Sex and Other Shiny Objects (Boyfriend Material Book 2) Page 6

“Glad you enjoyed it,” I say with the reserve of a hostess at a fine restaurant.

  “What I didn’t enjoy was her expectation that I pay more attention to her than Barrett,” he adds.

  I spin away from the rack and look at him again. “Oh. I had no idea that she said that.”

  “She was oddly jealous of my little brother.” He lifts his hands in a shrug.

  I rein in the sliver of a grin, even though I’m more pleased than I have reason to be. “And I guess that’s why she’s the ex.”

  “Indeed it is.” He parks his hands on his hips. “What’s the blog idea? And how can I help? If it involves me lifting heavy boxes, you’re going to owe me lunch, woman.”

  I smile—he’s eased my nerves just by being himself. “No boxes. I promise.” I grab his wrist and guide him through shelves of camisoles and undies, bustiers and stockings, marching him to the dressing room area, since it’s a good place to chat.

  “Fashion show?” He stretches out his neck before he parks himself on the pink chair in the corner.

  “Not exactly. But . . .” I take a deep breath, hoping this goes better than my attempt this morning. “I’m hoping we can test fashion.”

  One brow climbs in curiosity. “Explain. Because you should know, I’m not wearing any of that stuff.”

  A laugh bursts from my throat. “I know. Of course. Definitely not. The testing would be on . . .” I flutter my fingers toward myself.

  He blinks, like something is stuck in his eye. “You? You want to test lingerie with me?”

  “Sort of,” I say, my throat dry because this is much harder than I’d thought it would be. Gage’s betrayal did a number on me, and my trust in love, romance, and men is at an all-time low.

  I repeat my mantras, though, since I’m trying to move into my future, whatever that entails.

  Put yourself out there.

  Do the hard things.

  Go for it.

  “Let me start at the beginning,” I say.

  “That’d be helpful because I’m a little lost.”

  I park myself on the ottoman, facing him, and I cross my legs. His eyes drift briefly to the black boots that I’ve paired with a short purple skirt.

  “We will be testing various kinds of fashion. And their resilience under certain conditions.”

  “We?”

  I adopt my best sales-y smile. “Well, you know how my good friend Tristan said I should blog again?”

  “Smart guy. Also, I read the blog last night. It was . . . interesting.”

  Wait till he finds out what I’m about to hit him with next. Deep breath. “And I need to take it a step further,” I say, pushing out the next words. “Amy needs someone to test out a few tropes from romance novels to go along with a book she’s publishing, and I volunteered as tribute.”

  The look on his face is inscrutable. “What sort of things?” Each word comes out like it occupies its own latitude and longitude.

  “I’m starting with lingerie stuff, and I was going to ask this guy at yoga class—”

  “A guy at yoga class?” His tone could slice a statue.

  “There’s this nice guy at yoga. He always puts out a mat for me. And you know how Amy and Lola have been telling me to put myself back out there and try again?”

  Tristan nods crisply, his jaw set.

  “I decided to try, and I started to ask him out, thinking maybe it would be just what I needed. Oops. Turns out he’s involved with the instructor, and I need someone I can practice ripping a shirt off of who’ll also rip off my panties.”

  And that came out like a five-car pileup.

  Tristan doesn’t break eye contact. He gazes at me, unflinching.

  His hazel eyes are darker than I’ve seen them in a decade. They remind me of that one night. The night I can still recall with perfect clarity.

  It was only a kiss. It lasted a mere twenty, maybe thirty seconds.

  But every second is indelibly etched in my memory.

  A shiver runs down my spine as I remember how he wrapped his hand around my waist. How he dipped his mouth to mine. How I felt his kiss radiate in my bones that whole night, and for weeks to come.

  But if something more were going to happen, it would have happened already.

  He scrubs a hand over his stubbled jaw, his words a command. “Don’t ask anyone else.”

