Unzipped Read online

  “Enjoy the rug while you have it.” He points in the direction of my face. “But you do know you hardly had any facial hair when you were fifteen? It was like a layer of peach fuzz. When you came to us and said you wanted to shave, we had no choice. We had to fuck with you.”

  “Yes, you had no other option but to fuck with me at all times. No other options existed.”

  He shrugs. “Dad was busy with work, so it fell to us to raise you as our own. We had to toughen you up to prepare you for the world,” Nash remarks as he tucks the cauliflower back into his bag. Our father’s management consulting business grew exponentially larger when we were teens, which meant he traveled more, so my brothers did more of the heavy lifting with me than my dad did.

  “Like wolves,” I say, testing the idea, since all four of us went to the same all-boys school.

  Nash lifts his face skyward and howls. “We were the wolves. We were wolves raising wolves.”

  “I’d say that’s an apt description. When I was learning to drive, you told me the windshield wipers needed to be on all the time. It’s a wonder you didn’t try to convince me to put on a condom backward.”

  Nash scoffs. “No way. Can’t mess with that stuff. I’ve spent thirty-one years trying to prevent that accident, and you seem to take after me rather than Gannon and Ransom, those seed-spreaders.”

  I correct him as I swipe the razor down. “Thirty-one years? I hope you haven’t been practicing safe sex since you were born.”

  “Fine. I’ve been practicing it since I was fourteen.”

  I give him a look. “I remember you sneaking out to date, but were you really only fourteen when you started?”

  He puffs out his chest. “When you got it, you got it. I can’t help that the ladies wanted a piece of me.”

  “You seemed older than that, but maybe it’s just because you were older than me.”

  “You were a late bloomer, Kyler.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “But not me. The ladies have always thought I was hot.”

  His use of my real name snags on my ears. I haven’t heard it used much in the last few days, and it makes me wonder if I could pull off a name change. “Hey, Nash?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What do you think about the name Tom?”

  “Your middle name, you mean?”

  “That’s the one. You like it?”

  “Is this your way of telling me you want me to call you by your middle name? If I did the same, then I’d be Larry, and that’s boring as fuck. Can you even imagine?” He affects a higher-pitched voice, on the cusp of pleasure. “Oh, Larry. Give it to me, Larry. Right there . . . Larry.” He shudders.

  “That wasn’t entirely my purpose, but yes, point well taken.”

  He rises, setting all his bags on the bed. “The way I see it is this—Nash has served me well, but if you don’t like Kyler, change it.”

  “It’s that simple?”

  He smiles, the genuine way, not the I’m-going-to-give-you-shit way. “Yeah, change it. I’ll still give you hell, but it’s your name. Do what you want.”

  Okay, so maybe it was a bit of the I’m-going-to-give-you-shit kind of grin. “Thanks, man.”

  “I do reserve the right to give you a hard time about absolutely anything else. Like Cassie. Any luck with the girl who knocked your heart on its ass in college?”

  “Working on it. I met this cool new girl who’s been helping me.”

  “Is she hot?”

  I meditate on the question for a few seconds as I wet the razor, prepping to finish the last ribbon of skin.

  “That’s a no,” Nash answers. “If you have to think about it, a woman is not hot.”

  But he’s wrong. We don’t have the same taste in women. Nash likes Barbies. I like women more like . . . Finley.

  I mean Cassie.

  I like Cassie.

  And that also means this—a great body is all well and fine, but I’d rather be able to talk to a woman. To have a deep conversation. To laugh. That’s what drew me to pursue a second chance with Cassie, truth be told.

  My twenties have been good to me, and I’ve enjoyed the company I’ve kept at night. But I haven’t met many women who stimulated my mind. I’ve had a few girlfriends, but nothing that lasted incredibly long. Plus, between finishing college and getting a master’s, I was consumed with studies till I was twenty-four. I’ve also never met someone who interested me enough to want to text them for hours on end or talk till we lose track of time.

