Sour

by Jennifer Woodhull

  “Come on, Elle, please? Just one picture,” he pleads, knowing how hard it is for me to say no to anything he asks. He gives me a sweet grin and soft eyes and I’m completely toast.

  I roll my eyes and walk toward the storefront. “One picture.” He pulls out his phone.

  “Come on, Elle, you know what I want to see,” he says as I stand with my arms at my sides. “You may as well do it now…I can stand here all day.”

  “Fine,” I reply, shaking my head. I bring my palms together, fingertips pointed up toward my cheek, and look up, batting my eyelashes, princess-style as I kick one leg up behind me.

  Noah takes several photos. I’m about to walk back to where he is standing and beg him to get out of here when I hear a little girl shriek. I roll my eyes. I look down at my sundress—it’s a lilac color, just like Ariel’s gown.

  Great. Now I’m the resident princess on duty, apparently.

  “Mommy! Mommy! It’s her! It’s really her!” I turn and see a tiny little girl of about four tugging on her mother’s hand and dragging her in my direction. Flame red curls are secured to the top of her head in a big, white bow. As she gets closer, the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks come into focus, and my heart softens.

  Carrot top. Copperhead. Strawberry Shortcake. I bet her name isn’t really even Ariel. The taunts from my childhood come rushing back and my throat goes tight.

  The little girl breaks her mother’s grasp and runs to me, throwing her little arms around my legs.

  “Ariel! I love you, Ariel!” She exclaims. I look down into her cherubic face, which is beaming up at me with more joy than I’ve ever seen.

  “Sophia!” The mother exclaims as she gets to where we are standing. “I’m so sorry! She thinks you look like Ariel—she’s her absolute favorite.”

  “She is Ariel, Mommy!” The little girl protests.

  “It’s no problem,” I tell the mother, winking. “I should’ve worn a better disguise.” I exaggeratedly look around as if I need to see if anyone is watching, then squat down to Sophia’s eye level. “Can you keep a secret?” I ask in my best princess voice.

  She nods her head enthusiastically, and I look around cautiously again, then steal a glance at her mother before continuing. “I really am Ariel,” I say, then sing a few random notes. “You mustn’t tell anyone, though, alright? I wouldn’t want Ursula to find me and take me back below the waves.”

  The little girl’s eyes grow huge as she nods her head back and forth slowly, her mouth agape. “Now, Sophia, I need you to do something for me.”

  “What is it, Ariel?” She whispers in the smallest, sweetest little voice.

  “I need you to listen to your mother, and always, always be careful and never go in the water without a grown-up, do you understand? It’s dangerous for human girls, even ones with beautiful red curls,” I say, tucking one of her stray crimson strands behind her ear eliciting a grin.

  “Okay,” she replies, nodding her head furiously. Her smile is absolutely beaming. I can’t help but think she looks like what my own kids might with that red, curly hair.

  “I have to go now but be a very good girl for me.”

  “Okay, Ariel. I love you!” She launches herself at me and throws her arms around my neck. Her mom quietly takes out her phone and snaps a photo of us.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she says with an apologetic shrug.

  “Not at all,” I reply with a smile. I wave goodbye to them as I walk back to where Noah is standing.

  He is just staring at me.

  “What?”

  He shakes his head, wraps an arm around my shoulder, and kisses the side of my head with so much force he nearly knocks me over.

  “You are absolutely brilliant.” He squeezes my shoulder along with the words as we walk back toward our hotel.

  “Come on, time for the princess to go mingle.”

  Chapter 11

  Noah

  Back at the hotel, in the lobby, I spot a candy store in the lobby of the hotel.

  “Whoa! Detour,” I say, pointing to the sign that reads How Sweet It Is in colorful, candy-striped lettering.

  “Ooh, look! They have a whole wall of gummies! I think this is many as they had at the Haribo store!” Elle says as she immediately starts grabbing bags of what she knows are my favorites.

  She picks out some chocolates for herself, and we throw everything up on the cashier stand to check out.

