by Sarina Bowen
I whisk the door open.
Several things happen at once. A dust cloud of white bursts from the door. Tom gasps. And a shocking noise vibrates from the rear of the pantry—a deep, primal sound. It’s the sound of someone overtaken by…
A knee-quaking orgasm.
Still, my little brain can’t quite make sense of this until the dust—my organic flour—settles. And then…
I see Ash and Braht, covered head to toe in flour. They’re like two abominable snowmen standing in a pile of…clothes. Because they are naked. Totally naked. Covered in flour. I look down. If Braht really is named after bratwurst, I totally get it, because damn.
“Holy…!” I’m officially flailing. Literally flailing, and shoving my body in front of the door’s opening, hoping the camera angle didn’t catch anything juicy.
But, hey, I’m a professional, so I recover rather quickly. “Holy sausage, I love my new pantry!” Maybe that line seems odd, but it’s the best I can do. We are live, and it’s happening right now, and a girl has to realize that this is a Julia Child moment. WWJC do? I face the camera and give a big, crazy smile. “Sugar, please!” I call over my shoulder. “And step on it.”
There’s the sound of movement behind me, and a canister is placed in my hand.
I slam the pantry door. “Isn’t that a great feature!” I babble.
Tom is doubled over with silent laughter, so it’s possible we just made another accidental porn flick. It’s really surprising how easy it is to do that. Who knew?
“All right,” I say, plunking the sugar down and opening the canister. I add the pinch of sugar to my other ingredients and stir up the batter. If I pretend like nothing happened, the lion’s share of my viewers might not even notice.
This could go down like that ghost boy behind the curtains in that scene from Three Men and a Baby. Weird, but less distracting than you’d think.
Ghost boy. Ghost bratwurst. Same thing?
“Don’t overmix!” I say cheerfully. “The buttermilk will activate the baking soda for a nice rise.”
There are tears rolling down Tom’s face now.
“Then you put your wiener on a stick,” I say, daring the camera to try it. “Like this.” I jam a hot dog onto a wooden skewer and wonder what Braht’s wiener is up to in my pantry.
“Dip…twist…” I coat the hot dog with corn-dog batter. “And, fry!”
I slip the first dog into the fryer. The sizzle covers the sound of Tom’s hysterical hiccups.
And so it goes. I fry. I make slaw. And, on his side of the counter, Tom sobers up enough that I invite him into the shot as I’m plating the food. “You know who I’m going to share this with, right? Mr. Fixit is here. He built this fab kitchen.” I smile at him and beckon.
I can almost hear our live viewership saying “awwww” as Tom steps behind the counter to give me a hug.
“Want the first bite, you big corn dog?” I ask him, holding up a skewer.
“Anytime, anyplace, honeybunch.” He gives me a quick kiss that’s sure to break hearts. “Anything you make me is my new favorite food.”
I hope our viewership is melting, because I surely am.
He picks up another corn dog and hands it to me. We tap them together, as if toasting with glasses of fine champagne. Tom reaches over to tap a button which will play our outro music for the viewers. Then he loops his arm around me and takes another bite.
His computer chimes.
“That’s a wrap!” my honey says.
Then we both burst out laughing.
Tom shuts off the lights and folds me into his arms, his Man Hands landing firmly where they belong: on my ass. He’s still laughing. And kissing me.
Sadie comes in with the girls and frowns at a trace of flour on the floor outside the pantry. “Uh-oh. Looks like there was an accident.”
“Oh, you have no idea!” I say.
“Shut it,” a voice says from behind the pantry door. There’s some shuffling and then Ash finally opens the door, still completely dusted, but at least dressed.
“Not. One. Word.” She smooths her hair. As we all watch, she walks slowly and methodically across the kitchen and to the bathroom.
“She totally hates me,” Braht says, emerging from the pantry.
“She does,” Tom agrees.
“I’m so into that,” Braht says. He grabs a corn dog off the plate.
