Have Me

by Anne Marsh

  “Just so we’re clear, you’re volunteering to be the orgasm fairy, my sexual guru and my farm boy?”

  His face pokers up as he works through my list. “Farm boy?”

  He can’t be serious. “Princess Bride? The helpful, do-anything guy Buttercup keeps around her farm for fetching and carrying?”

  Liam blinks at me. “Do I need to know more or should I just assume that everything I see goes back in your truck?”

  “Farm boy grows up and becomes a really successful pirate.” I pat his arm, taking a moment to appreciate the muscles beneath his sleeve. “You have lots in common. Jars, hive, tables, chair, tent all go back in the truck.”

  I point to each item as I rattle them off. Boxing things up seems like a big step down for a man who runs a billion-dollar company, but he offered.

  “How much for the shirts?” He motions toward the small stack of Hey Honey Farm T-shirts on the far end of the table. They’re bright yellow with a frisky cartoon bee getting it on with a flower on the front. As usual, they’ve been my bestseller today.

  “On the house.” Frankly, I’d pay to see Liam in one of those. He’s always so put together and dignified.

  He groans and pulls out his wallet. “You can’t give things away, Hana. That shirt cost you money to produce, plus you have intellectual capital sunk in it.”

  We both eye the copulating bee on the front, clearly coming to the same conclusion. That’s not intellectual capital sunk in my design. He hands me a twenty and I dutifully make change from my cashbox while he sorts through the pile for something that will fit.

  When he finds one—of course it’s the XL—he sets it on top of the table and then his fingers go to his tie. Loosen the knot slowly while he watches me with his bedroom eyes. Undo his shirt buttons, one neat, orderly flick of his fingers after another. It’s just a shirt, Hana. You’ve seen him naked before. Even before our drunken lovefest at Château Sin, Liam had occasionally gone shirtless around me. Not as often as I’d have liked, but his chest wasn’t terra incognita. I could be totally cool, right?

  Naked Liam.

  I stare while he strips off the tie, and the dress shirt follows with a loose shake of his shoulder. Rats. He’s wearing a perfectly respectable white T-shirt underneath. While I mourn his not-nudity, he sets the tie on top of his suit jacket and then folds his shirt with retail-store-precision into a neat rectangle.

  His fingers curl around the edge of the T-shirt and slowly tug upward. My breath catches and Mrs. Abernathy lets out a wolf whistle.

  I clap enthusiastically because oh my God, playful Liam is the sexiest thing ever. He hums something as he teases the shirt up over his perfect abs and then pulls it over his head. For a moment our eyes meet and then he winks at me, giving the shirt a saucy twirl in the air, before he treats it to the same meticulous folding job.

  The sight makes parts of me melt, and not just the sex parts, although those are definitely paying attention, too. He just looks happy and a little goofy and nowhere near as remote as he usually does.

  “You’re hired.” I slip my fingers underneath his belt and his pants to tuck the handful of dollar bills from his change into the waistband of his boxer briefs.

  I’m not surprised that he spends the next hour methodically working through my usual closing tasks. He charms the last few customers into buying honey. He loads the unsold jars back into their crates and then shifts those crates to the back of my truck. He breaks down my tables and awning, fitting the equipment neatly into the bed around all the crates, although my lack of tie-down cables concerns him.

  His Hey Honey Farm T-shirt hugs his perfect chest and I spend more time admiring the way his biceps bulge as he effortlessly moves my stuff around than I care to admit. He may have a big, bastardy brain that’s disgustingly good at making money, but it’s not all he does. Finally, though, we have everything in my truck and the beehive strapped in the spot of honor in the passenger-side seat. I fidget, not sure what to do next.

  “Thanks. I appreciate the help.”

  He tips his head, acknowledging my thanks, and snags a honey-and-cracker taster from the tray on the table.

  “Help yourself,” I say.