  “Here, I got it,” I say, grabbing my wallet.

  “Thanks, bestie,” she says with a wink, then goes back to perusing items in the store.

  On the counter, I see something called Mberry in a dark red package.

  “What’s this?” I ask the girl of about twenty who is ringing up my purchases.

  “Oh, it’s this little pill made from an African berry. It makes sour stuff taste sweet,” she says, shrugging, and rolling eyes coated in too much eyeliner.

  “Oh, hells yes! This is perfect. I’ll take a pack.” I put the packet down with our other items. It might be just the thing to help me prove a point, after all.

  L

  Back in the suite, we change, grab our business cards, and head down to the Cobalt Lounge for the meet and greet the expo organizers are holding. The large, open room in the back of the bar holds about a hundred and fifty people. Posters from many of the biggest vendors, Summit included, adorn the walls. As I scan the images, one catches my eye that immediately makes my blood pressure shoot up.

  In the back corner is a poster for Alpen hiking boots. The model in the photo is standing on top of a rock, looking like a complete asshole. The particular asshole pictured is none other than the asshole—the tool that broke Elle’s heart a few months ago. When I see his stupid mug in print, my stomach lurches. It’s a good thing that’s just a photo, because I’m not sure if I could keep from punching the piece of shit if I saw him in person. It suddenly occurs to me that, with Alpen represented here, he may well be one of the models in the vendor hall. I don’t see him around, though, and I’m sure he’d be here, where free food and booze are available, if he was at the event. I steer her clear of the image and start introducing her to a few contacts from some large sporting good chains that I’ve met at other industry events.

  After introducing Elle to several people, we head over to the bar. I know she’d rather have something besides the little flutes of champagne the waiters have been passing around all night. I order her a mudslide and when I hand it to her, a wide smile spreads across her face. I head over to the bathroom and leave her sitting at the bar with her drink.

  I get stopped by a couple of people on my way back and spy the head of brand development from one of the big online retailers out of the corner of my eye. I make a beeline for her and introduce myself. After a few well-timed compliments on her co-branding strategy and dropping some hints about our innovative new product lines, I convince her to give me her sizes, and tap out an email to a member of my team to send her a box of samples. When I find Elle, she’s at the bar and there is a guy on the bar stool next to her. He’s leaning in, his eyes drinking her in, blatantly hitting on her.

  This event is serious business. Millions of dollars in sales could be won or lost this week, and we could make connections that propel us closer to our overall sales goals for the next year. Some people, though, who attend these things don’t take them seriously. Some people just look at these events as party time.

  “Hope I didn’t leave you alone too long,” I say, putting an arm protectively around the back of Elle’s chair when I walk up.

  “I’m good, actually,” Elle replies. Her eyes are a little glossy, and I know she’s starting to feel the effects of the drinks she’s had over the course of the evening. She barely weighs a buck twenty-five, after all.

  The guy at the bar next to her is older, maybe in his forties. He’s tan with pale gray just beginning to pepper his dark hair. I recognize the sportscoat he’s wear
ing over dark jeans as one that’s well out of my price range.

  “Oh, hi. This is Noah,” she looks up at me sweetly as she says my name.

  He turns to me briefly, distracted by trying to capture the bartender’s attention. “How’s it going?” His words are lilted with an accent, but I can’t tell from where.

  “I need to go to the little girls’ room. Noah, will you hold my drink? And do not drink it all. I’ll remember how much I had left,” she narrows her eyes and sternly holds up a finger. I help her down off the barstool and she teeters off.

  The guy gets his drink, and when he turns his attention back in my direction, he realizes Elle has left, shrugs, and walks off.

  “Hey, what happened to my new friend?” Elle asks, taking the drink back from me when she returns.

  “Not sure,” I shake my head and take the glass from her, setting it back behind the bar. “Come on. We have an early start tomorrow. There’s a sunrise pool party first thing then we need to check in with our reps. We need to get some sleep.”

  Back in our room, after we shower and change, Elle plops down on the sofa. She flips her head forward and wrangles her wild mane into a hair tie, the ponytail sitting high on top of her head.

