Kiss Me Now

by Wylder, Penny

  I roll over and bury my face in the pillow, as reality hits me. The same way it’s been doing every morning for the last seven days. Every time I wake up, all I want to do is plunge back into sleep. At least when I’m sleeping, I don’t have to face reality. I don’t have to deal with the fact that Lark—my Lark, the first man I’ve connected with in years, the first man I’ve ever had chemistry like this with…

  Is a married man. He’s taken. And whatever messy split or makeup he’s in the middle of, I cannot get involved.

  No matter how much it makes my heart hurt to walk away. I did it because it was the right thing to do.

  Another buzz sounds through the apartment, and I groan again, louder. Dammit. Who’s here? I roll out of bed and fish around under my bed for a night shirt. I must have taken it off myself in the throes of my stupid sex dream.

  I’ve been having them more and more. Every night since I called things off with Lark. I’d been too chickenshit to do it in person, especially since he nearly caught me in the hallway of the therapists’ offices. I’d gone to visit a therapist in order to take better care of myself, to figure out my own relationship issues, and why I have such low self-esteem.

  Instead, ironically, I found a fresh reminder of exactly why, when I stumbled across Lark and his supposedly ex-wife Sheryl leaving couples’ counseling, answering to Mr. and Mrs. Anderson.

  That same night, I texted him. I can’t do this anymore.

  Since then, he’s called and texted dozens of times. I hit ignore every time, deleted the texts unread. Better not to even slightly tempt myself.

  Eventually, I know, I’ll have to see him again for work. Anderson Investments, which Lark and Sheryl co-own, remains my little makeup startup company’s biggest—and only—investor. But thankfully, for the last week, it’s been Sheryl who’s sent me emails asking for updates; Sheryl who’s written to let me know about upcoming events and orders that I’ll need to work on; Sheryl who’s become my main point of contact.

  I don’t know if that’s because she told Lark she wanted to take over, or because Lark asked her to after taking the hint that I don’t want to see him. Either way, at least it’s giving me time to get over him. To get over the stupid fantasies I’d started to have, the dreams that maybe this time, this relationship, might be different…

  Another buzz at the front door. “I’m coming,” I grumble, and pad out into the living room to hit the button that will open the downstairs door. The speaker is broken, so I have no idea who I just let in. Not until the doorbell rings, and my headache starts to throb again, double-time.

  “Good morning!” exclaims Becky, looking far too bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for a girl who spent last night drinking even more than I did, while I moped on my couch.

  My new, beautiful designer couch, which Lark bought for me a few weeks ago, after the first night we spent together. He spilled makeup all over my old, ragged one.

  When Becky complimented me on the new sofa last night, I almost burst into tears all over again.

  Now, she shoves something at me. Pastries, I realize belatedly, taking in the scent of sugar and yeast coming from the box. “Figured you could use a pick-me-up before your big thing today.”

  “My what?” I ask through the buzz in my ears, the throb between my temples. All I can think about is how embarrassed I am about the mess I was last night. Well. About that, and about the sex dream that woke me this morning.

  God, even in my dreams that asshole knows how to make me come harder than anyone in my entire—

  “Don’t you have the big TV thingie today?” Becky asks, a moue of concern on her face. “You mentioned it last night. Before our impromptu cursing of He Who Shall Not Be Named and everything he did to you.”

  It’s coming back to me, slowly. Becky insisting that since it was a full moon, we should stick our heads off of my fire escape and howl at the moon, demanding it curse Lark Anderson with bad sex for a decade, in retribution for him hurting me.

  My face flushes bright red. God, I hope none of the neighbors heard the details.

  Then I process the rest of her sentence. TV interview. On the Right Now Show. With Jackie Shells, international supermodel, who thanks to some convincing from Sheryl—and a heap of samples of the makeup from me—has just recently agreed to become the face of my makeup brand.

  Sorry. Our makeup brand.

  And that’s in… I check the clock over my stove top, heart pounding. Less than two hours. “Shit.” I practically race toward the bedroom.