  He winks. “Your honey tastes amazing.” I’m pretty sure there’s a dirty joke in there, but before I can respond, he snaps into what I’ve decided is Pirate Liam mode, all take-charge and corsair-y. “Friday is a weekday. Come to my place.”

  “Normal people consider Friday night part of the weekend,” I point out. “That’s when the fun starts. Your raunchy sex party could be considered an example.”

  He gives me a dubious look. “Arguably, that was a business event.”

  “Seriously?” God, billionaires are weird.

  “Seriously.” Humor twinkles in his eyes. “You can make all sorts of connections there. People are relaxed, their guards down.”

  “Naked,” I interject. “It’s naked business. Yuck.”

  He rocks back on his heels. “It’s a business I’m out of, seeing as how I’m married.”

  Should I go there? Absolutely not. Instead, I wave a hand at my truck. “I have to take that home. There’s honey to harvest, combs to straighten. Plus, the bees don’t just look after themselves. I have to check their water, and since these guys can be bullies, I have to make sure the stronger hives aren’t trying to rob the weaker ones or it’ll be outright bee war. And I have to look in on the queens and make sure they’re laying well.”

  “You’re a bee Peeping Tom.” The laughter is back in his eyes.

  Also? The man has a tiny dimple. How did I not know that?

  He follows me over to my truck and opens the door for me, motioning for me to get in. I do, feeling a whole new fondness for my vehicle as I remember what we did in the bed of my truck. I’d like to drag him into the cab and ride him like a cowgirl.

  While I contemplate mauling him, he pulls a sleek silver pen out of the suit jacket he’s draped over his arm. Then he picks up my hand and scrawls a scary-looking series of digits on the back.

  “Are you giving me the nuclear missile launch code?”

  “Gate code. I’ll text you my address.” He cups the back of my head and pulls me into him for a quick, hard kiss. “Go put the bees to bed for the night and then come to my house. Or I can follow you to yours.”

  I look down at my hand. Somehow, while he’s been kissing me, he’s gotten my rings back on my hand. I hold them up so they catch the sunlight like the world’s most expensive prism. They cost way too much and I should be making plans to sell them and donate the money to a food bank. But I can’t even pretend to think about it. My weakness for all things Liam is shameful. I conned him into marrying me in a moment of drunken weakness and now I’m essentially taking his money, which makes me at best like all his other girlfriends and at worst some kind of weird gold digger. I don’t like this version of me. And I still don’t want to take off his rings.

  CHAPTER TEN

  FLIGHT, GO!

  Liam

  WHEN HANA DRIVES off in her beat-up truck, waving out the window, it’s all I can do not to follow her. Objectively, chasing is a poor dating strategy, so it stands to reason it would make a poor marital building block. Also, I make her nervous—at least when I don’t have my hand in her panties—and she clearly needs some space to process the terms of our new agreement. She came on my fingers, so I’m counting that as both a win and an enthusiastic yes. I’ll debauch her a little—she’ll polish me up socially a little. Everyone wins.

  I head back to my car and make it into the city in record time. Traffic laws may possibly have been broken, but since there’s no evidence, I can deny it. When I pull up in front of my house on Lombard Street and punch in the ten-digit gate code, it’s still light out. My real estate agent had tried to sell me on a sleek penthouse in one of the exclusive residential towers in the Financial District, but I�
�d wanted my own space and the ability to come and go without saying a word to anyone. Condos are just upscale dorms—you pass a hundred people in the hallway and everybody knows who’s throwing a party. Housekeeping comes three times a week and a service stocks my kitchen, but otherwise my place is a ten-thousand-square-foot fortress of solitude with killer city views.

  Hana will give me shit for having enough space to house a small European village, but I plan to convince her to move in anyhow. I’m not bee farm material and I have a pool. She can swim and look at the Bay at the same time. Hana’s crazy for water, so I’m hoping that’ll convince her.