  “Ooh look! Saved by the Bell is on! Let’s watch one episode before we go to bed.” She bats her eyelashes up at me, and I can’t say no, even knowing it means she’ll be tired and cranky when I wake her up at dawn.

  The living room of the suite is massive. There are a pair of sumptuous mauve loveseats facing each other, and an oversized gray velvet soft faces a seventy-five-inch TV that’s above the fireplace. I sit next to Elle, my feet propped up on the coffee table, and stretch my arms out on the back of the sofa. Elle scoots in next to me and props her feet up next to mine.

  “You didn’t like that guy I was talking to, did you,” She says more than asks.

  “I did not,” I feel my jaw clench at the mention of him.

  “Why not? He seemed nice.” She relaxes a little and leans into the crook of my arm.

  “He was trying to get into your pants, Elle,” I reply, slowly letting my arm slide down and around her shoulders.

  “You know, it’s funny…when you go out with a girl I don’t particularly like, and there have been so, so many, I don’t warn you that she’s trying to get into your pants.” She laughs.

  “Well, that’s fair, I guess. I just…I don’t want anyone to hurt you. When I think about…,” I trail off, my mind going to a place I don’t want it to. I can’t think about her with anyone else. That’s why I have to tell her how I feel, and I have to do it soon. “When I think about someone hurting you, well, it hurts me, too.”

  She looks up at me and screws her face up, then smiles. “You’re pretty awesome, Noah. If I could meet a guy like you, I’d be golden.”

  I laugh. “In case you didn’t pick up on it,” I gesture the flat of my hand up and down my body, “I am a guy.”

  “Well, I know, but you…we…it’s different,” she shrugs.

  Well, fuck if that wasn’t pretty clear. What if Andy was wrong? What if she doesn’t feel anything for me except friendship?

  There is an instant pang in my chest, and my stomach drops. There it is. I’m the good-time guy in her eyes. The guy who drifts from woman to woman. She sees me as temporary, even though, when I look at her, I see everything I’ve ever wanted, and everything I’ll ever need. I have to show her I plan to be more than the guy I’ve always been.

  It doesn’t matter. If she doesn’t love me back the way I love her, I still have to know. If I don’t take a chance and tell her how I feel, I’ll regret it the rest of my life.

  It doesn’t take long for Elle to doze off on the sofa by my side as she so often does.

  “Go to bed, Elle,” I say softly, nudging her awake.

  “Okay,” she says, stirring long enough to stand and zombie-walk to her room.

  I choose to overlook what she said earlier. Instead, I think about what it would be like if she were mine, because that’s what I hope to make happen. I think about waking up beside her every morning and sleeping with her every night. The idea puts a smile on my face that’s still there when I fall asleep.

  Chapter 12

  Elle

  I smell coffee. The fact that I can smell the strong aroma of the beans as soon as I wake up tells me that Noah has put a cup on my bedside table. My eyes flutter open and I see the mug—heat wafting from it. Then I see the time. Five-thirty. That seems unreasonably early to me, but I remember Noah said something about a sunrise pool party this morning.

  I sit up, rub my eyes, and take a sip of steaming, caffeinated yumminess from the mug. Noah has joked before about us becoming roommates when my lease is up, and I swear, if he would bring me coffee in bed every morning, I’d think about taking him up on it. That would mean, though, that I’d know every time he was on a date. For that matter, I’d probably have to hear him fucking his babes-du-jour in the next room, and the thought makes me want to hurl.

  I shake it off and pull myself from plush, pillow-topped bed, the soft, thousand-thread count sheets and the soft down pillows of the coziest bed I’ve ever slept in. I jump in the shower, letting the jets massage my neck and shoulders, and when I return, I pull my bathing suit and cover-up out and throw them on the bed.

