Sex And Other Shiny Objects

by Blakely, Lauren

  My heart glows a bit from the love of a good friend. “Thank you. Maybe I needed to hear that right now.”

  “And you need to have some fun tonight.” She peers closer to the screen and points behind me. “Pick that.”

  I spin around. “The Ketel One?”

  “Yes. Make a Moscow Mule. Get some copper mugs, some limes, and start ripping that lumberjack’s shirt off.”

  I laugh. Tristan definitely has the whole tall, strong, and bearded look working for him. “Okay. But why a Moscow Mule?”

  She stares sharply at me. “Did you want a dissertation or a decision, Miss I-Can’t-Pick?”

  I draw a deep breath, grinning. “A decision.”

  She smiles, as satisfied as a cat taking a bath. “Good. Also, the heroine makes a Moscow Mule before the hero comes over, so it’ll help you get in character. Maybe read the scene before you rip off his shirt.”

  “I already have, but don’t you worry. I have a plan for making storytime a part of my night.”

  I say goodbye and snag the Ketel One along with some ginger beer, lime juice, and a couple of limes, then head to the snack aisle.

  There.

  I pick up a bag of popcorn. This is just like the time this summer when Amy’s brother gave me his extra Yankees tickets and I brought Tristan with me. He adores the boys of summer, and I made a big event of it, picking up pumpkin seeds and peanuts, and we snacked to our heart’s content as we rooted for the home team.

  Nothing like snacks to recalibrate a girl’s pulse.

  And to thank a guy for doing her a favor.

  I check out, and as I sling the bag over my shoulder, I text Lola, feeling proud of my accomplishment.

  Peyton: I have the lube!

  Lola: Great. Then why don’t you try out chapter twenty-two, page two hundred?

  With cheetah speed, I click open the working doc Amy sent me, scrolling to that page in the manuscript. Last night, I read the scene Amy wants me to reenact, but I didn’t reach page two hundred. I’m betting Lola is sending me down the rabbit hole of some wildly intense sex scene involving toys or places where the sun doesn’t shine.

  Instead, I laugh as I enjoy a scene involving door hinges and a handy hero. Literally.

  Peyton: Hot damn. He fixed her squeaky door like nobody’s business.

  Lola: WD-40 for the win.

  Lola: Also, Moscow Mules are fun . . . and you should have some fun during your research. Now, stop talking to me and get ready.

  That’s good advice, so I follow it once I’m home.

  Even though my clothes aren’t coming off tonight, I shower, primp, and snap a photo of a new lavender lace bra and panty set, with an embroidered butterfly between the breasts and at the top of the undies.

  Then I slide into the soft fabric.

  I stop in front of the mirror, checking out my reflection, savoring the way the new lace feels against my skin, how the bra boosts my breasts.

  I feel like me, but a better version of me. The me who’s turned the corner. The me who no longer hurts because of the past.

  I’m a woman starting over.

  Maybe not tonight, but that’s who I see. A woman who couldn’t have embarked on this quest a few months ago, or even a few weeks ago.

  But I’m ready now—for my business, for Mimi’s legacy, and for me.

  I want to be the woman in lavender and lace.

  And I can tonight, because I’ve healed.

  Because when I open the door, I’ll be opening it to a man I trust. A man who’s willing to do me a favor. I let a smile play across my lips, feeling it deep in my soul.

  Turning away from the reflection, I slip into a peacock-blue skirt that hits above the knees and pull on a top the shade of eggplant.

  I mix the drinks then find an alt-rock station that seems to be on Tristan’s wavelength, and when he knocks, I yank the door open without hesitation, and there he is, looking . . . wow.

  I can say, even without the benefit of the lube known as liquor, the man can wear the hell out of a white button-down and jeans.

  Those nerves? They aren’t nerves anymore. They’re something else—the flutter of something new.

  Or maybe something I felt long ago and had to let go.

  That kiss. That incomparable, knee-weakening kiss, miles ahead of any other kiss.

  I play it back, and I can still feel the shivers that radiated down my spine that night.