  I don’t know if I’d ever admit this to Nash, but I’m bored sleeping around. I want someone I can connect with. The last time I experienced that was with Cassie, and that’s why I’m determined to find a way to her again.

  And that way back to her goes through Finley.

  I slide the blade over my skin. “She’s fine,” I tell Nash, since I don’t want to let on with him that I think Finley is more than hot.

  “What if Cassie doesn’t want you back though?” he asks as he shows me some radishes plucked from a canvas bag. “Are these a perfect shade of red or what?”

  “Um, yeah,” I say since I know fuck-all about radishes. “But to your question—how is that even a possibility?”

  “True. The Sutcliffe men are known for being impossible to turn down. But still, every now and then, it happens. I’ll be here for you if it does,” he says, and he sounds earnest.

  But I don’t know if he’s fucking with me.

  We’ve spent so much of our lives fucking with each other that it’s hard to know at times when we’re not. “Thanks, Nash,” I say, keeping it simple.

  “By the way,” he says, then grins knowingly, “‘I don't understand. All my life, I've been waiting for someone.’”

  A smile takes over my face as he rattles off one of his favorite movie quotes. I pick up the thread, continuing, “‘And when I find her, she’s . . . she’s a fish.’” I smile at the memory of Splash then shoot him an inquisitive look. “Don’t tell me you’re still using that line.”

  He shrugs happily. “It worked with Cindy Wilkins in high school.”

  “With or without the fish bit?”

  “With the fish bit.”

  Shaking my head, I laugh. “That’s not the most romantic thing to say to a woman, but hey, if the shoe fits, wear it.”

  “Oh, the shoe definitely fit with her. You should write it down. Use it. Have I ever led you astray?”

  “Besides the shaving and the driving?”

  “With women, dickhead. Have I ever led you astray with women?”

  Truth be told, he hasn’t. “No, asshole,” I say, “but I don’t need to write that line down. I know it well too. Especially what comes next.”

  Together we say, “‘Nobody said love’s perfect.’”

  “It was Mom’s favorite flick.” There’s a faraway sound in his voice.

  I tap my temple. “I know how she felt about that movie.”

  “She loved them all, but that was tops for her.” Our mom loved the silver screen—with a special joy reserved for films from the ’80s—and passed that passion on to her kids. It’s a piece of her we try to carry on.

  “I remember,” I say, even though I don’t remember her terribly well anymore. I recall bits and pieces, and most of my memories come from the last year of her life. “Also, I have something really important to tell you.”

  “What is it?”

  I point at the canvas bag. “No one likes radishes.”

  “You’re wrong, Tom,” he says, pronouncing the name like it has five syllables. He tries again, like he’s testing them out. “Tom Tom. Tommy Boy. Tom Cat.”

  I laugh. “And even so, I still like all those nicknames better.”

  “And I like radishes, so to each his own.”

  He takes off, and when he’s gone, I pat a towel on my face and leave the bathroom to pull on a shirt. I get dressed so I can pop over to neighboring Lucky Falls to grab lunch with my cousin Gabe.

  I find him parked in a chair at a table outside a b
urger joint.

  “What’s shaking, Kyler?”

  “You can call me ‘Tom,’” I say, trying it on for size.

  “You’re kidding me,” says the fireman, lowering his shades and staring hard with his blue eyes. “You changed your name?”

  Grabbing a menu, I shrug. “Yeah. I always hated Kyler, so now I’m Tom.”

  “This is going to take some getting used to, but I’m up to the task. Do tell though, Tom. Why the hell did you change your name at the ripe old age of twenty-eight?”

  “A girl suggested I do it.”

  He arches a brow then nods. “Girls have a way of making us do things, don’t they? There’s this woman who I’ve been dying to get to know better. But I have to take my time. Want to know why?”

  “Why?” I ask, since Gabe’s always been good with women.

  He laughs. “Because women have all the power.”

  “That they do.”

  We order, then he asks me what brings me to town.