We all laugh again. Maybe because we’re giddy, maybe because it’s a stress relief, or maybe because seeing Ash walk past us like the Queen of England after getting groped by Mr. Bratwurst is about as amazing as watching a total eclipse.
Tom leans in and whispers in my ear, “I can’t wait to see what you’ll cook up next.”
“Whatever it is, it’ll be an adventure,” I say, because that’s how my life with Tom is. One adventure after another. Awkward, ridiculous, and beautiful all at once.
“Now we eat!” I announce. It’s corn dogs for everyone.
No one—not even Sadie—reaches for the slaw first.
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Man Card Chapter One
Ash
Before getting out of my car, I slip into incognito mode—I tug my blonde hair into a sleek ponytail, pull on my black leather gloves, and lower my shades.
There. Now I’m ready for action.
I’m dressed in skintight black jeans, a black cashmere turtleneck with a sweet cowl neckline and black ankle boots. It’s the perfect cat burglar outfit, while also totally appropriate for cocktails later with my besties, Brynn and Sadie.
Do I have an outfit for everything, or what? It’s my superpower.
Closing the car door with a quiet click, I turn to survey the mansion. It’s gorgeous—a show home on Reed’s Lake. I’m not here to actually steal anything from the homeowner. I’m just here to claim what’s rightfully mine—a big, fat commission for selling this house.
If I get that commission, I’m one step closer to winning the year-end bonus at work. Furthermore, I’ll have outdone my competitor Braht. The world’s most irritating man.
Victory is going to be so sweet.
Ignoring the wrought-iron gates, I sneak through a hole in the boxwood hedge. It’s broad daylight, so anyone could see me. But if I stay close to the hedge and hunch over a bit, maybe I’ll be invisible.
It’s not rational, I know that, but I’m not feeling super rational these days.
The problem is Braht. He brings out all my craziest behavior. I’ve had to put up with him far too often this month as we try to coordinate the sale of this home. It’s all the more reason why I deserve the commission on this house, and he deserves to rub my feet.
I pause because something happens to me when I think of Braht rubbing my feet. What is that peculiar feeling?
Goddammit! It’s a throb! The image of his long, manicured fingers on my instep just makes my loins throb.
Motherfucker.
All the more reason to focus.
I have made it past the perfectly trimmed bushes, and I’m now standing at the giant entrance to the home. It’s a beautiful property that Tom Spanner, my bestie’s boyfriend, owns. He’s selling it so he and Brynn can live in a smaller house on a bigger lake, where they’ll be disgustingly happy together.
That’s all well and good, but I can’t fathom why they had to force Braht and me to work together on this sale. It means I actually have to answer his calls. Just thinking about it steams me up. It’s been a few days since my last yoga class, too.
Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
I reach out with my black gloved hands and commence Operation Suck It, Braht.
The goal: lock him out of the house right before his scheduled showing. I’m changing all the codes on the lockboxes. And then I’ll stick around to watch him squirm. He deserves to squirm a little, if only because he’s the kind of guy who wears khaki shorts and a pink bu
tton-down in October.
But, hey. It’s not like I’ve been checking him out whenever we’re here at the house together. It’s not like I keep noticing his surprisingly muscular legs, or the perpetually tan V of skin on his tight chest…
Fuck. Distraction is dangerous for cat burglars!
So I redirect my focus to the lockboxes, punching in the numbers, performing a little technical voodoo. And...voila! New codes.
Now I feel a new kind of tingle as I picture his face the moment he realizes he’s been had. He’ll fumble then, disappointing his buyers when he can’t get into the house. They’d have to have to use pogo sticks to peek into the upstairs windows.
And no one buys a house they can’t inspect. Not even rich people.
Feeling vindicated, I run back to my car. My heart thuds with excitement, and another emotion, too. I feel...nefarious. And it’s great! Okay, technically it’s bad. But being bad can be exquisite.
In my reckless youth, I let my inner bad girl out more often. It didn’t work out so well, so these days I keep myself on a much tighter leash. But today I can feel her rattling her chain.
