Loaded, p.18
Loaded, page 18
Safe? “You mean. . .legally safe?”
She smiles.
And the waitress brings our second course—some kind of foamy green soup that tastes like summer. It’s really pretty good for foam in a mushroom-shaped cup.
“The cup is edible,” the waitress says with a smirk.
“Wonderful.” I pop it into my mouth. “How many courses did you say there were?”
“Fourteen.”
I’m going to kill her.
Bea’s giggling. “You didn’t look impressed. You looked irritated.”
“She has terrible timing.”
That sobers her. “Jingles promote a product, and all I have to do is come up with some catchy words and a solid melody. But with a real song, I’m sharing a message. Something personal. People can read into it, and they always do.”
“Sure,” I say. “That’s true. We all like singing the songs musicians share, because they resonate with us. That’s kind of the human experience.”
“I don’t want people to know how I feel,” Bea says. “That feels. . .like a violation.”
“Why?”
“You want everyone to know how you’re feeling?” Her eyebrows rise.
“I mean, they usually do.” I can’t help smiling. “You knew how I felt when I showed up at the Opus Westchester, right? So did my miserable date, Shelly.”
“Was that Miss Collagen USA’s name?” she asks.
“Like I remember.”
She’s giving me her irritated smile. “I grew up trying to make sure no one ever found out how I felt.”
“Why?”
“Are you a therapist?” She scowls. “It was just easier that way.”
“Were you angry a lot?”
When the waitress shows up, I contemplate telling her to lay off for twenty minutes, but Bea’s relief holds me off. I should stop pressing—she’ll open up when she’s ready. I hope. So for the rest of the meal, I don’t ask any questions. I don’t push about the song. I just make jokes. We chat about the food.
And then, just as dessert is coming out, she says, “Now the real test.”
“The real test?”
“My mom’s a great cook,” she says.
“Your mom?”
She smacks her forehead. “Seren.” She sighs. “I could call her Mom now, I guess. There’s no one who can do anything about it, but Grandfather had a rule. I could only stay with Dave and Seren as long as I never called them that. He was worried that people might find out his granddaughter was in a foster home.”
“And what does that have to do with this?” I point at the profiteroles. “They look pretty decent to me, although they aren’t exactly large.”
She pats her stomach and groans. “Thank goodness.”
The portions were small, but there were a lot of courses of them. “But?”
“Seren’s a pastry chef,” she says. “Her desserts are to die for, and after years and years of listening to her tell me how various places fall short, I’ll be curious how these rate.”
“And what should the perfect cream puff be like?”
“Well, it should be crisp on the outside—a little chewy, and filled with a light, brilliant burst of flavor.”
I pluck one from the center of the plate.
“You’re using your hands?” Tiny lines appear between her eyebrows.
“They’re the size of a grape. If I speared it with a fork, I’d be afraid it would roll off the plate and go flying across the floor.”
“Like a meatball?”
“On top of spaghetti,” I say with a smile. “Did your mom sing that song?”
“Seren did.” She pops a profiterole into her mouth as well.
And then I wait for the verdict.
“Well?” she asks.
“I liked it.” I shrug. “But I’m not the critic here.”
She grabs another one.
“I’ll take the consumption of more as high praise.”
“I mean, shouldn’t it be good, though?” She pops the second one in her mouth. “I don’t even want to think about what these cost per bite.”
“I think I need to come try something made by this famous Seren, if this place can barely compare.”
“Maybe you should,” she says. “She’s actually instituting this new thing, Sunday dinners. If you can behave, I might take you along some time.”
I hold up both my hands. “I’ll be on my best behavior, I swear.”
Once I’ve paid the check and we’ve walked out to the car, I ask, “So? What was it like being on the other side for a night?”
She rolls her eyes. “The Red Horse doesn’t even have one Michelin star.”
I walk toward her, and she backs up against my car. “Having been a customer of both,” I say, “I think the Red Horse is definitely better.”