  “Work, and my ex.” I give him the gist of things with Project Cassie.

  “Why do you want her back?”

  That’s easy. “I just do.”

  After lunch, I head over to the office park for a quick meeting with one of my contracts, then return to the hotel and power through some projects before I see Finley.

  Five hours later, I’ve worked on some of the rudimentary concepts to present to a client in Singapore, a real estate investor named Keith who’s determined to have the fastest coaster ever, and I wonder briefly why he wants the fastest ride. For the claim to fame, of course. But fastest isn’t always the most fun. Keith is set in his ways though, and I’ve tried to steer him in a new direction, but he wants what he wants.

  Then again, I’m the same way.

  I want Cassie.

  Plain and simple.

  I brush my teeth, grab my wallet, and let the hotel door fall shut behind me, ready to tackle more Cassandra prep. As I leave, I reflect on Gabe’s question from earlier.

  Why do I want her back?

  I just do.

  Now, I ask myself again why I want her so badly.

  The answer comes easily.

  Because we could talk to each other.

  But there’s a nagging voice asking me if I only want Cassie so she'll give me another chance at sex? So I can prove that I’m good at something I didn’t know if I was good at then?

  But who’s good at sex at twenty?

  Except I hope I was.

  When I step out of my car and check my reflection in the window once more, my hope shifts. It’s no longer about Cassie. It’s about Finley, since I want her to like how I look.

  But then I remind myself that her opinion doesn’t matter since I’m not into her that way.

  That’s why it’s weird to feel a burst of excitement when I see her.

  12

  Tom

  I point to the moon, already visible in the late afternoon sky. “The moon is full.”

  “It’s five,” Finley says, giving me a look like I’m crazy. Perhaps I am. I can’t seem to stop thinking how cute she looks in a blue sleeveless argyle sweater and shorts, with emerald-green shades perched atop her head. She’s preppy sexy, if that’s even a thing. If it’s not, it should be.

  I return to my routine, hoping it works as well as it did the last time I used it. “Did you see the moon last night?” I ask as we walk through olive trees that are planted alongside grape vines at the Tavendish Ranch, home to wine and olive tastings. In the distance, a huge barrel looms, and a few dark-haired women are stomping grapes in it.

  Finley tilts her head, looking skyward, contemplating. “I don’t recall.”

  “I’ve never seen the moon so big before or since.”

  She spins around, staring at me as we stand beside a fragrant tree. “Wait. Are you doing Moonstruck?”

  “Well, it’s romantic, isn’t it?” I ask. Plus, she liked my Good Will Hunting quote yesterday. Hell, she started it with the Social Network bit the night I met her.

  “Let me guess. That’s something you and Cassandra did in college?”

  I puff out my chest. “I did it a little more than she did, but she did appreciate Moonstruck.”

  “It’s a good flick. I love it. You know I love movie quotes. But . . . just one, teensy, tiny little piece of advice.”

  I rub my fingertips, the sign for give it to me. “I’m ready, dating doctor. Give me your best professional advice.”

  “Call me crazy. But maybe make sure she likes them as much as you do.”

  “Are you saying you grow out of movie quotes?”

  She purses her lips and exhales. The pale pink gloss she wears reminds me of candy and makes me wonder if she’d taste as sweet. I grit my teeth, trying to ward off these inappropriate thoughts about Finley and her lips and her damn sweater. Why the hell do I think her sweater is cute? What is wrong with me?

  “It might be something she liked then, or even did for you then, but doesn’t like now,” Finley suggests.

  “But you like them now?”

  “I like them now, but does she?”

  “How could she not?”

  She laughs. “I’d encourage you to recall the sea bass incident.”

  “So now I have to get approval first before I send music or quote films?” I grab my phone and tap out another note. Make sure the woman still likes music and movies and hasn’t become a stick in the mud.

  I show her the phone, and she grabs it and shoves it back at me. “No! That’s not what I mean.”

