and I can’t keep firing off flirty texts to the woman from the masquerade party.

  I need to zero in on the goal—leading my company through these rougher waters.

  There will be time, eventually, to think about women, about trust, and about falling for someone.

  But that time isn’t now.

  The trouble is, when I see Sabrina that afternoon at the subway station, I wish she’d stop smiling at me like she was also wanting all the things we can’t have.

  15

  Sabrina

  * * *

  His green eyes gleam as he walks to me on the sidewalk by the Fifty-first Street subway station. He’s holding something in his hand. I can’t quite tell what it is, since his fist is closed. He stops inches away and for a brief moment, I imagine him kissing me on the cheek, or perhaps embracing me with a hello hug.

  My heart beats a little faster. Stupid hopeful thing. />
  Instead, he simply smiles. “Hey.”

  “Hi.”

  “I have something for you.”

  “What do you have?”

  “I conducted a very daring halo-dismantling mission last night. The wire nearly nicked my hand, and the Monopoly money tried to give me paper cuts, but I soldiered on.” Flynn uncurls his fist and hands me the headband.

  I tuck it into my purse. “Thank you. I appreciate you risking life and limb for a hair accessory.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “It’s a favorite of mine.”

  “A duke always tackles dangerous tasks for a lady’s lovely hair,” he says and tingles spread down my chest from that private little reminder.

  I curtsy and nod in a demure thank you.

  His eyes drift toward the subway entrance. “And look. We won’t even have to queue up for the train.” He winks.

  I laugh at the reminder of our clandestine exchange last night, as I give him a furtive once-over. It’s hard not to, since I like looking at him so much now that I can see all of him. Of course, I liked looking at him on Sunday night too, even shrouded by the mask. With it removed, he’s so handsome it hurts, but it hurts so good.

  He wears jeans, brown shoes, and a dark-blue button-down, untucked. The cuffs are rolled up, revealing his forearms. Racquetball arms, I think. When I researched him, I read that he plays racquetball for a hobby, as well as softball, and I wonder if those sports have made him lean and ropey.

  I raise my gaze quickly to his face, cataloging his features.