  Becky watches me go with a smirk. “Relax,” she calls over the sounds of me tearing through my closet for the outfit I have all planned out, but which I’d forgotten to actually lay out last night. Because I hadn’t been planning on getting roaring drunk. I hadn’t planned on being so distracted all this week that I forgot about the most important interview I’ll probably ever have in my entire life.

  “The Right Now studio’s only a twenty minute drive from here,” Becky calls into the bedroom. “I’ll drive you. I’m just parked downstairs.”

  “I was going to get there early and run through prep questions,” I exclaim. “I was going to talk to Sheryl for like an hour beforehand. Fuck!” I realize the skirt I wanted to wear is crumpled up in the laundry hamper.

  Becky knocks at the door jam. “Can I help?”

  I let out a sigh and hold up the pressed blouse I think will look good with my skin tone on television, in mute supplication.

  “Need to match this?” she asks, and I nod, knowing that I look even more pitiful right now than I did last night. Becky takes the blouse from my hands. “Go eat your croissant, ok? There’s coffee too, it’s on the counter. I’ll handle this.”

  Mutely, I follow her advice and make a beeline into the living room. The sun’s already peering through my curtains. I overslept by a long shot. But Becky’s right. The studio is nearby. And they’ll want to do all my makeup themselves anyway, so at least I don’t have to worry about that part of the morning routine.

  I open the box of pastries and dig into the chocolate croissant, pausing only for desperate gulps of coffee. By the time I finish both, the worst of the hangover has worn off, chased away by the miracle of caffeine and sugar mingled sprinkled with adrenaline.

  I’ve just about convinced myself that I can handle this after all—I can nail this interview, seal my place as one of the big up-and-coming names to watch in the makeup world, and impress Jackie Shells to boot—when my phone pings with a new message. It’s from Sheryl. No doubt asking me what time I’m getting to the studio, since if I know her, she’s already there obsessively early, walking her way through prep.

  It is from Sheryl. But it’s not the message I’m expecting. Not by a long shot.

  Sorry to do this at the last moment, she writes, but something’s come up. Urgent board meeting for another corporation that I can’t miss. Don’t worry, though. You’ll have plenty of support at the interview. I’ll be sending Lark in my place.

  She follows this with a thumbs up and a smiling emoji. As if that’s supposed to calm the sudden explosion of nerves in my gut.

  Great. So on top of everything else—on top of all the pressure I’m already under… I have to deal with walking onto the live TV set today and seeing the man who just broke my heart.

  12

  Cassidy

  Becky drops me off outside the studio with a long hug, a smacking kiss on the cheek, and a resounding, “Go knock ‘em dead, tiger.”

  “Pretty sure you’re supposed to say break a leg for stuff like this,” I reply, clambering out of her car to slam the door behind me.

  “I thought that was for stage actors,” she protests, and I shrug, laughing a little as I wave her away from the curb. Then I turn to face the music solo.

  My stomach is a riot of nerves. Worse than it’s maybe ever been in my life, and I used to head up the debate team and speak in public all the time in college. Normally I’m confident, poised—especially when I’m talking about a s
ubject I know so well. And what could I know more about than my own product line, the makeup I’ve been dreaming about bringing to the world for years, and which I’m finally succeeding at making?

  But I’ve never had to talk about it in front of this big an audience. And never with a recent ex standing in the same studio, watching me do it. All while his recent ex—or maybe not-entirely-ex—hovers in the wings waiting for a full report about how I performed afterward.

  My stomach knots have become a full-on tangled mess. I can feel the caffeine I downed earlier—an extra double shot of espresso because I was still feeling the hangover—ratcheting through my system, amping up the nerves to something close to panic.

  You can do this.

  I square my shoulders. I haven’t come this far, or worked this hard on my brand, just to let one badly mistaken fling throw my entire career off track. This should be one of the proudest days of my life. I’m going to make it be that.

