“Where are you?” Kelsey asks over the phone as I lean against the white brick of the breast pump store.
“You don’t want to know.”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have asked.”
“Okay, I’m at a breast pump store, waiting for Ellie to show up so we can shop together.”
“You were right, I don’t want to know.”
“Told you.”
“Aren’t you a little worried you’re leading this girl on? She seems to be getting attached to you—I mean, you’re going breast pump shopping.”
“I know.” I nibble on the corner of my mouth. “I actually feel kind of bad, but I don’t know what to do. I don’t like faking this pregnancy since so many people try so hard to get pregnant, and there’s no way in hell I’d ever act as if I’d miscarried to end all of this pregnancy stuff. Remember Aunt Rina? She had five miscarriages and holding her hand through them with Mom was devastating. The more I think about it, the more uncomfortable I feel.”
“So maybe . . . tell her the truth.”
“Are you insane? Huxley would lose the deal for sure.”
“What are you going to do when you’re supposed to start showing and you don’t?”
“I don’t know. But you don’t start showing until around thirteen weeks or so with your first baby, right?” At least, that’s what I read when I looked it up last night. I press my hand to my forehead. “God, I’m in such a mess.”
“Has more happened?”
I bite down on my index finger. Yesterday, Kelsey was gone most of the day running errands and interviewing another supplier since the one we contacted hasn’t gotten back to us yet. Therefore, I haven’t talked to her much.
Actually, I haven’t spoken to her at all.
She has no idea what happened this past weekend with Huxley.
Hell, I barely have a grasp on what happened, but this is something I’d normally tell my sister right away. But after the rooftop, I wasn’t sure what to do. I felt . . . weird.
As if something wasn’t right.
And I know it wasn’t what I did, but more so what happened after. I wanted more, so much more with him, but, for the life of me, didn’t know how to express it. He’s been so hot and cold with me, so inconsistent with how he treats me, that I’m scared. I like him, a lot, and I’m unsure what that means for us, for me. I’m not sure if I can make a move, if I can tell him. If he even wants more with me.
He didn’t kiss me on Sunday when he had the perfect opportunity to do so. We were drenched from the rain, and there was nothing around us but nature. If he was going to kiss me at any point in time, it would’ve been then, but he didn’t, which leads me to believe that he has no desire to shift this relationship in any way. He’s told me he’s not wanting to blur the lines. He’s also told me he wants me to be happy. But why? Why does that matter to him, if I don’t really matter to him?
I joked about our agreement replicating that of Pretty Woman, me being the less whore-y version of Vivian, but instead of Vivian being the one who doesn’t kiss on the lips . . . it’s Huxley.
And if I learned anything from that movie, it’s that kissing means so much more. It carries weight. Kissing connects you on an intimate level and Huxley doesn’t want that. It’s evident. He might want my body, but he doesn’t want me.
Which, in return, makes me feel weird. But does that mean I want him?
“Lottie, you there?”
“Yeah, sorry.” I clear my throat. God, why am I getting emotional? I shouldn’t be getting emotional.
“What’s going on? Did something happen that you’re not telling me about?”
Wincing, I look up to the sky as I say, “I, uh, I might have done some things.”
“What kind of things?”
“Um, you know, like . . . I might have given him head in the shower, and then possibly dry-humped him on a roof.”
“What?” Kelsey screams into the phone. “Lottie, are you serious right now?”
“I wish I wasn’t.” I let out a deep breath. “God, Kelsey, I don’t know what’s happening to me. It all started with our pitch. He chose us, Kelsey. He chose us over Dave, and that, God, that crippled me. When I saw Dave show up, I thought we’d have to reschedule—that our chance was gone again—but he took our meeting instead, like he promised. It put a dent in the negative thoughts I had of the man. And then, this weekend . . .” I let out a deep sigh and rest my head against the brick. “He was different. Softer, didn’t have the edge he usually does. He joked, laughed, teased. And, yeah . . . he did more things than I care to admit.”
“Holy shit, Lottie. What does this mean?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, completely shocked I’m about to say this out loud. “It means I like him.”
“Wait . . . like . . . you like him, like him?”
“Yeah. And I shouldn’t. God, he’s been so mercurial. So up and down and straight-up assholish at times, but he also has this giving heart I can’t seem to ignore.”
“Oh, the same heart I kept telling you about?”
“This is your fault. You made me look at him differently.”
“This is not my fault. You’re the one who set out to find a rich husband.”
“I didn’t think it was actually going to happen,” I hiss into the phone. “Stuff like that doesn’t just work out for me.”
