Sweet Talker

by Robin Bielman

  “Yes.” She lifts a cream-colored handbag off the entry table then steps outside. She smells good enough to break down doors for and I step away to let her lock hers. “A limo?” she says as we walk toward the street and the parked luxury vehicle awaiting us.

  “To the airport.”

  She halts. “What?”

  “The wedding is in Santa Barbara. We’re taking one of our private helicopters.”

  “Ethan, you didn’t tell me that.”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  She purses her lips together. I’d venture she’s annoyed with me and herself. We resume walking. “True. Anything else I should know?”

  “There is one other thing.”

  Benjamin opens the back door of the limo for us. I hold Pascale’s elbow to help her inside. She slides across the leather seat, the slit in her dress exposing her long leg, delicate ankle, and strappy heels. It’s extremely likely I will not be able to keep my hands to myself tonight.

  “Thanks, Ben,” I say before slipping in beside her.

  Ben climbs into the driver’s seat a moment later. “Hi, Ben. I’m Pascale.”

  “Nice to meet you, Pascale. Ethan had nothing but good things to say about you on the drive here.” His eyes dart from her to me in the rearview mirror. “Privacy, Ethan?”

  “Please.” The man is a friend, but did he really need to tell Callie I was talking about her? Once the partition is raised, I turn to her smiling face. Okay, so maybe Ben scored me some points. “The other thing you should know is I’m hoping you’ll pretend to be my girlfriend.”

  She coughs into her fist. “Your girlfriend?”

  “Long story, short, the wedding is for a friend of mine from business school. Last summer he set me up with his fiancée’s best friend. We went on two dates and while she was nice enough there was no spark. When I didn’t call her again, she blew up my phone with texts. I ignored them. About a month ago she texted again, saying she couldn’t wait to see me at the wedding and that she’d missed me.”

  “Did you sleep with her?”

  “No.”

  “But you’re worried she’ll be all over you?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Do you think she could be the snake woman?”

  There’s my bodyguard. “No. She had no problem trying to knowingly get my attention. In your face is more her style. Meredith was ready to run interference and now I hope you will. If necessary.”

  “You know I won’t say no to you, but next time you need my help with something a little warning would be nice.”

  “Noted. And thank you.”

  We make small talk the rest of the way to the airport. Our hands rest near each other on the seat and it’s no accident when my pinkie finger brushes hers. The slight touch makes me twitch behind my zipper. When a minute later she takes the initiative to brush my pinkie finger back, my mind spins with possibilities for the evening.

  “Ever been on a helicopter before?” I ask as the limo comes to a stop on the tarmac.

  “I have actually. But never with a man dressed in a tuxedo.”

  “I’ve never been on one with a woman dressed as gorgeous as you.” I open my door at the same time Ben opens Callie’s.

  “Red’s my favorite color,” she tells me when I take her arm.

  “Tonight, it’s mine too.” Her smile dazzles at my compliment.

  We climb into the chopper, put on our seat belts and headphones. Callie is at ease in a way that tells me she’s flown numerous times. She also has this excited vibe about her like we’re about to embark on the most fun ever.

  Our pilot goes over safety and then we’re airborne.

  A minute in, Callie turns to me with undiluted joy written all over her face. It knocks the wind out of me and I’m overcome with the desire to bring her happiness every time we’re together.

  Pascale

  There’s something about flying that I’ve always loved. Having a bird’s-eye view is exhilarating and fun, and the forty-five-minute flight to Santa Barbara goes far too quickly. After we land, Ethan helps me out of the helicopter and then holds my hand on the walk to the black town car waiting on the tarmac.

  His grip is firm and possessive and tingles travel from my fingertips to my toes. I peek at him out of the corner of my eye. He wears a tux like Captain America wears his Avenger clothes. Hot. Sexy. Strong. All-American appealing. And you just get this feeling that what’s underneath—what makes the man—is just as attractive.

  Pretending to be his girlfriend will be no hardship.

  Risky. But not hard.

  We get comfortable inside the car, Ethan’s knee touching mine. “Tell me about this couple,” I say.