I slip into my car and check my vantage point. I’m parked under a beautiful willow tree, where I’ll wait until poor little Brahtie shows up, and I win. The end.
Okay, I’ve been sitting here for three minutes. Three minutes is the entire time I can be evil before I just get bored. Why is he late? Uggghh.
And because I need to be stealthy and watchful, I can’t even listen to music or distract myself by checking my phone. So I’m forced to just sit here and analyze my entire life.
And, let’s face it, my past is like a dark alley I try to stay clear of.
My teen years provided plenty of cringeworthy moments, but those errors were mostly unimportant, like wearing a white T-shirt while canoeing with the football team. I forgive myself for little things like this.
But my grownup regrets are harder to excuse. The first one is a man named Dwight Engersoll. I can’t think too hard about it because it makes me anxious. But suffice it to say Dwight is now safely far away from me. Locked far away. Literally. In the Michigan State Penitentiary.
My second regret? It’s much less traumatic, but I was equally stupid and vulnerable. It involved a pantry, nudity, being coated with flour, and the most mind-blowing orgasm I’ve ever experienced. An orgasm so intense that not only did my toes curl, but they actually cramped.
It was sort of a good cramp, but still. A cramp. I probably shouldn’t regret that sexual experience, because who can actually regret an orgasm that makes you glow? But let me tell you, it was regrettable anyway. First, because the sound of said orgasm was caught and broadcast to ten thousand subscribers on Brynn’s new cooking show, and secondly because I was doing it...with Braht.
Braht!
Just the sound of his name makes my toes curl. Wait. Not in the good post-orgasm way, but in the bad I-hate-him-so-much-I-could-spit way. It’s hard to explain why, since he’s rich, witty and scrumptiously attractive. But if you met him, you’d understand. He’s tall and lanky with floppy golden hair that falls into his face. He wears a shit-eating grin most of the time, along with clothing that’s always, always in pastel colors.
He’s like the reincarnation of James Spader in the eighties, complete with his collar up. He manscapes, gets manicures, and I’m pretty sure he mansplains with the best of them, but when we’re in the same room, the hairs on my arms rise. Also, my nipples harden.
And I am not hitting that again. No ma’am. Nope. Never again. There will be no nipple hardening here. Nipple hardening leads to my brain shutting down, which is often followed by PLC. Poor Life Choices.
Clearly, I cannot afford any more PLC. I’m still picking up the pieces of my life that Dwight destroyed. I was attracted to him, too.
God, I’m really an idiot.
Now Braht is ten minutes late. Ten! It isn’t like him. Not that I pay much attention, but a guy who matches his alligator shirts to his socks is rarely the type to be late.
Maybe his clients aren’t interested after all.
I find myself strangely disappointed by this idea, even though I want the sale all to myself. Then again, if he doesn’t show up, I don’t get the satisfaction of watching him squirm. And, ohhhhhhh, I want to see him squirm.
I hunker down, and check my phone, which I’ve wired up to show me the feed from the mansion’s front door. Nothing yet and then, finally…!
The wrought-iron gate swings open! And there he is!
He’s driving a station wagon that’s a...convertible? A wood-paneled station wagon convertible, circa 1977. What is WRONG with this man? There’s a couple in the car with him, and they’re all laughing gaily together.
Though not for long, right?
He pulls into the driveway, turns off the car, and a smile slowly spreads across my face. My nipples are hard, but they’ll calm down. Braht has no idea what’s in store for him. I laugh a little, maniacally, because come on. When you have the opportunity for a maniacal laugh, you take it.
I start the stopwatch feature on my phone and wait.
Sixty seconds: no sign of the station wagon’s departure, but they’re probably chatting on the front steps.
Two minutes: Nothing. No panicky texts. I know they’ll start rolling in any minute.
Four minutes: Hmm. He probably decided to show the grounds first. Our friend Tom is a master gardener along with being a kickass builder. He did the most incredible landscaping. It’s droolworthy.
Ten minutes: Okay, there aren’t that many shrubberies to ogle. Any second now, Braht will realize I’ve burned him. Burrrrrn!
