by Lili Valente
Graham frowns. “Okay, numbers can be sexy, but my advice isn’t crap. The sex is amazing, or you wouldn’t be in deep this fast. And, being practical, the two of you have more than a few shared interests.” He ticks off on his fingers. “Great sex, common interests, and solid conversation with a woman who’s as kind to the people serving her tea as she’d be to a friend. What more do you need in a life partner?”
Life partner…
That phrase would usually make me gag a little. Or, at the very least, make me take a moment to reflect that my history with relationships isn’t great. I probably shouldn’t rush into anything. Lessons learned and all.
But Gigi would be an amazing partner. And spending a hell of a lot more time with her—maybe even a lifetime—isn’t a scary thought.
It’s more like the first sip of a perfectly cream-and-honeyed cup of Lapsang souchong, a tempting treat that makes me eager for more.
“Not to mention that she’s insanely gorgeous,” Graham says, taking a sip of his tea.
I look up fast. “What? You saw her? When? When we were leaving the party?”
“No, outside. Maybe twenty minutes ago.” He motions toward the street. “She and Abby were chatting on the corner by the shoe store before I came in. They looked friendly.”
I jump to my feet then immediately sit back down. “I can’t force my sister to tell me everything Gigi said to her and then announce I’m dropping out of the competition. That would be madness.”
Graham chuckles. “Maybe not madness, but very middle school.”
I drag a hand through my hair, fighting temptation for another hot second before I say, “Be right back,” and bolt through the door into the shop, across the indoor seating area, and behind the counter.
There, Abby is ringing up a man in a pork pie hat that instantly makes me think of Gigi—the woman has invaded every damn corner of my mind. And I love it. I truly do.
I force myself to let Abby finish the transaction. But the man has scarcely turned away before I’m beside her, demanding, “Gigi. What did she say to you? Tell me everything.”
Abby grins up at me and winks. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“I love you dearly. So don’t make me strangle it out of you. I’d like to move forward without marring our sibling bond.”
She giggles and reaches beneath the counter, pulling out a small wooden jewelry box. “She just wanted to welcome me to the neighborhood. She gave me a gift certificate for the super cute shoe store on the corner and this. For you.”
I take the box reverently. “For me?”
“Yeah, open it,” she says, making shooing motions with her hands. “I’m dying of curiosity. She was so cute when she handed it over.”
“Cute?” I turn the box over, but nothing shifts inside. “In what way? Aside from the obvious, of course.”
“A little shy, a little flushed.” Abby bobs her brows as she adds in a singsong, “I think someone might have a crush on my big brother.”
“No, she doesn’t,” I say in a tone that gives away how much I’d like for that—and something much more serious than that—to be true.
A tone that doesn’t escape my sister’s notice.
“Aw, and you have a crush, too! Perfect. You’re going to make delicious babies together.” She sighs happily. “Just stunning little creatures. No doubt in my mind. I’m excited already. I call dibs on hosting the first baby shower. You should have three. Or four. Babies, not showers.”
Before I can tell her to stop being ridiculous and give me the goods already, a woman pushes through the front door and steps up to the counter. “Do you still have raspberry scones? I tried some of my girlfriend’s after yoga, and I’m dying for at least six more.”
While Abby makes our customer’s scone dreams come true, I open my present, creaking open the lid to reveal a fine pair of cufflinks. They’re small and a bit tarnished—must be antique—and in the shape of tiny teacups complete with a teabag string dangling down the side. A note folded into the top of the box reads—The scared part of me said not to buy these or to let you know how often you’re on my mind. But the hopeful part said these were made for you and you simply must wear them to the competition today. And that it’s okay to let you know that I think of you warmly and fondly…and often with wet panties. ;) Good luck today. You’re going to need it, boyfriend! xo–Gigi
“Damn,” I mutter, my throat tight and my chest…warm.
Very warm.
I’m in deep fucking trouble.
I don’t want to compete with this woman. I want to cheer her on and buy her a beautiful meal to celebrate her victory. And maybe some really expensive jewelry because she’d be stunning in a sapphire necklace the same color as her eyes.
And nothing else.
“I’m going to break your heart,” I tell Abby as she returns to my side, trusting the knot in my gut that says this competition isn’t for me. Not anymore. “I’m so sorry.”
Abby leans against the counter and props a hand on her fist. “Okay, break away.”
“I’m serious,” I insist.
She laughs. “No, you’re not. You would never, could never break my heart. You’re my big brother, the best person I know, and secretly a big squishy teddy bear.”
I frown. “You’re the second person to say something like that today. I’m not squishy. I’m fierce and determined and brave enough to tell you that,” I stop to draw a fueling breath, “I’m going to drop out of the competition.”
Abby makes a “huh” sound but doesn’t look all that surprised. “All right. But Gigi won’t want you to. She’ll want to beat you. If you drop out, you’ll deprive her of that pleasure.”
I frown harder. “You’re wrong. She wants to win, and she’ll have a better chance of that if I’m out of the running.”
