Settling back in my chair, I close my eyes and picture her. Those pale pink lips, a faint tint of gloss, their constant press. She had been nervous, her fingers running over the top of her resume, her hands clenching and unclenching the portfolio, her eyes darting everywhere but my face. I’m not a stranger to nervous women; I’ve spent a lifetime using my looks to my advantage, my smile and words to fill in any gaps my appeal might contain. If I’d wanted to, I could have had Kate Martin. If I want to, I still could. Fuck the ring and the fiancé. No woman who wants to get married waits to set a date.

“Literally or figuratively?” Something had flashed in her eyes when she had asked the question. The edge of her mouth had curled, the hint of a dimple appearing. In those three words, she had shown what hid beneath that stiff posture and nervous eyes. In those three words, she had shown spunk.

I pull out her resume and close the folder, pushing aside the inappropriate thoughts that have plagued me since our meeting. My company is in trouble. I’m leveraged in ways that make me sweat, our assets dwindling, sales declining, morale at an all-time low. It doesn’t matter if Kate Martin is fuckable, willing, or engaged. I don’t need another fuck buddy. What I need—more importantly, what my company needs—is a savior.

Could she be it?

Chapter 2

Her

“You got the job? Oh honey, that’s terrific!” My mother’s voice pumps out from my cell phone, and I can picture her legs moving, one hot pink lycra-ed leg before the other, her free hand swinging, as she moves down the street. “I am so proud of you! Do you like your new boss?”

“I’m not sure yet.” I open the fridge and stare at the contents.

“I’m sure you will, I can just feel it.” She inhales. “Plus, it’s a new moon tomorrow, and that will help.” There is the blare of a horn, and the muffled sound of her cursing. I put her on speaker and set the phone down on the counter. When she returns, her voice is bright and cheerful. “So! I’m assuming you gave L&L your two-week notice?”

“I tried. They had security escort me out.”

“What?” I can almost hear the screech of her tennis shoes against the pavement.

“It’s standard, Mom. They don’t want me messing anything up on my way out.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous. I’m so sorry, Kate.” She huffs into the phone.

I find a box of stuffed green peppers in the freezer and pull it out. “Anyway, you can tell Jess tonight. It’s not a secret.”

“Are you sure you can’t come? I’ve got plenty of food. And you can bring Craig! It’ll be fun.” Her voice pitches, as if in protest of her words, and I bite back a smile. There are many definitions of fun, but Craig and I—around my sister and her five kids—is never fun, at least not for him. It’s entertaining for Jess and me, especially if Mom’s pulled out the wine, but it is excruciatingly painful for him. And tonight, as much as I would enjoy seeing them all—I need some space, a quiet night to celebrate my time at Lavern & Lilly, and my fresh start at Marks Lingerie. “Another time. Give everyone a hug from me.”

She promises to do so, and I turn on the oven as she hangs up. I call Craig, leaving him a voicemail with the good news, and then I go out to the garage, opening the car’s trunk and grabbing the first cardboard box, carrying it into the apartment before returning for the second, and then the third.

Eleven years at L&L and all of it fits into three boxes. I open the first one, and pick through the contents. With the second box, I grab wine and put the green peppers in the oven. Before opening the third box, filled with nostalgia, I eat.

I find a framed photo from just before my Parsons graduation, with my old best friends. Four of us, all with maxed out credit cards and big dreams, clinking sugar-rimmed martini glasses in a dark club somewhere in Manhattan. I haven’t looked at the photo in years, and haven’t spoken to them in almost that long. Meredith is in Seattle now, Jen is in Miami, and Julie and I got in a fight four years ago and haven’t spoken since. I wipe the dust off the frame and return it to the box, not interested in seeing it every day, not interested in feeling the pang of regret. Maybe I should call Julie. I take a long pull of wine and discard the idea. Truth be told, I haven’t really missed her.

I sift through a pile of business cards, dropping a few of them into the kitchen trash. Maybe Craig and I can find new friends. He has a group he wants to join—Mensa—and brought home membership tests last week, his application already completed, typed into the form with neat precision. Apparently there are weekly events, parties where intelligence is tested and carefully orchestrated mingling occurs.

I haven’t taken my membership test yet. It’s an IQ exam, one that ignores any fashion abilities or reality-tv knowledge. Craig has pushed me to take it, sending reminders by email, spare tests brought to every date. I almost took it yesterday, but I’m torn over whether or not to cheat on it. My conscience says no. My common sense says that it’s a stupid Mensa test and morals aren’t really in play, but my fiancé’s respect is. On the man’s eHarmony profile, he had “intelligence” as his most important quality, above cleanliness and personality. Before our first date, he had asked for my GMAT scores. I may have overinflated mine a teensy bit out of competitive pride.

My phone buzzes, and my back stiffens out of habit, my mind steeling for Claudia’s voice, before I remember my resignation. I take a long sip of merlot and force myself to relax before I reach for my cell. It’s a text from Craig.

Just got your voicemail. Congratulations! Want me to come over to celebrate?

I consider the offer, my eyes moving over the cardboard boxes, the vomit of my past all over the kitchen counters.

Sure. Come over around ten. We can celebrate naked.

I send the message and smile, imagining Craig’s face when he reads it, the rise of his eyebrows, the widening of his eyes. It will catch him off guard, our texts never racy, everything appropriate, should anyone pick up either of our phones. But tonight, I’m feeling reckless. Maybe it’s the unshackling of my Claudia VanGaur cuffs. Maybe it’s the three glasses of wine I’ve had. Or maybe it’s the phantom feel of Trey Marks’s eyes, the way that—fully dressed before him—I had felt naked.

Craig’s knees against the inside of my thighs. His hands beside my shoulders. He dips his head and I lift my chin. We kiss, our teeth bumping, and he slows his thrusts in order to do a better job.

“I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you, too.” I lift and wrap my legs around his waist, my hands digging into the meat of his ass, and when I pull him hard against me, he responds. There is a moment of heavy breaths and small grunts, and I close my eyes, enjoying the movement, the flex of his cock inside of me, the slap of our bodies together. I can feel when he is close, the quickening of strokes, the tightening of muscles, and he moans, pushing deeper, his body stiffening as he gives one final pump.

I close my eyes, and Trey Marks’s face flashes, for a quick moment, in the dark.

At L&L, all of the Los Angeles employees worked in one big loft, our desks arranged in clusters to foster teamwork and interaction. The only thing it fostered was paranoia, the feeling that we were being watched constantly, no conversations private, peak times a shouting match of everyone trying to be heard. Some nights I was hoarse from the constant need to raise my voice just to have a simple conversation.

At Marks Lingerie, I am given a private office, one with glass walls and a view of the city skyline. I run my fingers over my nameplate, the Creative Director title sending a small thread of pleasure through me.

“Got everything you need?” I turn to see Trey, his hand gripping the edge of the doorframe. The tie he wears is crisply knotted, his jacket gone, his short hair styled in the messy way of playboys everywhere. His tan skin contrasts with the blue button-down, his eyes popping against the color.

“I’m good.” I smile, pulling my bag off of my shoulder and setting it on the desk. “Great view.”

“We need you to keep it.” He smiles, and I see the stress behind the words.

“Yes sir.” I nod. I can handle pressure. Compared to L&L, this is Disneyland. Instead of eight clothing divisions, we have one. Instead of reporting to Claudia, I’ve got him.