  Ten years later, and that kiss still does it for me, and I have an answer to my question.

  How do I feel about undressing him?

  I feel excited.

  That’s the trouble.

  There’s no room for that between us.

  But for friendship, there is plenty. After all, this guy is coming through for me, and that means the world to this girl.

  “Hey, you!” I say with a grin.

  He waggles a gift bag. “I got you something.”

  10

  Peyton

  My best friends know I can be bribed with chocolate.

  A mere morsel will convince me to accompany you to that awkward work dinner with colleagues.

  A square, and I’ll help lug your bags of old clothes to the Goodwill blocks away.

  A whole bar, and I’ll paint your bedroom wall periwinkle. No, you don’t need to help. Sit down, relax, and drink your wine.

  When Tristan presents me with not one, not two, but three bars from my favorite chocolate shop in the city, I squeal in delight.

  And, even better, he doesn’t need to bribe me.

  “These. Are. The. Best.” Glee doesn’t begin to describe my mood right now.

  “It’s just chocolate,” he says, amused, as I clutch the bag.

  “It’s never just chocolate,” I correct. “It’s my favorite thing in the world. And you also did not have to bring a gift.”

  He shrugs a little sheepishly. “It’s nothing.”

  That’s where he’s wrong. I set a hand on his arm, stopping his attempt to dismiss his own kindness. At moments like this, I can see the divide between our upbringings sharply—my family is all warm and fuzzy, giving out gifts and hugs with abandon, and his was sterner, the opposite of effusive. “It’s not nothing. I love chocolate. I’m in love with chocolate. Chocolate might be my soul mate, so this is not nothing. And I love that you did this.” I shake the bars of dark chocolate at him till he smiles. And when he does, my heart dances a little jig. “Also, these are Lulu’s Chocolates. They’re decadent and heavenly and delicious . . . and I can’t wait any longer.”

  I tear open the wrapper and pop a square of Earl Grey chocolate into my mouth. It melts on my tongue, and I roll my eyes like I’m a chef on TV. “This is what dreams are made of.” I break off a square and hand it to him. “Try it.”

  “I was never a chocolate guy.”

  “I know you’re a salty, but I swear, you will not regret this sweet,” I say, goading him with a morsel. I want him to experience the goodness of this treat, the richness of the flavors. I want him to feel what I feel, even about chocolate.

  “Not my thing,” he says.

  “Tristan, this chocolate is conversion-level good. What’s the worst that’ll happen? You’ll hate it and spit it out? Just try it.”

  He narrows his eyes, huffing. “I’m only doing this so you’ll stop asking.”

  I laugh, loving that he’s bending. “I know. Trust me, I know.”

  He heaves a sigh, like this is too much. He plucks the chocolate from my palm, pops it into his mouth, and chews.

  Anxiously I wait. For a few seconds, he says little. But when he murmurs and moans, I nearly bounce. “Good, right?”

  “Fine, this is fucking awesome. Can we eat the whole bar now?”

  I wag a finger, smiling like I told him so. Because I did. “This is what happens when you’ve only ever tried Hershey’s. You needed the good stuff. And now you’ve had it.”

  “Guess I can’t go back now,” he says with an easy shrug.

  “An
d why would you?” I ask as I usher him into the kitchen, gesturing to the drinks, grateful I made them. Even with the chocolate, my nerves are resurfacing. Because he’s here, and this is happening. This strange crossing of lines that’s not quite crossing is starting any minute. “Moscow Mule?”

  He lifts a brow in question. “You’re making drinks now?”

  “Hey! I can handle a basic cocktail. Call it the owner’s special,” I say, gesturing to my apartment.

  “I’m sure I’ll love it, then,” he says, lifting the mug and offering a toast.

  “Also, I thought it might help,” I admit, before I take a drink.

  “Are you nervous?”

  I nibble on the corner of my lips, glad to admit the truth. “A little.”

  He taps his mug to mine. “Don’t worry. We’ve got this, Peyton.”