  With Herculean effort, I repress all these messy emotions, stuffing them into that mental box labeled: to deal with later. Then I storm up the front steps of the studio and toward the doors. Even despite my late wakeup, I’m here fifteen minutes earlier than the time they requested I arrive by. That’s me all over—punctual to the extreme.

  I pull open the front doors and introduce myself to the guard sitting near the entrance. He checks my name off a list, prints me a badge and waves me through. And on the other side of the sliding doors, a familiar face greets me, all smiles.

  “I knew I’d be seeing you again soon,” exclaims Marcel, the same studio owner who showed me around back when we were photographing my makeup samples for our first press release. It feels like both a million years ago and just days ago.

  I’m so grateful for someone familiar—someone who’s not Lark, anyway—being here that I practically leap into his offered hug, squeezing him tight. “What are you doing here?”

  “Lark mentioned your big gig, so I managed to sneak into this studio as a guest for the day.” He winks. “Didn’t want to miss your first televised interview, since I knew you at the start. Makes for too good a story!”

  I laugh and squeeze his shoulder. “Well, I’m glad you’re here.”

  He tilts his head, sizing me up. I wilt under his gaze, pretty sure that he’s immediately dissecting the bags under my eyes and the tension in my face. He leans in closer again. “And, I must admit, I have ulterior motives, too. Lark’s been worried about you, you know.”

  My cheeks flush, and I glance away. “I’m sure.” My tone comes out drier than I expect.

  Marcel sighs. “Look, honey, whatever happened between you two, that’s between you two.” He catches my chin and tilts my face to the light, eying me critically. “But I am here to make sure that you knock it out of the park, for your sake and for your investors’ sakes. Plus, we cannot have you on camera looking like a zombie, or nobody’s going to trust a single product you’re offering,” he points out.

  I grimace, but I can’t exactly contradict him. “It’s… been a rough week.”

  “Tell me about it.” He drops my chin, thankfully, and takes my hand instead, leading me across the studio toward a back hallway with doors on each side. I catch a brief glimpse of the stage beyond it, surrounded by more cameras than I’ve ever seen in one location before—film cameras, still shot cameras, every type of lighting equipment you could imagine.

  All aimed at the middle of the stage, where there are just three plush chairs set all in a row. One of which I’ll be occupying in a little less than an hour’s time.

  There go those nerves again, churning away.

  “Do not spiral on me,” Marcel commands, and I yank my gaze from the distant seats to focus.

  “Right. Sorry. I’m fine now.”

  He arches a brow at me, clearly not buying it for a second. But he does lead me into a narrow dressing room—an entire room of my own, not like the photography shoot we did at Marcel’s studio where everyone just did their makeup at little tables right beside the backdrop.

  Inside, I spot familiar objects. My makeup sets, all lined up and ready to go.

  “Where’s the makeup artist?” I ask, scanning the room.

  Marcel guides me into a chair and practically forces me back. “Uh uh. I told the manager I’m taking charge of this one personally.”

  I grin at him. “You used to do makeup?”

  “Before I bought my studio and moved over to the production side of this industry, hell yes. That’s where I got my start.”

  I watch him sort through the palettes and select just the right hue of foundation for me on the first try. I don’t need to check the label to know he’s picked out the one I always use, and it makes me smile. “Guess that’s why you were so into my stuff when we first met.”

  He laughs. “Is that an ego I’m hearing?” He winks, and I flush all over again.

  “That’s not what I meant,” I protest, but he waves me quiet.

  “No, no. It’s good to know what your talents are. And you, my dear, have a gift for this. Now, eyes shut.”

  I close my eyes and relax a little as he dusts the powder over my face, then works on my eyes next. There’s something relaxing about letting someone else take charge. I’m so used to doing everything myself. It’s nice to feel pampered for once.

  I’m almost—almost—able to relax. Until I hear it. His voice, from the hallway.

  “—looking for Cassidy Marks’s room?”

  My pulse picks up, and every muscle in my body, which had bordered on finally unclenching a second ago, tightens back up.