“You do?” She looks up at me, her chin lifting a hair more. “Really?”
I drop one hand to her left, my palm flattening against the top of my car. “The food’s more to my liking,” I whisper. Then I drop my other hand on the right side of her. “But the service at the Red Horse?” I shake my head slowly. “Not even comparable.”
“Really.”
I nod slowly. “In fact, there’s this one waitress I just cannot get enough of. I actually forced my entire board to relocate our weekly meetings to her restaurant just so I’d have an excuse to see her.”
She arches one eyebrow. “You didn’t.”
I lean closer still, until our faces are less than two inches apart. “Don’t tell her, but I’d eat cardboard if she brought it to me, and I’d pay top dollar for the privilege.”
She presses one hand against my chest. “Easton.”
“Again,” I whisper.
“What?” Her eyes widen.
“Say it again.”
The slow smile that curls the corners of her mouth upward is delicious. “Easton.”
I drop my lips against hers, and thankfully, they’re a far cry from cardboard. They may be the softest thing I’ve ever felt. I can still taste a hint of cream puff, and I can’t help sucking her bottom lip into my mouth just a little.
She moans.
I pull her against me, flipping around to lean against the car myself, but it’s short. Way too short. I’m basically sitting on it, which is distracting. Why don’t I have a taller car? I’m buying nothing but SUVs, starting tomorrow.
Even the failures of my sportscar can’t distract me from Bea’s mouth—her little soft sigh, her hand, fisting around my shirt. “You—yes,” I hiss.
“You’re better than that meal,” Bea says.
That makes me smile.
Kissing someone while smiling is strange and beautiful. I could do it all day. “Thank you,” I say.
She pulls back.
“No, don’t do that.”
Her hand flattens, this time, keeping me away. “What did you just thank me for?” Her lips are compressed, but they’re twitching. With excitement? Merriment? Curiosity?
I sigh. “For not getting a restraining order when I kept showing up? For being the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met? For bringing light and joy into my life?”
She cocks her head sideways. “Easton.”
“Now you’re just spoiling me.”
“We should go home.”
“Yes.” I nod. “My place or yours?”
She slaps my arm, and I love that she knew me well enough to know it was a joke. At least, it was mostly a joke.
I’ve barely pulled out of the parking lot when my phone rings—and it’s an old friend. “I need to take this,” I warn her.
She nods, her expression earnest. “Oh, go ahead.”
I tap the green button to pick up Laurent’s call. “Hello?”
“You picked up!” His French accent always seems more pronounced when we haven’t spoken in a while.
“Isn’t it the middle of the night in Paris?” I ask.
“I’m in Shanghai,” Laurent says.
“What are you doing there?”
“I have another meeting soon—no time to get into all that.” Laurent clears his throat. “But Dad called me about your new proposal. He forwarded the whole thing to me.”
“That’s not promising,” I say. “To be totally honest, we need Barbier, or I’m not sure it will work.”
“We’re like your opposite—all the best women’s luxury goods, and all with a twist.” Laurent’s laugh comes out more like a bark. “Dad said the same.”
“Look, just tell me what I need to do—”
“Dad loved the idea, but I should warn you. He loved you enough that he wants to buy your company.”
“Buy us?” Now I’m the one laughing. “You couldn’t afford to.”
“Dad and I can’t, but Grandfather could,” Laurent says, “and think about what a good fit it would be.”
“That’s not why I sent you the proposal,” I say.
“Fine.” He huffs. “Fine. Dad said you’d say no, but we at least wanted to ask. It would be a far-cry simpler than the service you’re setting up.”
“Simpler was never my forte,” I say.
“I suppose not,” Laurent says. “Not during school, and not now. But look, Dad has a few demands you’re not going to like.”
“Email them to me,” I say. “We’ll see what we can do.”
“What other brands are on board?” Laurent asks.
“You know I can’t tell you that. Not without a much more firm commitment.”
“Let me get with legal and we’ll send you something.”
