Come As You Are Page 15

  I point to the glittery shoes. “I want the slippers. I’ll click my heels.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “I would go back to the costume party.”

  His eyes lock with mine. His aren’t green now. Longing is their shade, and I want to capture the way he looks. He stares at me like I’m worth everything. Like I’m emeralds and rubies. God, how I want that. How I wish I could have it with him—everything in his eyes.

  He tips his chin toward the door. “We should see what masks are in the store, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely.”

  We say hello to the shopkeeper who glances up from the counter and smiles, letting us know she’s here if we need anything. She’s dressed as Rita Hayworth, with a bust-exposing dress and a red wig.

  We head toward the masks.

  “Now that you’ve seen me, would you recognize me in, say, this?” He covers his face with a fox mask.

  “You’re foxy, but yes, I can tell it’s you.”

  “Good.” He reaches for a dog. “As Fido?”

  I smile. “Absolutely.”

  “What about this?” He tries to sound silky and sultry as he slides a pink pig mask over his face, adding a most unsexy oink, oink.

  “Still you.”

  He locates a mask of a clown with a tear sliding down its face and a big red ball for a nose. He positions it over my eyes then peers at me, studying me. “Yup, it’s you.”

  He holds the mask to his face. “And now? Can you tell it’s me?”

  I slug his arm. “Yes, yes, yes. Of course, I’d recognize you.”

  “Just like you ‘recognized’ me at The Dollhouse?” His tone is somewhat challenging.

  “I told you, I recognized you, but I didn’t want it to be you,” I say wistfully.

  He wraps a hand around my arm, and flames lick my body. “Sometimes I still feel that way. Sometimes I see you, and I wish you were someone else.”

  “Me too,” I admit.

  “Do you want me to be the duke?”

  I nod. “Yes, and we’ll go to costume parties. Maybe I’ll dress as Marilyn Monroe at one.”

  He groans and steps closer to me. It’s dark here in the corner of the shop—we’re out of sight of the windows. Red velvet lines the wall, and masks, swords, and shields hang from it. “You’d look so hot as Marilyn Monroe.”

  “I’d get a mask just for my eyes. You could cup my cheek while you kissed me.”

  “Fuck,” he says in a long, low rumble. “And what would I be?” He rests his hand on a rack of poodle skirts.

  “You’d be Joe DiMaggio, of course.”

  He pumps a fist. “I always wanted to be a star athlete.”

  I lift my hand and run it up his arm, grateful he’s wearing a T-shirt today. I trace a path to his bicep. His breath hisses as I travel higher then squeeze his muscle. “You’d wear your Yankees uniform, and I’d admire how it fits you. I’d admire your arms too. I’d touch them.”

  He swallows harshly. His eyes are fire. His voice is sandpaper as he whispers, “And I’d slide in for a dance and wrap my arm around your waist while you had on that white satin dress. And nobody would know who we were because we’d wear masks.”

  “We’d know.”

  “But we’d pretend.”

  “Can we pretend now? That we’re at a costume party?”

  He glances over his shoulder. Rita is on the phone. She’s looking the other way, and we’re partially hidden behind the racks. “Let’s pretend. If we pretend, it’s not really happening.”

  Permission. We’re giving each other the permission we both so desperately want.

  “We’re at a make-believe party,” I say, as we move closer to each other, and he glides his hand around my waist.

  I want to melt into him. My bones dissolve into honey as I raise my hands to his shoulders, sliding over them, looping around his neck, then drawing him near. “You never know what might happen at a costume party,” I whisper as we glide closer. Inches separate us. Inches and air and restraint that’s frayed so thin it’s unraveling at breakneck speed.

  “One dance, maybe more.”

  Music plays softly in the background, and I swear it’s Linda Ronstadt crooning the opening notes to “Someone to Watch Over Me.” Or maybe that’s how my body feels. Like it’s become a torch song. Like I’m living inside the lyrics to a smoky, sexy tune of desperation and wanting.