  “It’s too late. You basically said I’m not cool. And I thought Tinder was the biggest change since I was in college, but apparently it’s that I’m not cool anymore.”

  She laughs. “News flash. I’m not cool either.”

  “Then what the hell am I doing here with you?” I ask, chuckling too. “Now you admit you’re terrible at this too.”

  “I’m just saying movie quotes are an acquired—”

  I clasp my hands together, banging them against my chest like I’m stabbing a dagger. “Don’t say it. You’ve already driven a stake through my heart.”

  “You know what? Do them. They’re you. You’re having fun with them.”

  I shake my head like a toddler. “Nope. I’m retiring from movie quotes. I’m terrible with women. I’m bad at dating. There’s no hope for me. You can never make me do quotes again.”

  Silence reigns over us until she breaks it.

  “‘I’m going to make him an offer he can’t refuse,’” she intones, imitating Brando.

  I shake my head. “Can’t make me.”

  “‘But this one goes to eleven,’” she says in clipped British, quoting Spinal Tap.

  I hold up my hand like a stop sign. “I’m immune. They no longer work on me.”

  She grabs my shoulders, staring fiercely at me, then goes full Cher. “‘Snap out of it.’”

  My gaze meets hers. Her eyes link with mine. For a moment, I don’t move. I want to kiss her. So fucking badly. “You just quoted Moonstruck,” I whisper.

  Her voice goes soft and gentle. “I had to. I had to get you back to yourself.”

  “Are you going to slap me now?”

  She studies my face, her eyes curious. “Do you want me to?”

  I do. But I don’t. I mean, fuck no, I don’t want to be slapped. The trouble is I’m not sure what I want from her at all, except to make her laugh. That, I enjoy without question. But still my thoughts are spiraling away, and I can’t stop thinking about kissing her.

  That’s a big problem since she’s not the one I’m supposed to want.

  I clear my throat, segueing back to the matter at hand as we resume strolling along the sunny path over the rolling hills. “You’re saying Cassandra has probably changed, so I need to make sure she still likes the same things?”

  She shakes her head. “No, I’m saying this—you do you.”

  “But I thought you said I was the problem?”

  “Only
if you’re ordering fish for a vegetarian or talking too much about sex.”

  “I don’t know. She might want the Tom two-point-oh model. I might need to let her know I’ve been upgraded.”

  Finley laughs, grabbing my arm. But her laughter fizzles away. “Tom, you’re a character, you know that?”

  “Why, thank you.”

  “No, I mean . . .” She takes a beat, like she has a confession to make, as she looks me in the eyes. “I’ve said before that you’re kind of an inspiration for my show. It’s more than kind of. I’m basing a character on you.”

  My lips quirk up in a grin. “You are?”

  “Is that okay?”

  Noodling on this new piece of intel, I go quiet for a spell as we walk through the olive trees toward the tasting room. “You’re really basing a character on me?”

  “I am, but it’s more than basing a character, truth be told.”

  “How much more?”

  She fiddles with her rhinestone-studded sunglasses, moving them on and off her head, her expression tight with nerves. “It’s actually the whole storyline. I sent it to my network rep this morning, and the good news is he did a quick read and likes it so far,” she says then twists her fingers together. “He has to show it to the higher-ups, and I hope they like it too.”

  “That’s great that he likes it. What’s the storyline?”

  “Your character is trying to win back the woman of his dreams.”

  I stop for a second, as a smile overtakes my face, and hell, practically my whole body. That might be the coolest thing that ever happened to me, so I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

  “I bet Cassandra will enjoy that.” But even as I voice those words, I know they’re all wrong. What I truly mean is . . . I enjoy it. I like that Finley’s finding her story.

  I also like being her muse.

  A whole hell of a lot.

  As she wanders ahead of me, I ruminate on whether I even know what Cassandra would enjoy. What does my college girlfriend like these days? What is she like? I had a perfect image of her in my head, but is it truly the real woman? Or only my idea of her?

  Lately, the woman I’m thinking about is the real one in front of me.