“Okay, so you like him, you put his penis in your mouth—what now?”
“I have no clue. I don’t know how to act around him. Not after what happened over the weekend, and there’s one thing I didn’t tell you about.”
“Uh, what else could there be? You dry-humped him on the roof.” She’s silent for a second and then says, “Let me guess—he has a big penis?”
“As if God couldn’t stop with the good looks, he had to bless him with the penis of all penises.”
“Figured as much. A man with such a stern gaze doesn’t have a floppy noodle between his legs.”
“More like a steel rod made to build skyscrapers.”
Kelsey lets out a laugh. “The imagery on that . . . too much.”
“But that wasn’t what I was going to say.”
“Obviously,” Kelsey says. “So, what is it?”
Feeling slightly embarrassed, I turn so my side is pressed up against the brick. For some reason, the position makes me feel less exposed. “He, uh . . . he didn’t kiss me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, during all of our escapades, he never once kissed me.”
“Oh . . .”
“Oh?” I repeat. “That doesn’t sound like a good ‘oh,’ that sounds like a sympathetic ‘oh.’”
“Not once?”
My stomach twists, and once again, my emotions roar with shame. “No,” I say solemnly. “What do you think that means?” When Kelsey doesn’t answer right away, I add, “That he’s Vivian-ing me, right?”
“Vivi-what?”
“You know, how in Pretty Woman, Vivian doesn’t want to kiss Edward, or any of her clients, because it’s too intimate? I feel as though that’s what Huxley is doing.”
“Oh, I get it.” Kelsey pauses, and I swear it feels as though I’m waiting on pins and needles for her response. “I don’t know, Lottie.”
“That’s not what you were supposed to say,” I nearly screech into the phone. “You were supposed to say ‘no, that’s not it at all’.”
“I’m not going to lie to you.”
“God.” I press my hand to my forehead. “Look at me. I like a guy who’s Vivian-ing me. How did this happen?”
“Stupid luck?”
“You are not helpful today. I’m really freaked out, Kels. My stomach is twisted in knots, I—ugh . . .”
“What?” Kelsey asks.
A car pulls up on the street and I recognize it immediately. “Ellie is here. I should go.”
“Okay, I’m sorry that I’m not being a helpful sister. Honestly, all I can think to say is maybe just see where it goes.”
“But that complicates things.”
“Hate to tell you, sis, but things are already complicated. Might as well see if he’s worth your time.”
“You’re confusing me.”
“Then I’m doing my job. Love you, Lottie.”
Groaning, I say, “Love you, Kelsey.”
I hang up the phone just as Ellie pops out of the car and waves at me frantically.
She’s a little . . . much . . . for me, but she is incredibly nice. I do feel bad about deceiving her. Why couldn’t I just have been the fake fiancée? Why do I have to be fake pregnant too?
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here,” Ellie says as she comes up to me and gives me a huge hug. “Are you excited?”
“Uh, you know, this might be a little much for me,” I say honestly. “But I’m more than happy to help you.”
“Oh, are you uncomfortable?” she asks.
“Overwhelmed with everything.” There, not a lie. I really am overwhelmed, especially with Huxley.
“I can understand that completely.” She takes my hand. “But don’t worry, I’ve got you.” She charges us into the store and all the way to the back, where there’s a designated area of breast pumps. Fake breasts of all shapes and sizes and colors line the wall—good for them—and below them are these weird suction-cup things with bottles at the end.
Is that what’s supposed to go on the breast?
“I love this place so much,” Ellie says. “When my sister was pregnant, we went to the same store, but in Georgia—oh, you might know where it is, actually. Off Clive Street?”
Uhhh . . .
Oh yeah, I’m supposed to be from Georgia.
I tap my chin. “Sounds familiar.”
“It’s right next to Peaches Bakery.”
“Ohh, Peaches.” I nod as if I’ve been there a million times.
“Wouldn’t you just kill for one of their cupcakes right now? Which one was your favorite?”
Oh God.
My favorite.
Err . . .
Think of something unoriginal that every bakery would have.
“Chocolate,” I say with a nod.
Her face contorts in confusion. “Chocolate?”
Oh fuck, do they not have a chocolate option? What bakery doesn’t have chocolate as an option? That would be absolutely ludicrous.
“Well, you know—”
She nudges my shoulder with a laugh. “I was sure you were going to say their crumble-cake cupcake, as you just give me those vibes.”
Never in a million years would I have said crumble-cake cupcake.
I shrug playfully. “A chocolate girl here.”