  My eyes flutter closed for a second, and warmth spreads from the center of my chest all the way to the tips of my fingers. A shiver runs through me as his hands tighten around my hips.

  Once again, we exist on two planes. We seem to slip back and forth in time like we did when we visited the subway station. Like we exist here as Flynn and Sabrina, and we exist in the past as Angel and Duke.

  I dance, though I shouldn’t.

  I sway, though it’s risky.

  I look into his eyes, though that only makes me want him more. Wanting is such a painful emotion. It aches and throbs and hurts even as it asks for more of the torture. More of the things that I can’t have. A real chance with this man. A real date. A real love.

  “Sometimes you look at me like you did the other night,” I whisper.

  “How did I look at you the other night?”

  “As if you liked being kind of dominant.”

  “I think you liked it when I was kind of dominant.”

  “I liked it when you raised my hands over my head.”

  “And you liked it when I hiked your legs around my waist.”

  “I did,” I say breathily.

  “Why?”

  “Because I didn’t have to think. I didn’t have to worry. I could get lost in the moment.”

  “Do you want to get lost again?” he asks, in a voice that betrays his want for me. It makes me dizzy. It makes me high.

  I’m swallowed whole by a new kind of desire that floods my body. I want to lose myself in him. I don’t want to be found.

  “I do,” I whisper as my skin prickles with the clawing need to get closer to him. My pulse spikes. “I wish we didn’t have to pretend.”

  “So do I.”

  I stop pretending. I lean in, part my lips, and give in.

  He brushes his lips across mine and hums as he kisses me.

  It’s a soft, aching kiss. Like the song. Like my need for him.

  It’s sad and it’s intoxicating at the same time. It’s the way we kiss when we’re saying goodbye, when we’re borrowing time, when we know we can’t be.

  The kiss is born of longing, forged in a wish that can’t come true.

  I want it too much. I want to forget all the reasons why he’s a mistake. I want to be his Marilyn right now, and his Angel, and his Sabrina.

  “Say my name,” I whisper, breaking the kiss. “I want to hear you say my name.”

  “Sabrina,” he says. His voice is rougher than I’ve heard before, and it turns me liquid. I’m silver and gold, and I want him to kiss me forever and ever. This kind of bittersweet kiss, this kind of stolen kiss in a costume shop, hearkens back to our first secret kiss.

  But when Rita laughs loudly, the sound of her amusement is a sharp reminder that we’re playing with fire.

  We break apart.

  Because we have to.

  I clear my throat, trying to center myself. I can’t think. I can’t speak. “Maybe I should buy a . . .” I don’t know how to finish the sentence.

  “A fox mask?”

  “If it meant I could have you, I would.”

  But there’s no real way to hide who I am, or what I need.

  I need a job, and if I’m in love with the man I’m covering, then my story goes up in smoke, and any possible future with Up Next turns to ash.

  21

  Flynn

  * * *

  “Now, if we can just have this smart home make me eggs and toast in the morning, I’ll be all set.”

  The morning news anchor, Camilla Montes, smiles and laughs in that isn’t-it-amazing
way that morning news anchors have.

  “We’re working on that, Camilla, and we hope to get there soon,” I tell her, since I’ve finished showing her all the cool features of Haven.

  “Thank you so much for joining us today, Flynn, and we are so excited that our homes are now becoming brilliant robots that can deliver whatever we need at the sound of our voices.” She flashes a lipsticked smile, with gleaming white teeth. “Also, I would be remiss if I didn’t point out you remain on our list of the most eligible bachelors in New York City. Any chance that’ll change soon?”

  I laugh lightly. Jennica briefed me that Camilla might toss a curveball with a personal question—the morning news show ran a list of eligible bachelors recently, so I’m not surprised.

  “Is there somebody on the horizon?” she adds.

  As I briefly consider whether I want to admit anything on air, I picture Sabrina, her sparkling hazel eyes; her mischievous smile; her wild, warm heart; and her sense of adventure. How I want her to be the one on the horizon. I do. I just do.