  “Why?” I ask, my voice breathier than I’d expected.

  “Because I’ll do it.”

  8

  Tristan

  This fashion show raises an interesting question.

  As I leave her store to head to my restaurant, I wonder, Where does a guy buy a shirt he doesn’t give a shit about ripping?

  Clothes are not my forte. Most of mine come from a one-minute search on Amazon, where I buy ten of the thing I like and wear them to tatters.

  That makes this shirt quest a quandary.

  But it’s a quandary I’m glad to have because I don’t want any other guy picking out a shirt for Peyton to rip off.

  That’s why I said I’d handle shirt procurement. Why I volunteered to go to her place tonight. Why I said yes to her request.

  No, this isn’t my big chance to win her heart. That’s in the past.

  But this project matters to her—for her store, for her blog, and for her reinvention.

  And there’s no way I want her to find some other guy to test-drive scenarios with. What if she found someone who didn’t respect her? Who tried to take advantage of her?

  I shudder at the thought as I return to work, heading for my small office in the back to review orders. Before I start, I send a quick message to my buddy Linc. He’s a savvy cat, so I bet he’ll know where to find the ideal item.

  Tristan: Where do I get a shirt that I can use for ripping off?

  Linc: Why, I thought you’d never ask.

  Tristan: Yeah, same here.

  Linc: Also, I’m going to assume you have a good reason why you want one, and assume I don’t need or want to know. I would suggest a trip to Duane Reade. In fact, I’m on my way there right now.

  Tristan: Duane Reade sells shirts?

  Linc: Duane Reade sells everything.

  Tristan: Including button-down shirts?

  Linc: Yes. Have you ever tried going to a store rather than Amazoning everything?

  Tristan: No.

  Linc: Fine. I’ll help you. Meet me there.

  Fifteen minutes later, I find him waiting for me inside.

  “Cue the music for the romantic-comedy shopping montage where the cool guy helps the dorky dude buy a shirt.”

  I scoff. “I’m the dorky dude?”

  He gestures to his charcoal slacks and pressed button-down, in contrast to my jeans and pullover. Fine, he cleans up well.

  “Obviously, I’m the cool one,” he says. “Ergo, you’re the dorky fellow.”

  “Just help me with the shirts. Also, how the hell did you know they sold button-downs here?” I ask.

  He raises a finger, his tell that he’s prepping to tell a story. “My sister challenged Amy and me to what she likes to call her Presto-Chango game for a Friday Night Game Night and we had to find and buy items with the clock ticking,” he says, rounding the corner of the aisle as I keep pace. “We had to report back with completely changed looks in fifteen minutes.”

  “Um. Like a new costume?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t know how we could do it. I was freaking out, to put it mildly.’” He stops in front of a rack of socks like he’s a game show host. “It was like a whole new world. The drugstore had undershirts. It sold scarves. Socks. Hats. Sweatpants. And, wait for it, dress shirts. Who knew the drugstore had literally everything?”

  “Wow. This really changes my life too,” I deadpan.

  “And since I became a New Yorker, I like to think of Duane Reade as Crisis Solver Central. After all, we won the challenge and now I know where everything is.” He guides me a few more feet to a pack of three dress shirts.

  I read the label. “
They look like they’re made of tissue.”

  “You wanted something shitty,” he points out. “This is for Halloween, I presume? You’re doing costume planning, right?”

  I shake my head. “Nope.”

  He narrows his eyes, studying me over the top of his glasses. He snaps his fingers. “Ah. They’re for Barrett. Something for the theater tech he’s doing?”

  Another shake. “Not that either.”

  “Okay, I know I said I didn’t want to know. But that was a lie. I love weird shit. You have to tell me now.”

  Briefly I weigh telling the truth versus evasion.