  Ethan talks fondly about his friend, Spencer. They were classmates at Harvard who bonded over coffee and Red Bull. Spencer is now a partner at a financial institution. His bride-to-be, Breanna, is a body double. When A-list actresses like Reese Witherspoon and Keira Knightley don’t want to get naked in their films, Breanna steps in for nudity and sex scenes. From the neck down, she’s very famous, Ethan says.

  “It doesn’t bother Spencer that she’s with actors like that?”

  “No. Bree never kisses them since those shots are done with the lead, and the rest of it is very choreographed with crew all around.”

  “Still. I think I’d feel weird if it was the other way around.”

  “If you trust the other person it’s all good.”

  “Have you ever filmed a sex tape with a girlfriend?” I ask before I can think better of it.

  He rubs his palm over one side of his close-shaven jaw. “Is there a correct answer to this question?”

  “Honesty would be correct.” The second those words leave my mouth, shame crowds the back of my throat. I have to glance away from Ethan’s intense blue eyes.

  “Yes,” he says sincerely, “but we deleted it right afterward. It got my girlfriend off to be filmed, so we did, but I’ve always been cognizant of the fact that if something like that leaked to the public, my family’s name would be tarnished. What about you?”

  “Never done it.”

  “Because no boyfriend ever asked you to?” he fishes. It’s cute and I’m secretly thrilled he wants more info on past boyfriends.

  Until I remember the longest relationship I’ve had was the summer I spent with him. I’ve had plenty of sex, but my professional life makes it difficult to commit to one person. “Correct. How many girlfriends have you had?”

  “Counting you?”

  Heart, meet regret.

  I roll my bottom lip under my teeth. “Yes.”

  “Three.”

  “Recent?” Why I’m torturing myself, I don’t know. Although three isn’t a bad number at all. I wonder if he loved them.

  “No.”

  “Sir,” our driver says, cutting off further discussion. “We’re here.”

  The hotel sits on a bluff with sweeping views of the Pacific Ocean. We hurry through beautifully landscaped grounds until we reach the secluded garden where the ceremony is taking place. Ethan and I find seats near the back row of white padded chairs just before the music starts.

  As the couple takes their vows under a rose-covered gazebo, I notice the maid of honor look directly at Ethan. “Is that her?” I ask him.

  He flinches. “Yes.”

  His shudder bothers me. A lot. What did this woman text to make a strong, six-foot-one, confident man flinch? I take his chin between my thumb and pointer finger and turn his head so I can peer into his eyes and give her something to chew on. “I’ve got you,” I say softly so as not to disturb anyone around us. “You don’t need to worry about her. I can be vicious if I have to be.”

  “Can you now?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “This is that badass side of you again I like so much.” His gaze bores into mine for a few quiet seconds before I release his chin and we turn back to watch the ceremony.

  As the sun sets, the couple exchange “I dos” and the offi
ciant proclaims them husband and wife. To happy, boisterous music, the wedding party makes their way down the aisle.

  “What’s her name?” I whisper in Ethan’s ear as she passes, eyes on him again.

  “Brandi,” he says when she’s out of sight. “With an ‘i.’”

  Weird how he is completely unbothered by the snake woman but Brandi with an “i,” who is petite and has a Southern belle look about her, upsets his equilibrium.

  Cocktail hour follows the ceremony. Ethan and I talk to other guests, have a glass of champagne—which I barely make a dent in; it’s mostly to give me something to do—and brush arms or hands on more than one occasion.

  “Let’s take a walk before dinner,” he says, putting his palm on the small of my back. He steers me down a wide hallway and outside onto a tiled rooftop terrace. A huge white stucco fireplace glows yellow orange, cushioned furniture with oversized pillows lines the perimeter, soft music plays out of hidden speakers. Stars dot the sky and twinkling lights glow beyond the patio.

  Ethan lifts my arm and twirls me to the sound of “My Love” by Paul McCartney. It’s one of the most romantic gestures I’ve ever experienced. Until he brings me flush against his front, wraps an arm around my waist, and slow dances with me. Then it’s the most romantic. I’m so flustered by the move that a nervous giggle escapes my lips.