  Even if we hadn’t kissed yesterday, I’d want a chance with her with the same fierce desire I had when I first wanted to build this company.

  Just as I’ve marched my way to the top of the tech world with focus and rigor, I need to find a way to make that woman mine no matter what. I’m not someone who sits back and takes no for an answer. “There is someone on the horizon,” I say with a smile. “I’ll let you know if anything comes of it.”

  She smiles and speaks to the camera. “You heard it here first, folks. There is a lovely lady for Flynn Parker. Now, stay tuned for our next segment on how to make your own organic butter.”

  When the camera cuts to a commercial, she thanks me, a technician removes my mic, and I say goodbye. Making my way out of the studio, I meet up with Jennica, who waits in the hallway. She stares at me like a teacher about to reprimand a student. “Who is she? Is it your mystery girl? And how long were you going to keep her from me?”

  I smile, a grin that can’t truly be contained. “I was going to tell you.”

  “You were? I’m getting ready to beat you over the head with the broom for not serving up the deets.”

  I love that Jennica has something of a mom in her, that she looks out for me. She’s taken on this role since we’ve been working together. She’s one of the people I’m lucky to have in my life, and as we stand in the concrete hallway to the TV studio, with crews rushing by, guys with headsets, women with clipboards, I decide it’s time to truly understand if I can take this chance.

  “Let me ask you a question. How do you think we’re doing? With the rollout of Haven? And with the competition?” I need to hear it from her. From someone who won’t bullshit me.

  “It’s going even better than we imagined. Everything is working great. It’s coming together, and we’re far ahead of ShopForAnything.”

  “Are they having us for breakfast?”

  “Cornflakes we are not.”

  “Is one article in one magazine going to make or break us?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t think we’ll live or die by one piece of publicity. But if you’re asking me how you’re going to deal with the fact that you’re falling for the reporter from Up Next, I would tell you that, while the story matters, your happiness matters more.”

  My jaw comes unhinged. “How did you know it was her?”

  Her smile is soft and kind. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with Sabrina. I’ve never really known any article to require five or six interviews. And when she came by the office the other day, there was a sort of glow in your eyes. I saw it again at the softball game. You’ve never looked at anyone like that.”

  “Not Annie?”

  Jennica shakes her head. “This seems like something that makes you happy here.” She taps my sternum.

  I smile. “Yeah, it does. She does.”

  I wipe away the smile. I have a job to do, and employees to look out for. I’ve studied our numbers. I know we’re doing well. Still, I’m the kind of guy who likes to check and double check. It’s what I did on all my math tests, and it served me well. “Does that mean I’m not totally messing up our company if I pursue things with her?”

  Jennica leans against the wall, a thoughtful look in her eyes. “We’re stronger than that at Haven. We’ll be fine.”

  And if that’s the case, that means I can reconsider the approach to this math problem.

  My hypothesis has changed when it comes to Sabrina. At first, I’d been so focused on what I might lose at work if I got involved with her. Would our rollout falter? Would we lose ground? Would my edge fade? But at this point, my company is solid and the shark circling us appears to have retreated. Since the hypothesis has changed, the expected result should too. Perhaps falling for her and managing my business can go hand in hand. “You’re sure?”

  She laughs. “Yes. And listen, I know you’ve tried not to get involved with people you work with because you love the company so much. I get that. You’ve wanted to keep everything separate, devote yourself to Haven, and not let anything distract you. But look what you’ve done,” she says, gesturing to the hallway, and presumably to the piece we just finished. “You built another amazing company, and there’s a part of you that still believes if you don’t give it one hundred percent, we’ll get lost or hurt. But Flynn, fifty percent of your focus is the equivalent of two hundred percent of anyone else’s.”

  “Oh stop. You’re too good to me.”

  “You’re too good to us. And if she’s the one for you, you have to take the chance with her. You’ve given so much of your heart and your soul to the businesses we’ve worked on together. I think it’s time you take care of yourself.” She squeezes my shoulder. “I want you to be happy.”