  But since Peyton’s blog is public, and since Linc is involved with Amy, I decide to own up to it. “Amy asked Peyton to test some things for her because of her new book and—”

  I don’t even have to finish. “Yes, of course. That tracks. That’s exactly what Amy would do.” Linc hands me a pack of shirts, smacking me on the chest with it. “So, you’re the guinea pig?”

  “One certified lab rat right here, ready and waiting for Peyton’s instructions.”

  He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, then simply claps me on the shoulder. “Good luck with that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He levels me with a knowing stare. “I mean, good luck with that.”

  I don’t press. I don’t need to. Because I don’t need luck. This project isn’t about luck.

  It’s about friendship. That’s all.

  But just so I’m fully prepared, and just in case she’s keen to know the difficulty involved in ripping off a fancy shirt versus a cheap one, I google where to buy expensive dress shirts, then stop at Barneys on the way home and pick up a few more.

  Good thing my restaurant is in the black, because now it’s not only funding my brother’s school, but also this insane project where the girl I was once crazy for wants to tear clothes off me.

  And have me tear clothes off her.

  All in the name of research.

  Later that night, I shower, trim my beard, pull on jeans and a T-shirt, and text Barrett that I’ll be home late and that I’ve left some chicken parmigiana in the fridge for him, along with a green salad.

  His response?

  Barrett: Can I slurp the chicken?

  Tristan: If you can, more power to you. Also, you’re welcome.

  Barrett: Thank you. I’ll record a video of my success with the chicken consumption.

  Tristan: I can’t wait.

  I leave, stop in a specialty store along the way to pick up a gift for her, then I head to Peyton’s with the gift and the shirts in hand.

  It’s good that I have extras. After all, if she likes tearing the shirt off me once, maybe she’ll want to do it a few more times.

  Can’t hurt to run through the scenarios more than once.

  9

  Peyton

  To wine or not to wine—that is the question.

  But the answer is obviously wine.

  After all, what’s the point of alcohol if not to smooth over the awkward moments between friends researching the practicality of different scenes from romance novels, right?

  Right.

  Or maybe the answer is . . . tequila.

  As I stare at the shelves in the liquor store near my brownstone, I consider all the liquid options to take the edge off tonight. Lord knows I’ll need a little something to smooth over the jitters.

  I’m a jack-in-the-box and have been with each tick of the second hand. Since Tristan agreed to be my test partner this morning, my heart’s been hammering at triple-espresso speed.

  Fine, I’m only ripping off his shirt. But my hands will be on him. I’ll be undressing my best guy friend.

  A friend I kissed ten years ago.

  The thought of removing his shirt makes me . . .

  I pause before the tequila, asking myself how it makes me feel.

  Nervous? Excited? Scared out of my mind?

  I haven’t undressed a man since Gage. He’s the only one I’ve been with for the last few years.

  Just focus on the mission, not your mind-set.

  That’s what I tell myself. Besides, liftoff begins in less than two hours, and I need to prep. No time to noodle on squishy feelings that have come out of nowhere.

  The question of the hour—tequila or gin. Gin or tequila?

  Maybe it’s a martini kind of night. Except my talents don’t lie in making drinks, shaken or stirred, for super spies, so I bypass that old James Bond standard.

  While I could ask Tristan to make a special beverage, a good hostess would have a cocktail ready. That’s what my mother taught me growing up—never ask your guests to bring a thing but their presence.

  Tristan insisted on buying the shirts, but everything else will be on my dime.

  It should be a simple task to select the ideal drink for our research.

  As I wander down the next aisle, I mentally mark the whiskeys and bourbons in the no column. I don’t have a fire extinguisher big enough to put out the flames in my throat from those liquors.

  When I reach the rum options, I can hear the tinkle of kettle drums in my head, and I smell the sea breeze as I imagine strawberry daiquiris and piña coladas.

  Hmm. Do I want an island drink, a city drink, or a classic drink? Why can’t I decide?

  I scan the aisles up and down, but I don’t know what liquor sends the right message. What exactly does one imbibe to get in the mood to reenact scenes from a sexy rom-com with her best friend?