  “What are you doing?” I ask a little breathlessly.

  “Making this look real.”

  I pretend to pretend I’m cool with that when internally I’m a bundle of nerves wrapped in a bundle of nerves. There’s one other couple standing by the iron railing. When they see Ethan and me dancing, they do the same. A minute later another couple walks onto the terrace and joins our dance party.

  “Looks like you started something,” I say.

  “I could hold you like this all night.” He angles his head to graze his lips near my earlobe and takes a deep breath in. “You smell incredible. Feel that way, too.”

  “Ethan.”

  “Just being honest.”

  “Sometimes that’s not the best policy.”

  He regards me warily. “That’s not what my mother taught me.”

  Ha! It’s his mother’s fault I’m in this predicament. I also can’t fault her for her actions because she did so out of concern for her son.

  Still. The weight of omission presses on my shoulders more and more with each passing day. I hate these circumstances. I hate lying. I hate how easy it is to be with Ethan again.

  “But I get it,” he adds with understanding, and the way he says it, like he knows I’m not being completely honest with him, is unexpected at the same time it’s strangely not.

  “Ethan, there’s something—”

  “There you are, Ethan Auprince. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  At Ethan’s wince, I don’t need to turn to know the voice belongs to Brandi. He releases his hold on me, but laces his fingers securely with mine when we pivot to face her side by side.

  “Hi, Brandi,” Ethan says.

  She comes to a stop in front of us. “Long time no see or talk. How are you?”

  “I’m great. You?”

  “Better now.” She smiles at him like there is no one else on the terrace but the two of them. Her body faintly vibrates, too. Most people wouldn’t notice it, but I’ve protected enough celebrities to spot a superfan when I see one, and Brandi is very excited to see Ethan.

  “This is my girlfriend, Pascale.”

  “Hi, Brandi. Nice to meet you.” Since Ethan is holding my right hand I don’t offer a handshake.

  “Girlfriend?” She’s stunned. “I thought you didn’t want a girlfriend? Ethan and I dated last summer,” she informs me, like it was much more than two dates. “Did he tell you that?”

  “He did.”

  “He’s a catch, isn’t he? I told him as much on our second date. Then I told him I wasn’t like other girls. I thought he’d appreciate that, but in hindsight, maybe it was too much too soon, you know? I just went a little crazy over him.” She waves her arms in the air for emphasis.

  I think she means clingy, but I keep that thought to myself.

  “How long have you two been together? Breanna didn’t mention anything to me.”

  “Two months,” Ethan says at the same time I say, “Two weeks.”

  “Officially two weeks,” I clarify, “but the past two months we’ve been together almost every day.”

  “So, I guess I can’t steal him away from you then.”

  I lift my free arm across my body and wrap it around his, squeezing tight. “You guess right. Ethan is all mine.” I smile, but it’s more like I’m baring my teeth so she gets the message to steer clear. I don’t get a horrible vibe from her, not at all. I think she’s just insecure. And too forward too soon. But best to nip this in the bud.

  “That I am,” he says, kissing my cheek.

  It’s an innocent kiss. I’ve been kissed the same way hundreds of times by friends or work associates. But my body gets a different memo, heating up like I’m a fire swallower or something.

  “Okay. For now.” She winks at him.

  Now I’m hot for an entirely different reason. Is she for real right now? Winking at my boyfriend. Fake boyfriend, Pascale.

  “For always,” he tells her. Aww. If this were real that would have been a really nice thing to say.

  She puts her hands on her hips and tilts her head. “You sure? I texted you about the palm reader I saw who told me I’d met my eternal love and the way she described him was you.”

  Ethan looks at me. See? In-my-face declarations no matter what I say.

  She’s a little misguided, yes.

  Help! I don’t want to hurt her feelings.

  I got this.

  We break eye contact and the mind reading.

  “Brandi,” I say.