“She wants to win and beat you and then spend all night kissing it better at your place to heal your wounded man-pride. Trust me. I have good instincts about things like this. She got a spark in her eye when she talked about the contest. Reminded me of you.”
I pause, pondering her words. “I guess we are similar in that way.”
“You guess?” She laughs. “And how would you feel if she dropped out to clear your path to victory.”
I scowl again. “Awful. I’d rather lose to her fair and square.”
Abby tips her head. “And there you go. But you could make her the offer, just to be sure. And then you two should find something to be fiercely competitive about together. You’ll have more fun if you’re on the same team.”
The same team. With Gigi.
It sounds like the way I want to end every day and wake up every morning.
“I’m going to head out a little earlier than planned,” I say. “Is that all right?”
“Of course. I told you to leave earlier. Sometimes the trains to Coney Island are slow on Fridays, and you don’t want to be late for the competition.”
“No, I don’t,” I murmur, heading for the door only to spin around and head back to the garden to say goodbye to my friend.
But Graham is already on his way through the dining area to the counter and waves me off. “Go. Profess your love. I’ll touch base later. And good luck, whatever you decide.”
I lift a hand to him, and then to Abby, indicating that she should give Graham whatever he wants at no charge, and then I leave before he can start a fight about it.
I have too much to get done before four o’clock to waste even a second. I have a woman to woo and charm and convince that the hopeful part of her is my favorite part.
Because I’m hopeful too, and I aim to prove it.
23
Gigi
I step out of the subway at the Coney Island stop and make my way down the ramp. My heart is pounding restlessly even before a homeless woman in a prom dress nearly mows me down with her shopping cart by the entrance to the boardwalk.
I’m losing my cool. All of it.
And not because it’s eighty-five
degrees and I’m starting to have serious concerns about my ice cream treat surviving long enough to be judged in this heat.
No, I’m nervous because instead of retreating to safer ground I went and crawled out onto an even skinnier, spindlier limb.
Those antique teacup cufflinks at the local flea market I visited during my lunch break were too perfect for West not to be purchased. One does not simply ignore a gift from the shopping gods. But I could have bought them and set them aside for a later date or a special occasion. I didn’t have to immediately gift them to him with a brutally honest note about My Feelings.
And yes, I bought a cover present for his sister too, but I’m not fooling anyone. Not myself. And not West, I’m sure.
He’s very smart. It’s one of the things I like best about him, in fact. His big sexy brain. And I’m sure that big sexy brain of his knows exactly what a big deal that present and that note are for me.
And surely, he’s received both by now.
Abby promised to give them to him before he left for the competition.
But it’s been a while.
I check my phone as I wander down the crowded boardwalk toward the Mr. or Mrs. Sweet Stuff tent, this time set up by the carousel beside the beach.
Yep, nearly three hours since I made the drop. And I haven’t heard from West. Not a call or a text or so much as a sparkly-eyed emoji to communicate his feelings about my feelings.
I tell myself he was slammed at the shop and then probably rushing around to get ready for the contest and just hasn’t had the chance to text.
But I’m still nervous.
Fidgety.
So on edge that when a low voice purrs behind me, “Excuse me, are these ears taken?” I jump several inches in the air and let out a squeal that makes everyone in front of me turn to stare.
I wave at the concerned Coney Island citizens—tourists, clearly, judging by the gaudy T-shirts and the hands full of hot dogs and overpriced cotton candy—and turn to West.
“You can’t sneak up on me,” I say with a laugh as I swat at the general vicinity of his stomach. “I’m high strung before battle.”
“Sorry.” He looks gorgeous in a white button-down, navy tie, and a gray suit vest and pants with his cooking bag slung over his shoulder.
I can’t resist the urge to reach out and tweak his collar. “You look amazing.”
“Same to you, gorgeous.” His gaze gobbles me up in a way that makes me feel gorgeous—and silly for being nervous. Clearly West is every bit as happy to see me as I am to see him. He holds out his wrist with a grin. “Thank you for the gift. They’re perfect.”
I glance down, taking his hand in mine and spinning the little teacup cufflink with a satisfied sigh. “They are. If I do say so myself. Which I do.”
“And you should.” He reaches into his pocket with his free hand. “I was so touched that I had to get you a little something in return.”
Beaming, I accept the medium-sized blue velvet jewelry box. “Oh, you didn’t have to. I love giving gifts, but I never expect anything in return.”
“Of course you don’t, because you’re lovely, inside and out,” he says, making my heart squeeze and my throat a little tight.
God, it feels like I’ve been waiting my whole life to hear that. And to see someone look at me like I’m the best gift he’s ever found under his Christmas tree or anywhere else.
“But it’s high time someone spoiled you the way you deserve,” he continues, nodding toward the box. “We’ll start with this and carry on with the spoiling after the contest. Assuming you’re free and interested in spending some time with your boyfriend?”
Ohhh.
Well, hello there, yummy word.
It’s exactly what I want. Precisely what I was hoping for, but I hardly dared to let myself believe he’d be ready for that so soon.
But he is, and I am giddy with happiness from one perfect word that sums up what he is to me.