“I’m a chocolate girl myself. Have you tried their pink velvet cupcake? I honestly don’t understand how it differs from vanilla.”
“I was just about to say that,” I say as I pick up a fake breast and examine it. God, it’s so lifelike. “What do they do, just splash some food coloring in it and call it a day?” I ask.
“Totally. But their peach pie . . .”
I wave my hand at her. “To die for.”
“Hello, ladies. Welcome,” a saleswoman says. “Do you need help with anything?”
Ellie spins around with a smile and says, “Looking at breast pumps. I’m Ellie, and this is my friend Lottie. She’s not ready to find a perfect fit, but I’m here to squeeze breasts and figure out what works for me.”
“Wonderful. I’m Ann, and I’m an expert when it comes to breast pumps. Now let me see your breasts.”
Uhh . . .
Ellie goes to lift her top—wow, just like that, no shame—but Ann says, “No, no. Just puff your chest so I can have a better look.”
Ellie laughs. “Oh, okay. I was ready to strip down for you.”
That was obvious.
And entirely unnecessary.
Ann reaches out and asks, “Do you mind if I touch?”
“Please do. It’s why I came here.” Talking to me, Ellie says, “They can fit you perfectly to your needs, and you can test them out on the wall of breasts to see how they would work.”
I glance at the wall of breasts. “Seems as if you have every size there,” I say awkwardly.
“We do,” Ann says as she fondles Ellie. This is weird, really freaking weird. “And you can adjust the flow too.”
“The . . . uh, the what now?”
“The flow,” Ellie says. “They produce actual liquid, so you can get the full experience.”
Who on earth comes up with a place like this? Floating breasts glued to walls with an actual “milk” flow. I’m confused . . . and uncomfortably intrigued.
“Like almost every woman I come across, there’s a sizeable difference between your right breast and left.” Ann lifts both of Ellie’s boobs.
“Yeah, guilty. The left just can’t seem to catch up.”
“No breasts are symmetrical, but some women have a large difference and you’re one of the lucky ones.”
Ellie looks at me. “What boob is bigger on your body?”
“Umm . . .” I grip my boobs. “I think my right?”
“If you’re right-handed, it probably is bigger,” Ann says. She then asks Ellie, “Can I ask nipple size?”
“Why don’t I just show you? It’ll be so much easier.” Before I can even excuse myself to give her some privacy, Ellie lifts her shirt and bra at the same time, flashing both me and Ann.
And there are her boobs, just like that.
Now what the hell am I supposed to do with this? Do I look, do I not look? Do I pretend to find something fascinating on the ground? Do I stare at the wall of breasts? Do I pray the floor swallows me whole?
I was not mentally prepared for this.
“Oh, wow, you have wonderful nipples,” Ann says, and from the corner of my eye, I see her get in close and pinch Ellie’s nipple between her fingers. “Very firm nipple. That will serve you well.”
“Oh, really? I’m so happy to hear that. Do you have firm nipples, Lottie?”
“Huh? What?” I ask, glancing over at Ellie, but keeping my eyes north. “Sorry—these . . . books,” I pick up a book from a table. “Fascinating. What did you say?”
“Firm nipples. Do you have them?”
Awkwardly, I smooth my hand over my breasts, attempting to feel them through my layers of clothing—because this, the topless party happening in front of me, is not something I’ll be joining. “Well, you know, I have small nipples.”
“Nipples or areolas?” Ann asks.
“Both.”
She nods. “I think I have the perfect breast pump for you, then. There’s only one that works great with small nipples. But for you, Ellie, we have some choices to make, because these nipples are just spectacular. Lottie, come here, feel this.”
I wave my hand at Ann. “Oh, you know, that’s really okay.” I laugh. “I can see from here.” I look at Ellie’s boobs. And yup—bare, everything bare. “Those for sure look firm.” I give her a thumbs up. “Good job growing.”
Ellie laughs. “Isn’t she fun? Come on, Lottie, just feel. You can feel what the baby will be sucking on. You know I don’t care at all.”
She might not care, but I do.
“It’s very educational,” Ann says. “You can mimic the sucking sensation.”
I laugh and shake my head. “I’m all about education, but I think I’m good with not sucking my friend’s nipple.”
Ann and Ellie both look at each other and then throw back their heads and laugh.
“Not with your mouth,” Ann says, grabbing my hand. “With your fingers.”
In a flash, my hand smacks right into Ellie’s left breast and her extremely hard nipple rubs against my fingers.
Thick, tight, just . . . a solid nip.
And I’m touching it.
I’m touching another woman’s nipple.
Fondling is more like it, as Ann makes me move my fingers all over it.