  Marcel must notice, because he leans back, the brush leaving my skin, and I open my eyes to find him watching me with an all too knowing expression. “Uh oh. I recognize that look. You’re in even more trouble than I thought.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I say, but my voice catches and gives me away. I grimace.

  “Please. We all saw the two of you at my studio. You couldn’t keep your hands off one another.” Marcel gives me a long, lingering once-over. “You’re in deep, girl.” Then he arches an eyebrow and adds the words that send me tumbling straight through a fresh new maze of confusion. “But don’t worry. So is Lark, believe me.”

  Just then, a rap sounds on the other side of the door. “Cass?” His voice sounds tense. On the edge of broken. It tears at me.

  It’s too soon. I’m not ready to see him, barely even ready to go on camera, let alone deal with the emotions I’ve been repressing for a solid week. It feels like all the blood in my body rushes to my head at once, and I cling to the sides of my chair, feeling dizzy.

  Marcel takes one look at my expression and has pity. “No boys allowed!” he calls at the door.

  On the other side, Lark laughs. “You’re a boy,” he points out.

  “No straight boys allowed,” Marcel amends, and then, in case Lark missed the point, “Go away. I’ll bring her out when she’s ready. And don’t worry, we’ll be on time. Go have a coffee or something.”

  There’s a long pause from the other side of the door. My heart pounds in my ears, my temples. Part of me wishes Lark will ignore Marcel. Storm through that door anyway and demand a minute alone with me.

  But another part, the sensible part, I tell myself, is relieved when he lets out a defeated sigh. “Fine, but you’d better bring her out early for the screen tests. I’ll meet you in twenty.”

  My eyes jump to the clock above the doorway. It suddenly feels a lot more intimidating now. A countdown to the minute when I’ll have to come face to face with all the feelings I’ve tried so hard to run away from.

  “Eyes shut again,” Marcel orders. “We’re on a tighter schedule than I thought.”

  I close my eyes and let him work, but there’s no relaxing this time. All I can think about is Lark’s voice calling my name. Cass. There was a hollow note to it, and I can’t help wondering if he’s missed me anywhere near as much as I’ve missed him.

  “If it makes you feel any bet
ter,” Marcel says as he moves on to my lips next, making me open them into a round circle and then purse them alternately while he works, “that boy has been an absolute wreck all week too.”

  “Really?” I peer up at Marcel, who flashes me a smirk.

  “Not that he’d talk about it, of course. He’s got walls higher than Fort Knox. But I’ve known him long enough to tell when he’s upset, and I haven’t seen him this bad since, well…” Marcel glances at the closed door. “Since him and Sheryl’s first big falling out.”

  “What happened between them?” I ask. I know I shouldn’t, but a part of me wants to know. Maybe if I do, that will make it easier to let go of my stupid fixation on Lark. To walk away from this mess once and for all.

  “Not my story to tell,” Marcel replies with a sigh. “But you ask me, they weren’t well suited to begin with.”

  “And now…?”

  “Now?” Marcel takes a step back, and gives me an approving once-over, before he twirls my chair. “Now, it’s time for Lark to leave his past behind, and win over his future.” In the reflection, he winks. “That being you, in my opinion.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. My perfectly outlined eyebrows, that is. Between that and my long lashes, and a peachy pink color on my lips, I look like a completely different woman. I turn my face this way and that, admiring Marcel’s work. Every makeup artist has a slightly different style, a different flare to their designs. Normally I like to do my own makeup, because I know what I want to enhance.

  But sometimes, letting someone else do it is like catching a whole new side of yourself. A side of you that other people see, which you maybe hadn’t even noticed yourself.

  “You’re a wizard,” I murmur.

  Over my shoulder, Marcel laughs. “Please. I had a lovely canvas.” Then he swats my shoulder. “Let’s get going before your Prince Charming has my head for making you late.”

  My stomach tightens again at the reminder. But fortified by Marcel’s handiwork, a fresh face of makeup, and with his words buoying me—it’s time for Lark to win over his future—I feel a little bit readier than I did before.