We’re nearly to Bea’s place. “I’m so sorry I wasted our whole drive home,” I say.
“Wasted?” Bea’s frowning. “It sounded like an encouraging call.”
“It was,” I say. “We need Barbier—the board’s flipping out about it.”
“Well, it sounds like you have a good shot of bringing them in.”
I park. “As encouraging as that was, it was a long way from the best part of my day.” I lean toward her and brush another kiss against her perfectly shaped mouth.
She’s smiling when she hops out of the car and jogs to her apartment door. All in all, even if my date ran away at the end, I think things went pretty well.
My phone bings, and I whip it out. It’s from Bea, which makes me grin.
I TALKED TO LEGAL. HERE ARE MY DEMANDS—IF YOU WANT TO COME FOR SUNDAY DINNER.
She’s such a frigging delight. I DO, I text back immediately.
1. NO MORE DROP-INS WHILE I’M AT WORK
DONE, I text back.
2. YOU WILL DRIVE THE XC90 OR 4RUNNER
I smile. I THOUGHT YOU DIDN’T LIKE IT
DAVE AND SEREN ALWAYS MOCK JAKE FOR HIS CAR
DONE, THEN, I text.
WAIT, HOW MANY CARS DO YOU HAVE?
I PLEAD THE FIFTH.
THE FIFTH ONLY APPLIES IN A COURT OF LAW.
I DON’T THINK THAT’S TRUE. Or at least, whether it is or not, the last thing I need to do is confess that I have five. Three are parked at my parents’ house anyway, so there’s no need for her to know.
FINE. She sends an eye-roll emoji, and I can imagine her doing it in person. 3. YOU WILL NOT SAY A WORD ABOUT SEREN’S FAMOUS GRANDMOTHER
BUT I ALREADY KNOW ALL ABOUT HER—ELIZABETH TOLD US
OH, FINE. I’M FLEXIBLE ON NUMBER THREE
I THINK WE HAVE AN AGREEMENT, I text. BUT I NEED TO SEE YOU BEFORE SUNDAY. I CAN’T WAIT THAT LONG. HOW ABOUT TOMORROW?
I’M WORKING
WHAT ABOUT BEFORE WORK?
I’M GOING FOR A RUN TO WORK OFF THE 9,000 CALORIES I JUST ATE
I’LL COME
I never run. I’m going to die, but if it has to happen someday, it may as well be with Bea.
17
Bea
I’m flying high from my recent date and the flurry of cute texts we just shared.
That’s the only explanation.
Regular Bea would never have sat down to write a song, gotten upset about how Octavia had been so cavalier about making me lose the contest, and then sent an email to her, demanding she meet me for lunch. By the time I brush my teeth, put on my pajamas, and hop into bed, she’s already replied. My hands are trembling when I click on her reply.
Great. Name the place. My treat. Noon.
-Octavia.
Between the twinges of a new song taking form inside my head, and my nerves about tomorrow’s jog and lunch, I can’t sleep. I toss. I turn. And finally, I wake up and drag myself into the family room. With a pencil in my mouth, I start working through what I’ve got.
No words.
Not a single one.
I have no idea what it’s about yet, but the song—it’s bright. Sharp. Clear. It’s equal parts anger and joy. It’s beautiful and furious. It’s a tumult, like how I feel inside. It’s a combination of my rage at my family and my joy in meeting Dave and Seren and Jake and Emerson. It’s the relief that I’m loved and the fury that I was abandoned.
I’ve never written a song that’s bright and dark in equal measure.
Actually, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard one close enough to compare this to. I scrawl one word across the top of the music once the gist of it is out—BIPOLAR. I finally collapse into bed and pass out.
That’s probably why I struggle so much to wake up—that, and the fact that I usually roll out of bed around noon. Of course, as I down a glass of orange juice, which is about all I can tolerate before I go for a jog, the stupid song comes back. This is how it works for me. Until I can get the song finished, it’ll yell at me in waves.