I grin harder. “The answer to both is yes.” I lower my voice and add with more confidence than I feel, “And don’t tell anyone, but I feel very fizzy inside when you talk about being my boyfriend.”
He laughs. “Good. Now open it, woman, the suspense is killing me.”
“Okay.” I creak open the box, expecting something sweet and pie-themed in keeping with my gift. Instead, I reveal a pair of tasteful but clearly insanely fucking expensive sapphire and diamond chandelier earrings. My jaw drops. “Those aren’t…real. Are they?” I ask, though my sparkly-sense has never failed me before.
“Of course, they are,” he scoffs. “I’m not going to buy you rot-gut jewelry that’ll turn your lovely ears green.” He reaches into his bag. “Try them on. And if you decide you’d rather return them for something else, that’s completely fine.”
My jaw fully unhinges, but I finally manage to stammer as I slip the earrings in, “Shut your face. I’m not taking them back. I may never take them off. They’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Nah,” he says, though he’s clearly pleased as he grabs his phone from his pocket, turns it to selfie mode, and holds it up in front of me. The makeshift mirror gives me an up-close-and-personal view of the stunning jewelry. He seems even more delighted with the way I melt when he adds, “You’re the most beautiful. But the stones do match your eyes. I hoped they would.”
The line should sound cheesy, I suppose. But the way he says it—so offhand, like he’s simply announcing a commonly known fact—makes me want to laugh and cry and kiss him all at the same time.
I decide kissing is the best call and jump into his arms, making him laugh as he tries to juggle his bag, his phone, and me all at once.
But he manages. Of course, he does.
He’s West and he’s amazing.
And he’s mine.
For real, mine, and he seems to like me just as I am. Or…even better, the way I’ve always wanted to be if I weren’t so gun-shy when it comes to relationships.
“I love them so much,” I say as I kiss his cheek, leaving a lipstick mark behind. “Love, love, love.”
“I’m so glad,” he says as he sets me back on my feet. “I was looking for a necklace, but they didn’t have any that were just right. I’m a picky bastard when it comes to jewelry.”
A part of me wants to stress about how many women he’s bought jewelry for before me, but I ignore that voice. I don’t have to be jealous of the women from his past. Because I’m his present, and maybe his future.
I reach up to cup his face and sigh. “This is going to make it much harder to relish crushing you beneath my high-heeled Mary Janes in round two.”
“Yeah, about that,” he says, and then his mouth keeps moving and he says things that are so wonderfully generous and sweet that for a moment I’m struck full force by an insane thought—He loves me. Like, really loves me—but thankfully I realize how crazy that is before I say something stupid.
He just isn’t as serious about cooking or this competition as I am.
Or…something.
Or maybe his competitive streak is taking a day off.
Whatever it is, I hurry to assure him, “No way! Stop it. I wouldn’t dream of asking you to drop out.”
“You’re not asking. I’m offering,” he says. “And I truly don’t mind, either way. It’s your call. I just wanted you to know the offer was on the table, if you think it might help you win.” He clears his throat and looks around, before leaning in to add in a faux confidential voice of his own, “I’m pretty keen to date the next Mrs. Sweets. It’s a status thing. Make my friends wickedly jealous.”
I grin and tease, “You’ll still get to date her. You’ll just have to get beaten by her first.” I take his hand. “Come on. No dropping out. We’re in this to the end. Or until my ice cream melts into a puddle and I’m disqualified.”
He groans as we start toward the tent, hand in hand. “Fucking hot as balls out here. I don’t know what they expect us to do in this weather. Hard to achieve cu
linary brilliance with the heat and the wind blowing sand into everything and tourists tracking hypodermic needles into the tent.” He wrinkles his nose at the beach. “I actually tried to walk across the sand the first time I was here. Won’t make that mistake again. It’s a bloody hazardous waste dump out there.”
I laugh. “Oh, but it’s so much better than it used to be. You have no idea. It used to be super dirty. Scary, too.”
As we stroll, I regale him with stories of the creepy Coney Island freak show my dad took my brother and me to when I was seven. “Harrison had to lead me through it like a blind person,” I add, “because I was too terrified to open my eyes.”
“Good brother,” West observes. “I’d like to meet him. Since you’ve already completely seduced my sister, I figure I should start getting on your brother’s good side sometime soon.”
I nod and squeeze his hand a little tighter. “You should. It’ll be easy. He’ll like you.” I grin. “So, Abby likes me, huh?”
“Love at first sight,” he says. “You’d better watch out or—” He breaks off with a glare as we near the tent. “What is that wretched man up to now?”
I follow his gaze to see Hawley in a yellow polo shirt crouched beneath one of the cook stations, taking the bottom off one of the ice-cream makers with a screwdriver.
Before I can warn West that we should go to one of the organizers instead of calling out another contestant for potential foul play, West is jogging across the wooden pier and into the tent, clearly ready to rumble.
24
West
I can count the times I’ve hit a man on one hand.
On two fingers, in fact.
Once when I was on holiday in Greece and some drunk wanker thought I’d touched his girlfriend’s arse—I hadn’t—and threw the first punch.