  She holds up her hand. “Look, I know I can be a little oppressive, but it’s because I’ve never felt this way about anyone else before.”

  “Likewise,” I say, hoping to appeal to her sense of compassion. “But the difference is Ethan wants to be with me. There’s someone out there for you, I know it. But you won’t find him if you’re pining away for a man you can’t have.”

  “This is not how I saw this night going,” she asserts.

  “Our timing was off,” Ethan says kindly. “I wasn’t looking for anything serious but you made it clear, over and over again that you were. Word of advice? Listen to the other person rather than go full steam ahead. Most guys want to do the chasing, not be chased to the point of discomfort.”

  “How was I to know that when you didn’t return any of my texts?” Her eyes widen, like the lightbulb just went on. “Oh.”

  “Get it now?” I ask gently.

  “Yes.” Her emphatic agreement is laced with an unmistakably incorrigible tone. “Thank you. I know my soul mate is out there somewhere just waiting to meet me.” With that, she turns and strides away.

  Ethan and I let out matching sighs of relief. “Brandi with an ‘i’ is a force to be reckoned with,” I say.

  “Yeah.” He takes both my hands in his so we’re facing each other. “Thanks for the help.” Even though we’re outside, I suddenly feel like there isn’t enough oxygen. The way Ethan looks at me, with sincere appreciation and affection, makes me want to throw every caution aside and kiss him until we’ve made up for the last ten years. My head and heart haven’t forgotten the way we didn’t just kiss that summer. We consumed. Like we couldn’t get enough of one another. It was the purest form of young love, and I find myself wanting to be wrapped up in him all over again.

  I slowly lean forward. “You’re welcome.”

  His eyes dip to my mouth.

  My lips part, a silent invitation for him to please hurry and kiss me senseless. I can’t help myself, even though I know I may regret it later.

  He dips his head, but instead of kissing me, his warm breath fans my ear and he says, “Not here.”

  I’
m disappointed, but also relieved one of us is thinking clearly. He leads me back inside and to the reason we’re together tonight—to celebrate his good friend’s marriage.

  We’re inseparable for the rest of the evening. While seated at a large round table for a delicious filet and lobster dinner, he and I talk about all sorts of things: living in space, if there is a correct way for toilet paper to roll (over not under he says, I say it doesn’t matter), 3D movies yay or nay, and whether or not it’s ever okay to wear socks to bed. We easily move from one topic to the next, lost in our own little world.

  Whenever the band plays a song one of us likes, we hit the dance floor. Ethan isn’t the most coordinated dancer, but what he lacks in rhythm, he makes up for in enjoyment, smiling nonstop. He also looks better than any man has a right to out of his tuxedo jacket with his white shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows and the top two buttons undone. When we slow dance, he holds me close to his hard chest and I want to lick under his collar so badly, but I don’t.

  Ethan drapes his arm over the back of my chair when Breanna’s father gives a heartfelt and funny speech. The tips of his fingers graze my bare shoulder when the best man speech follows. I try unsuccessfully not to shiver at the light touch. All night it’s been impossible to remain immune to anything Ethan does. By the smug smile lifting one corner of his mouth, he knows this, damn him.

  Breanna smears the first piece of cake all over new husband’s face. Spencer is a good sport and doesn’t retaliate. He carefully places a bite in her mouth and follows it with a kiss.

  “I think we can go now. You ready?” Ethan says in my ear.

  “Yes.”

  It’s ten o’clock when we get to the airport. The dark sky is cluttered with bright stars ready to help lead us home and I’m excited for our return flight. Surprise mixes with awe when Ethan climbs into the front seat of the helicopter ready to captain our flight home. Turns out our pilot lives in Santa Barbara and the plan was always for Ethan to fly us back. He just neglected to tell me, the talented devil.

  The ride is even more fun this time, like I’m in the front seat of a roller coaster and about to tip over a gigantic drop. It’s exhilarating. My cheeks hurt from smiling. Ethan is pilotlicious. He talks into his headset nonstop, pointing out certain lights and landmarks. Once again, we arrive at the airport far too soon.