Fifteen minutes: The house has three entrances. He’s obviously trying his code on all of them. Repeatedly.
Twenty minutes: OH KILL ME ALREADY HOW LONG DOES A GIRL HAVE TO WAIT TO CLAIM SWEET VICTORY?
A long time, it seems.
Eventually, the suspense proves too much for me. Since I’m still wearing the best cat burglar outfit ever (with sparkly black round-toed ankle boots. Did I mention the shoes?), I quietly open my car door and get out to investigate.
As I creep toward the gate again, the willow tree and the fabulous boxwood hedge provide just the right amount of cover. I can’t let him spot me, not until his buyers give up and leave, and I can emerge as the winner.
Peeking around the hedge, I see the station wagon, parked at a jaunty angle on the white pebbled circular drive. I can’t risk those pebbles, they’ll crunch underfoot. So I stick to the grass, crouching down and bolting across the lawn toward the exterior wall of the house. I’m there in a flash.
Seriously, I’m acing this. It deserves an achievement sticker in my planner. Since I don’t have any stickers for being stealthy, I’ll probably just go with a cute running shoe sticker. But first, more recon.
Crouching under a dining room window, I listen for voices. And I hear one! It’s...Ella Fitzgerald. Coming from inside the house!
But that can’t be right. The place was quiet a half hour ago.
There are really two possibilities. Maybe the ghost of Ella haunts Tom’s mansion. Although there was no mention of ghosts on his disclosure form. Or, worse, someone has made it inside that house and is now playing music.
Fuck. It’s possible I’ve been outwitted. It’s rare these days, but no one is infallible.
I need to stand up straight and look inside, because A) I need to know if I’ve been beaten and B) my thighs are burning from crouching beside this window.
Slowly, I raise my head until I can see over the sill, and what I see inside floods me with anger. Braht and the laughing couple are still laughing. But they’re doing it seated around Tom’s gleaming dining table. Worse, there’s a silver tea service on a shining tray, and they’re all holding Noritake teacups in one hand and finger sandwiches in the other.
Finger sandwiches!
Tea!
Noritake!
My stomach growls. Or maybe that was just a regular, angry gr
owl. He’s having a fucking tea party in there. I’m going to kill him dead.
Somehow my anger announces my presence. The next thing I know, Braht has locked gazes with me. And he smiles.
My blood pressure doubles as he gets up, gallops around the table and cranks the window open. “Why, Ashley! What are you doing out there in Tom’s chrysanthemum bed?”
“I’m…” My panic only lasts a nanosecond, and the part of my psyche that’s willing to beat Braht at any cost comes roaring back, and I realize I need to double down on my deception. “The lockbox combination isn’t working. What did you do?”
His smile only widens. “Come around to the front, honey bear. I’ll let you in.”
Having no choice, I stomp out of the mums in my killer boots and around to the front door.
Braht
I swallow a bite of the most delectable cucumber and smoked salmon sandwich as I dance toward the front door. Life is good. I have quality tunes on Tom’s sound system, and gourmet snacks.
And, I’ll be honest, I’m totally turned on right now. Ash brings out the beast in me when we compete. I have to hand it to her. She’s proving herself to be a formidable opponent. The lockbox trick was a good effort.
Unfortunately for her, I anticipated this maneuver and wore shorts to work today. After a quick apology for the delay, I left my clients to enjoy the lake view from Tom’s exquisite patio while I waded out beside the dock to the fourth lockbox on the boathouse door.
The one that Ashley missed.
Then I jogged down the boathouse stairs, into the tunnel connecting it to the main house, put on the kettle for tea, arranged my nom noms on a tray, and then invited my clients into Tom’s home for a tea party.
I have cookies for dessert. The whole thing is a piece of cake, really. They don’t call me The Closer for nothing.
When I swing open the front door, Ash is standing on the front porch looking fabulous—all long legs and cashmere-wrapped tits and perfect cheekbones. With a defiant look on her face that always makes me hard.