  “And this is when I remind myself that whatever your bonus is, it’s not big enough.”

  “Precisely. Just remember that when it’s holiday time.” She takes a deep breath and fixes me with a serious stare. “But what will happen to her and her story? Frankly, that’s a bigger concern at this point—what impact will it have on her?”

  “You’re right. She has more at stake. I have more cushion.”

  She squeezes my arm. “Be her cushion, then.”

  That’s the next problem to solve—how to be her cushion. How to turn Sabrina’s risk into our reward.

  22

  Sabrina

  * * *

  It’s three in the morning. I’m bleary-eyed. I’ve drunk all my tea. I’ve consumed enough caffeine to power a small planet.

  I’m pretty much done with the first draft of my article. This is a dream. This is what I’ve always wanted to write. Something deep and rich that tells a thrilling tale, with ups, downs, conflict, and hope.

  As I lean back in the tiny chair at my tinier kitchen table, staring at the laptop screen, satisfaction flows through me. This is a good piece. This is a fair piece.

  The next step is to show it to my brother. I don’t have enough distance to know if I’ve done the job. If I’ve been critical enough in my observations.

  I email him.

  Your mission, should you choose to accept, is to apply those finely tuned ethics to my piece. Let me know if I’ve been fair. Let me know if it’s patently obvious I like the guy, or if you can’t tell one iota that I have a massive crush on him.

  He must be up late too, because his response is swift.

  Mission accepted. I have a test tomorrow, so let me read it later in the day. Also, I knew you had a crush on him. And I’m glad you’re being so introspective and thoughtful about whether you can even do this piece.

  I blink. Whether? No, I’m doing it. I’ve done it. It’s done. All I want to know is if I pulled it off, or if it needs more wordsmithing.

  But I don’t need to get into those details yet. I send him a thank you.

  It’s funny how feedback from my little brother is what I needed. He’s been my benchmark for how to behave for the last several years, and I needed
his input after the kiss with Flynn.

  My stomach drops with guilt.

  But it’s more than a morsel of guilt. It’s snowballed into a too-tall boulder.

  I don’t regret kissing Flynn.

  How could I? When he kisses me, I feel it in my bones, it radiates to my soul. He kisses me like I’m cherished. Like I matter. Like I could matter for a long, long time.

  My regret comes from the work.

  From my fear that somehow my feelings for him could hurt the reputation of Up Next. Bob Galloway put his neck on the line for me, and I want to deliver. I don’t want to bring scandal or gossip to his publication.

  As my stomach dive-bombs in a nervous loop, a part of me thinks I should tell Mr. Galloway I have feelings for the subject of my piece.

  But as I stare at the mail on my table, and the bill for divinity school, I can’t. I can’t risk this assignment, and really, it was only one bone-shatteringly good kiss.

  What happened before doesn’t count.

  What happened at the costume shop was a mistake, and I can’t let it happen again.

  I can’t have both Flynn and the job. Mr. Galloway would ax the piece if he knew I’d been involved with the subject. Editors love to wield their scepters of impartiality and fairness. I get that—it’s the foundation of the field.

  That’s why my best bet is to make sure there’s nothing to know. It was one kiss, and it’s over. Nothing more will happen now. Maybe one day in the future, a year down the track, if we’re both still single. But that’s a lot of what-ifs and you can’t plan for what-ifs.

  I click on the website for Up Next, hoping that it will remind me of my new dream—to work there full-time. I read a few articles posted online, including a gripping piece on new trends in wearable technology. That could be me next.

  Not wearing technology, per se.

  But writing a gripping piece for Up Next.

  It’s a dream job, and I can’t let one kiss derail my attempts to land it.

  When I’m done, I fire off emails to other editors I know, sending in clips, checking on work, and pitching potential stories. If Up Next doesn’t pan out, I need to be prepared. No one writes back yet, since it’s not even dawn, but at four thirty a new email rolls in.