  That persistent flock of nerve-birds descends on me once again, flapping annoyingly, winding me up.

  This won’t do.

  I need to calm down.

  I need to relax.

  What I truly need, though, is help, so I call for reinforcements, FaceTiming Lola.

  “Hey, coolest chick I know,” I say when her face appears on the screen.

  She flashes me a flattery-will-get-you-everywhere grin. “C’est moi. What can I do for you?”

  I spin around, showing her the shelves behind me. “I’m faced with a bewilderment of choices. I don’t know if I want door number one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, or five hundred.”

  “I assume this is your lubricant for tonight?”

  My jaw falls open, and I whisper out of the corner of my mouth. “We don’t need lube. We’re not doing that. Also, hello? I’d like to think I don’t require lube. When it’s DTF time, I’m GTG.”

  With the most epic of eye rolls, she laughs. “It was a metaphor—the social lubricant of liquor. But I’m glad you’re all ready when it’s down-to-fuck time.”

  “Ohhhhh.” Well, fine. That makes more sense. I wave a hand like I can erase my last comment. “Pretend I didn’t say that.”

  “Oh no, I can’t pretend, because there’s a lesson here. Don’t dismiss a little assistance, sweetie. Even if you’re good to go, you should try it sometime. It can make sex even better. Sex with yourself, sex with a partner, sex in general. Just because Gage wasn’t into experimentation doesn’t mean you can’t try new things.”

  I bring the phone to my ear, lowering my volume. “Okay, how did we get from liquor advice to sex advice?”

  “Sometimes they’re one and the same.”

  “Also, I’m not having sex with Tristan,” I say, quiet but firm. I need to quash that notion. “We’re friends, and this is a research project.”

  “It was a tip for the future. Or, really, for now, since you have the chance to try all sorts of things that your ex wasn’t into.”

  True, Gage wasn’t the most sexually adventurous guy. He was a typical horny, three-position, twenty-something guy in the city. That worked well enough for me at the time, and our sex life was . . . standard. But since he’d been two-timing me for months, perhaps he was more experimental than I’d thought. But that also means the sex I did have with him was sex without real intimacy.

  Sex without a true connection.

  I’m not looking for a sex dungeon or a kink parlor. But at some
point, I wouldn’t mind knowing what it’s like to sleep with someone I can trust.

  Someone who isn’t looking the other way.

  Someone who wants to be with only me.

  That’s what I truly missed out on with Gage.

  “I don’t think the issue was that Gage wasn’t into trying new things,” I say to Lola as frankly as I can, since the memory still hurts at times. “He wasn’t into trying new things with me.”

  Lola pounces on my reply. “Don’t go there. Gage lost out on you. Don’t ever forget that.”

  “I’ll try not to.” When I linger too long on the man I thought I’d marry, the wounds can be tender, the betrayal appearing as a fresh bruise. “But it’s hard, Lo. I put so much of myself into that relationship. I felt so sure about us for so long. He was smart and clever and doting. Until he wasn’t, and I didn’t see that coming.” My voice wobbles, threatening to break in front of the row of Bacardi.

  “Sweetie,” Lola says softly, “you weren’t supposed to see it coming. He’s a cheater, and he pulled off a double act for a long time. You loved him, because you’re a true and honest person. But he wasn’t a good guy. And even though it hurt like hell, you regained something beautiful when he showed his true colors—yourself, your independence, and your romantic future. The world is your oyster. The bedroom is your oyster.”

  A smile claims my lips, unbidden and unavoidable, as I wander toward the vodka. “Okay, how did we get from my liquor choices to my vulnerable underbelly to my oyster of a bedroom?”

  Switching back to FaceTime mode, I catch her smiling serenely. “It’s just something I’ve been wanting to tell you for a long time, and the moment seemed right. Don’t dwell on him. Keep moving on. You’re doing great.”