  I put on my suit and spin around in the mirror. I had picked out a bikini at Noah’s insistence, during our shopping trip. At the office, though, I noticed that Ashleigh, one of our product team members, had the prototypes for our newest line in her workspace. Reef is the new product line for swimming and watersports. The brand is supposed to be a spin-off, but still part of our main company. She had a sexy, scuba-fabric suit with a halter neckline and a cheeky, low-rise boy short I fell in love with. It makes my curves look curvier, and in Vegas, with all the insanely gorgeous women walking around in bikinis and heels, I figured I could use all the help I could get in the glamor department.

  I slide into my surf shoes and pull the piece that looks more like a dress than a cover-up over my head before walking out into the living room. I’m wearing some highlighter, mascara, and a little blush, and of course I have sunscreen on from head-to-toe, but that’s it.

  Noah is at the mini-bar, fixing what I’m sure is his second or third cup of coffee because the man gets up crazy early.

  “Hi,” he says, his voice deep and husky. “Sleep well?”

  “I did, thanks. You?”

  “Great. Best I’ve slept in a while, actually,” he replies, taking a sip of his coffee.

  He is in a suspiciously good mood.

  “Are you still in, Adler?”

  “In?”

  “Still master of your domain? Still in the contest,” I reply.

  “Oh! Good point. That I am. And…you?”

  “Absolutely,” I say, I put my hands up in a raise-the-roof motion and start to sing, “All I do is win-win-win, no matter what!”

  He rolls his eyes and smiles.

  “I need to stop at the shop downstairs. I forgot sunscreen, and I’m translucent, so…,” I trail off as I grab my shades.

  “Hold up,” Noah says as I start to head back toward the door. “Come here,” he says as he grabs his backpack and pulls out some of my favorite sensitive skin, dry sunscreen oil in SPF fifty.

  “You really are the best,” I say.

  “I am. Turn,” he makes a motion with his finger and I turn my back to him, holding up my ponytail.

  He squirts out the lotion into his palm, then, rubs them together, and starts applying the sunscreen to my shoulders, and down my arms. His touch is magical and feels like utter Heaven on my skin. He gets a little more on his palms, then massages it into my neck and upper back. When his fingers peek beneath the straps of my suit, I shudder all over.

  “I’m going to poke this under the edge back here, so you don’t get a burn line if your top moves, okay?”

  “Mm-hmm,” I barely squeak o
ut a reply.

  He pulls the straps of the cover-up and bikini down over the edges of my shoulders, and strong, thick fingers work down from the nape of my neck.

  “This angle is awkward. Turn around,” he says, so I face him.

  Noah cups the back of my neck, working the lotion in with his fingers. It’s easier for him to move the lotion below the top hem from this angle, and he dips his fingers below the fabric. He might as well be dipping them into my panties, because that’s where I feel it.

  He mumbles something under his breath I don’t quite hear as he pulls the sunscreen across the sides of my neck and shoulders. He rubs a little on my forehead, nose, and cheeks. He steps behind me, and I think he’s going to put the tube away. Instead, a moment later, his palm is stroking up and down my throat from chin to clavicle. It’s intimate. It’s erotic somehow, and I feel myself weaken and lean back a little, against his chest. He moves his palms across the top of my chest, and when he starts to get close to the top of my dress…close to my cleavage, I snap out of the spell.

  “Noah!” I grab his wrist just before his fingertips breach the top hem of my dress.

  “Sorry, got carried away,” he says, smiling. “I was just trying to be helpful. Don’t want you to get burned.” He winks at me, and I roll my eyes.

  I grab the sunscreen and poke some under the top of my cover-up with my fingertips before closing the tube and putting it on the counter.

  He throws on a pair of aviators to go with the wicking V-necked tee in a dark blue color that makes his eyes even dreamier. He’s wearing a pair of throwback-style board shorts in a navy and white hibiscus pattern that, despite how much they cover, manage to make him look even sexier. No one should look like that. It’s utterly ridiculous.

  When we arrive downstairs, the pool area is closed off for our event. There are tables set up around the periphery of the pool with more types of fruits and breakfast pastries than I’ve ever seen in one place at one time before. I make a mental note to insist I attend all such events in the future if this is how well they always feed us at such things.