  With that, with his strength, his confidence in our friendship, he defuses the tension. I’m so damn grateful, and I can feel my shoulders relax. “We do, right?”

  “Absolutely. May the buttons fly.”

  “Let the floor be covered in them.” I clink back and take a drink.

  Tristan does too, nodding in approval at the beverage. “You done good, Cookie.”

  My brow quirks. “Cookie?”

  “I figured it was the only nickname I hadn’t heard your parents give you, so I thought I’d give it a shot.”

  “I like cookies,” I say, smiling as I take another drink.

  “Also, isn’t that what all those romance novel heroes do? Don’t they have pet names for heroines? Sugar Lips and Cute Tush and Bumpkin . . .”

  I nearly spit out my drink. “I’m positive they don’t call the women they’re courting Bumpkin.” I set down the cup and turn to grab the treats I picked up for him. “And I have something for you too.” I show him the salt-and-vinegar popcorn, along with a bottle of his favorite IPA. “See? I know you’re still a salty guy.”

  He whistles appreciatively. “Let’s get this shirt ripping going so we can have some popcorn.”

  “Snacks are the way to your heart,” I say as I set the bag back on the counter.

  He grabs my arm, dropping his tough-guy armor as his voice goes a little softer, more vulnerable. “Thanks, Peyton. For the popcorn and beer. And for knowing I’m a salty.”

  It’s a small thing, but it feels like a big thing too—this acknowledgment that we know what makes each other tick.

  That we intrinsically understand each other.

  He holds my gaze a beat longer, his hazel eyes warm and intense. My chest has the audacity to tingle. I lick my lips, trying to keep my tone friendly, playful, as I reply, “Once a salty, always a salty. But I’m glad to see you’re liking sweets too.”

  He swallows, his voice a little rough. “Yes, I am.”

  And it makes me happy that he does.

  He reaches behind me for the copper cup, finishes the contents, then declares, “It’s showtime.”

  I’m so ready it nearly scares me.

  11

  Tristan

  She’s given me gifts before, so I don’t let the popcorn and beer go to my head.

  She’s a gift giver—always has been. Thanks to Peyton’s birthday-buying extravaganzas, I have a panini grill, a coffee maker, and a drone.

  For various holidays, she’s doled out a range of cards: playing cards, Cards Against Humanity, and a gift card to the new Korean restaurant in the East Village that she gave me after I split up with Samantha several months ago.

  Over the years, I’ve received countless gifts from this woman, so I’m not going to read anything extra into something as simple as popcorn and beer.

  Do that, and you open yourself up to a world of hurt. After all, when she gave me cologne for Christmas four years ago, I misread the hell out of that. For months, each time I wore it, I was convinced it was her secret way of telling me to go for it with her.

  Because each time I wore it, she said I’d smelled so good.

  That was when I decided to try again with her. Or really, to try for real. To ask her out on a date, once and for all.

  And that was when Gage came back to town and won her heart.

  I’m not wearing the cologne tonight. I’m not barking up that tree another time.

  I’m here to help—that’s all. I bought her chocolate because I’m a good guy. Because that’s what my mom would have told me to do—make sure to let a woman know you appreciate her.

  Fine, it’s not like I would have asked Mom, or Dad, for input on Peyton’s unusual request. And I don’t need advice. But I could sense it took some ovaries for Peyton to ask for help, and I want her to feel comfortable.

  Hence, chocolate.

  I stride into her living room, where she gestures to the couch. This is her show, and she calls the shots. As I sit next to her, she reaches for her phone. “Ready for storytime?”

  “I am.”

  She clicks open a document and reads in a sultry tone.

  “I was pent-up from the night we’d had. From the way he’d talked to me at the concert. From how he’d looked at me in the cab.”

  She stops, purses her lips, and coos. “Ooh.”

  My curiosity is piqued. “Go on, Cookie. I want to know what kind of night they had, don’t you?”

  “Oh yes, I do.” She returns to the story, shimmying her shoulders like she’s having a good time.