  I take a quick shower and then throw on jeans and an ancient MIT T-shirt. My new Hey Honey Farm shirt isn’t smelling too fresh after loading her truck, so I toss it in my hamper and then I stare at my phone, willing her to text that she’s on her way.

  It’s possible she’s not home yet. Marin traffic is slow, and too many dumbasses try to make up for lost time once they break free from the gridlock. There have been accidents and Hana lives pretty far out on some super-windy roads.

  I fire off a quick text, checking to make sure she’s made it home safely. Then I map her route here on my phone, realizing it’s going to take her at least an hour to drive down. I should have gone with her or asked about how she was feeling, but all I could think of was getting her here and in my bed.

  I make arrangements for a pitcher of margaritas to be delivered.

  I order dinner.

  I may stew.

  I’m allowed one more text, I decide. Just to make sure she’s not upside-down in a ditch with two thousand angry bees.

  You don’t need to hand-feed each bee. You know that, right?!

  Her silence is suspicious. I’m considering driving up there just to check on things when my phone finally buzzes with an incoming text.

  Busy being a busy bee!

  After half an eternity more, she texts to let me know she’s about to leave and that I should be ready to start my “good guy transformation.” It sounds as if I should have ordered a cape and maybe some tights instead of Chinese, but I’m willing to play along.

  Need list of good guys plz

  There’s only a brief pause before she responds, so I suspect she’s put the bee maintenance on hold. For someone who’s supposed to be tearing down to my place, she’s certainly taking her time.

  Why?

  As answers go, it’s highly unsatisfying.

  For my vision board. Need inspiration for my transformation

  She texts back a list:

  Han Solo

  Professor Snape

  Sir Patrick Stewart

  Diego the saber-toothed tiger

  Gandalf

  I do a quick internet search that just confirms my suspicions that most of the guys on Hana’s list are fictional and that the tiger dude is actually a baby-eating-wannabe from an animated film who has a change of heart and becomes a foster dad instead.

  Hana sets a high bar. It’s not as if I have a ton of real-life examples to choose from. My earliest memories of my dad are of him leaving, a departure typically accompanied by a percussion of slamming doors, yelling and car tires. Both he and my mother liked to make their points with auditory aids. He never stuck around for long, although until I was eight or nine, he did come back every few months. He’d drink, they’d fight, and he’d wake up and remember nothing. I’m already more like him than I should be.

  Because personal safety is important, I refrain from blowing up her phone with messages while she’s driving. Instead I send a quick Bee safe and unpack the dim sum that arrives on my doorstep. Then I wait.

  And wait.

  I’ve seen Hana drive, so I know it’s not the speed limit holding her up. I’m considering sending out a search party when she finally texts an SOS. My city house is screened from the rest of Lombard Street by some very clever landscaping, although I’m certain she can’t miss the enormous fence—or the multilevel contemporary mansion behind it. I go out and spot her half a block in the wrong direction. When she pulls up, I show her how to punch in the code so the gate slides open, revealing the decadence of off-street private parking.

  As soon as she’s maneuvered her boat of a truck into a spot next to my Veyron and killed the engine, I pop the passenger-side door and grab her bag.

  She pats my arm. “You just passed the first test.”

  “In learning how to be a good guy?” When she nods, I grin at her. “Bring it. I’ll be a cartoon character next.”

  She makes mock saber-tooth fangs, which is cute, and we manage to fill the time it takes to get from the truck to the house with her reprise of the key plot point in the Ice Age movie. There are apparently multiples of this thing and everyone but the baby hooks up and gets married. I’m sure his time will come, too.

  Things get less cute, however, once we’re inside. I’m not trying to dangle my money in her face—that’s not a negotiating tactic that will work with Hana—but it is part of who I am. I’ve worked for it, and my available square footage is commensurate with my bank account balance. Tastefully. The house has won more than one architectural award and for a while it had the distinction of being the most expensive property for sale on the San Francisco market. My real estate agent still sends me Christmas presents three years later.