I’m pulled out of the fiddling of my brain when Jake comes banging out of his room, bleary-eyed and cranky. “That’s my toothbrush.”
I pull it out of my mouth slowly and stare. “It’s not.”
“It is.” He holds out his hand, glaring.
“Jake, I bought this a week ago, and I have several more just like it right here.” I open the top drawer and show him the package.
He swears under his breath. “Well, sorry.”
“Sorry?” I arch one eyebrow.
“I’ve definitely been using it.”
I spit and rinse my mouth. “Really?” I huff.
“I said sorry.” He shrugs. “But, like, didn’t you say you had a few more?”
I toss the toothbrush at him and shoot out the door.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?”
“Easton’s coming over to go for a run with me.”
“Of course he is. Is he bringing his golden retriever?”
I ignore the jab. He may be jealous, but Easton is the perfect guy. A golden dog would fit. “Do you want me to make you some coffee before I go?”
I hear him rinse his mouth. “Why would you do that?” His face, when he emerges from the bathroom, is suspicious.
“So I can spit in it.” I lean over to tie my shoes.
Jake disappears.
“Hey, where’d you go?”
“If you think I’m going to let him steal my only running buddy, you’ve lost your mind.”
“You don’t even like to run,” I say. “You only do it to bother me.”
“You hate it as much as I do. That’s why we run so well together.”
“Mutual hatred?” I’m shaking my head, but it feels a little like sibling bonding. “I suppose that’s better than nothing.”
“What is?” Jake’s slipping his feet into sneakers.
“Those shoes can’t be helpful if you don’t even have to tie them.”
Jake stands up. “I have such perfect feet, it doesn’t matter what I wear.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“What’s better than nothing? You never answered me. Is this a new thing, because I don’t like it.”
“Our trauma bond,” I say. “That’s what is better than nothing.”
“It’s not really trauma,” Jake says. “Running is. . .miserable, but not traumatic.”
“Misery bonding just sounds dumb.” I reach for my air pods, but then I stop. “I can’t even listen to music, can I?”
“Not when you’re going to be watching two alpha males vying for your attention.”
“Alpha males?” That makes me laugh. “Just stay home.”
“Why?” Jake puffs out his chest. “Worried Easton will act dumb and I’ll have to beat him down, ruining any admiration you had for him?”
“Hardly,” I say. “I’m worried my alpha male will make you feel even more insecure, and you’ll posture the entire run. That would be terribly sad and tiring for all of us.”
Jake’s frowning when there’s a knock at the door.
“Right on time, as usual,” I say. “Now tie your shoes tighter, or we’ll leave you here.”
The second he bends over and unties them, I jog to the door and run right through it. “You ready?”
Easton’s mouth is dangling open, but his shoes are on, and he’s wearing a water bottle on a belt.
“Great.” I start jogging and he catches up quickly.
“What are we doing?” Easton’s glancing behind me at the door I just slammed shut.
“We’re trying to ditch Jake.” I can’t help my smile.
“Are we really?” He speeds up a bit.
“It’s my favorite morning pastime.”
“I can’t tell if this is a joke or not.” Easton keeps glancing behind us.
“I mean, it is for sure, but also, I really do ditch him every time I can. I told him to tie his shoes and then took off.”
Easton’s able to keep up admirably well, though it should be pretty easy. With as short as I am, most guys could sort of saunter at my jogging pace.
“Why do you like ditching him?” Easton asks. “We could just go earlier next time, before he’s even awake.”
“He hears me getting ready,” I say. “That’s why it’s funny. Jake’s not even a runner. He just has such a horrible case of FOMO that he cannot help himself. When he’s home, if I go running, he has to come along. It’s like he’s a tiny dog—not really interested in running, but he can’t help but long to go.”
“So ditching him?”
As if on cue, Jake comes huffing up behind us. “Really? You shouldn’t do this with guests.” He’s wheezing.
“I thought movie stars were all in amazing shape,” Easton says, speaking easily. “But you seem. . .remarkably unfit.”