  I am too, and that both surprises me and doesn’t. My e-reader looks like a high school English teacher’s shelf: A Separate Peace, A River Runs Through It, The Catcher in the Rye. That’s what I dig, as well as the occasional memoir from chefs like Anthony Bourdain, or food blogs that focus on the food rather than the sprinkling of ridiculous adjectives.

  I didn’t think I’d enjoy listening to a romance.

  But I do.

  I like listening to her read to me.

  “Weeks of this back-and-forth, this cat and mouse, had me so wound up that I was afraid I’d pounce on him. And when considering pouncing, my rule of thumb was better safe than sorry. Otherwise, you could end up with claw marks.”

  “Claw marks are bad?” she asks with an arch of a brow.

  My eyes drift to her nails—not too short, not too long. My mind drifts to possibilities I shouldn’t entertain, but I do anyway. “I’m not opposed to them,” I admit.

  Maybe it’s a confession she likes, because her breath seems to hitch as she returns to her reading.

  “He dragged a hand through my hair and kissed me deeply as the elevator rose. ‘I’d really like to tear your clothes off when we get to your apartment,’ he murmured.

  “‘Oh, good. I was hoping you were ready to pounce too.’

  “‘So damn ready.’

  “Seconds later, we stumbled into my place, the door slinking shut behind us.”

  My mind assembles images of elevators; of hands in red hair; of hot, deep kisses.

  And I need to wipe my brain free of these dangerous thoughts, so I hold up a hand, stopping her. “How does a door slink shut? Do doors slink?”

  She blinks, surprised. “I don’t know. Do they? I guess that does sound weird.”

  “People slink. And animals. But doors? I think they snick or fall shut. I don’t think they slink shut.”

  She sits up straighter. “I should tell Amy this sentence might need work. Slink is a weird word, right?”

  “Yeah. Let her know.”

  She clicks over to her notes app, jots down a reminder, then returns to the document. But before she begins, she shoots me a glance, her eyelids lowering. “You don’t like the story?”

  “What? Why would you say that?”

  “Because of the slink thing.”

  I don’t want to admit I like it a lot. But neither do I want her to worry. I set a hand on her leg. “Just read, Cookie.”

  “I’ve always enjoyed reading out loud,” she says, her tone less nervous, more playful.

  “I grabbed his shirt—”

  She stops speaking, reads the next lines
quietly, then tosses the phone onto the cushion. With a deep exhale, she points to her door. “Let’s just do it. Go stand against the door.”

  Holy hell, that is hot. And it seems to be what we both need. “What the lady wants . . .”

  I oblige, heading to the door.

  She dims the lights halfway and walks to me, her heels clicking loudly against the floor, the sound reverberating like a countdown. To what? To button blastoff?

  Maybe.

  It’s just buttons, but still, my muscles tense because when she’s inches away, all my fantasies from years ago flash before my eyes.

  Her. Me. Tangled up together. Touching, kissing, fucking, feeling.

  I bat them away. Far away.

  This. Is. Research.

  She slides her fingers over the top button of my shirt, unhooking it quickly.

  Then the next.

  My skin sizzles. From that. From two buttons. I try to redirect with a question. “I thought you were going to rip—”

  Her finger lands on my lips. “Shhh.”

  I fight off my desire to nibble on that finger. To kiss and suck and bite.

  I grit my teeth as her hands return to our main business.

  She takes a fistful of each side of my two-cent shirt from the drugstore and goes for it, tugging hard.

  Nothing happens.

  Not a single thing.

  The shirt stays on.

  “Okay, let’s try again,” she says, her eyes intense and serious. She grabs hold of each side of the shirt once more, pulling, yanking, and grunting. “This is actually ridiculously hard.”

  I raise a finger. “Can I give you a tip?”

  “Are you an expert on shirt ripping?”

  “No, but logic would suggest you might want a little runway. Maybe build up speed unbuttoning the first two then dive into the rip.”

  Her mouth forms an O. “Yes! That’s brilliant.”

  She buttons the shirt back up, then shimmies her hips, blows out a long stream of air, and sings softly, “Bow chicka wow wow.”