  “Wow.” Hana stares around her. I try to see my place through her eyes, but then I give up, mostly because up until now she’s been wrapped up like a fluffy pink burrito in some kind of shawl or poncho. She shrugs it off and I’m speechless. Like someone slapped duct tape over my mouth or hit the mute button on a conference call, because there are a million words beating inside my head and trying to come out, but nothing makes it.

  So far I’ve mostly seen Hana in her flowy dresses or giant hoodies and faded Levi’s. Date-night Hana is even more spectacular. She’s wearing a lacy white tank top that dips low over her chest and hugs her curves. Her farm-ready jeans have been traded for a pair of white leggings that showcase her legs and ass. A soft gray cardigan slides down one shoulder toward a pair of cute, slouchy knit boots because even though it’s summer, San Francisco is notorious for its cool weather. Her outfit’s soft and sexy in a way that makes me want to pull her into my arms and hang on.

  “So,” she says. “Here we are.”

  She peers at me and then she starts giggling. Within seconds, she’s full on snort-laughing, smacking her hand across her mouth as if that will somehow help. I lean a shoulder against the door frame and decide to wait her out.

  “Oh my God.” She sucks in air as if she’s dying. “We’re like a bad porno, right? Or one of those books where two people decide they just have to get married for Reasons and now they’re trying to figure out how you politely ask for sex.”

  “You can ask however you want.” I change my mind about waiting and shove off the door frame. “We can practice that as part of your bad-girl lessons.”

  It may be wishful thinking, but her eyes soften. “You’re doing the prowly thing.”

  And then she giggles again.

  I hook an arm around her waist and toss her over my shoulder. Her chest brushes my back and she shoves her hands into my back pockets. I’m not sure if she actually thinks I might drop her or what, but she feels amazing. I promptly remember the way she felt underneath me in bed, and I’d very much like to repeat the sensation.

  I decide margaritas are called for and head in the direction of my outdoor bar.

  “Are we getting naked?” She gives up groping me and wraps her arms around my waist.

  I pat her butt with the hand that’s not positioned perilously high on her thigh. “I thought I’d feed you first, if that’s okay.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it seems like a nice-guy thing and we’re taking turns?”

  I stride outside and set her down carefully. Her hair is a ca
sualty of our play, exploding out of the fantastical twist thing she’s had it confined in on top of her head. The whole pile shifts left and she automatically grabs it and undoes it the rest of the way. I fight the urge to bury my fingers in it.

  Hana opts for dinner outside because “city views are awesome.” There are terraces and a pool on three different levels and the landscape architect has divided them into outdoor “rooms.” Running a bee farm is impressive, but people give her shit that it’s a losing business proposition. She shrugs it off as “just money” and after helping her tear down her stand this afternoon, I can attest that she knows how to work hard. Still, I’m glad that for tonight at least, she’s willing to enjoy what I can give her.

  Tonight that’s going to be mango margaritas and Chinese takeout from my favorite dim sum place in Chinatown. I may have helped fix a small financial difficulty the owners found themselves in, so I get stuff that’s not on the menu. Tonight’s haul includes pork buns, four different kinds of dumplings, shrimp balls and fried pastry stuffed with barbecued pork. Hana’s ridiculously excited about how I “have an entire lawn on my roof” and “could put a beehive right there.” I try to keep up with her as she checks out the different spaces, calling out plants by name and pointing to various building landmarks.

  Eventually she winds down and collapses onto the grass. I make her a plate of food and hand her a margarita before sitting down next to her. I have perfectly good patio furniture, but she wants to sit on “actual grass in the city.” Hana devours her plate in record time, then flops on her back, squinting up at the stars. She frames a passing jet between her fingers, then turns her head to contemplate the pool.

  “Do you lose guests here on a regular basis? Your house is huge.”

  I grin. I love her enthusiasm, although I’m not looking forward to hosting her future bees. “You’re my first guest.”