“Oo, that tickles,” Ellie says, and that’s it for me.
I yank my hand away and fold my arms across my chest. “You’ve got some baby suckers there,” I say, trying to mentally block this day already from memory.
Huxley is going to owe me big time.
“I’m so excited you think so.” Ellie lowers her shirt and bra. “So, what do you think, Ann? Can we milk some breasts?”
“You didn’t come here not to.” Ann pats me on the shoulder. “This is where the fun begins.”
“LOTTIE?” Huxley calls out. “Where are you?”
I don’t say anything.
I don’t even move.
Instead, I sit in the living room, on the most comfortable couch I’ve ever sat on, stiffly perched at the edge, hands in my lap, as I stare at the elaborate fireplace right in front of me.
There are no words for what my morning was like. No words at all.
After being squirted in the eye by a fake breast glued to a wall, I’ve done my fair share of adulting for today.
“There you are,” Huxley says, stopping in the living room doorway. “I just got a text from Dave. He told me Ellie won’t stop raving about this morning.” When I don’t look at him, I hear him shuffle across the floor to get in my line of sight. “Uh, everything okay?”
Lips pressed together, I shake my head. “Nope. Not even close.”
“What happened?”
“I touched her bare boob, Huxley. I touched Ellie’s bare boob.”
“What?” he asks as he takes a seat on the coffee table so he’s sitting across from me. His handsome face comes into view, but it does nothing to ease the tension in my shoulders. “What do you mean, you touched her boob?”
“And I got squirted in the face.”
“By her boob?” Huxley practically yells.
“No, by a boob on the wall.”
He sits taller. “You’re going to have to run through it for me, because I’m confused.”
“As am I.” I pat his knee. “As am I.” I let out a deep breath and say, “I don’t have it in me to recount what happened. Just know, if I ever proved how serious I’m taking this deal, today would be the day.”
“Sounds like it.” Guilt washes over his face. “I’m sorry you had to do that.”
I snap out of my funk and connect with his eyes.
There he is.
The Chipotle guy.
Right there. The stern scowl on his forehead is gone. The boyish charm is brimming in his eyes. And the way he pulls on the back of his neck—unmistakable.
“It’s fine,” I say. “Traumatizing. I will have to bleach my eyes, but I’ll make it.”
He smirks and then reaches behind him to his back pocket. That’s when I notice he’s wearing jeans and sneakers. Well, hello, Mr. Casual.
“I got something for you.”
“You did?” I ask.
He nods and brings a rolled-up piece of fabric out in front of him.
“What is it?”
He unravels it and holds it up. “Thought you might like it.”
In front of me is a cream-colored, vintage rock band T-shirt with Fleetwood Mac on the front, the image from their Rumours album.
“Oh my God.” I take it from him. “This is amazing.” I hold it out and study it.
“Check out the back,” he says.
I turn it around and take in all the city tour dates.
“Wait, is this an original tour shirt?”
“Yeah,” he says. When I glance up, I catch the pride in his eyes.
“Holy shit, Huxley. This is . . . wow, this is amazing.” I clutch it to my chest. “Thank you. This means so much to me.”
And this is exactly why I’m having such a hard time. Because the thoughtfulness behind this T-shirt only makes me like him that much more. The gesture cracks open my chest and pulls on my heart, forcing me to look at him in a different light.
He rubs his hands on his legs. “Glad you like it.” He glances to the side and it almost looks as though he’s . . . nervous. Nervous about what? “I wasn’t sure if you had anything else planned for today. Do you?”
He’s acting really weird.
Very strange.
Not like the demanding man I’ve come to know very well.
“Uh, nothing on the docket. Just trying to erase what happened this morning.”
He nods and continues to rub his hands on his thighs. “Well, if that’s all you have planned, I was thinking I might take you somewhere.”
Take me somewhere?
An inch of hope blooms in my belly. It’s coupled with excitement.
Is he . . . is he asking me out?
Is that why he’s nervous?
Is that why he’s rocking back and forth?
Because he’s nervous to ask me out?
Don’t get ahead of yourself, Lottie. Remember, he wouldn’t kiss you over the weekend. Even when the rain was dripping off his chest and he was thrusting into you, he kept his lips to himself.
I choke down my raw emotions and ask, “Like on a date?”
His eyes land on mine. And for a torturous second, I’m terrified I read him completely wrong, until he says, “Yeah, like on a date.”
Oh God. He’s serious.
The honesty.
The shadow of hope in his eyes.
The nervous tick in his hands.
How could I possibly say no? There’s no way I could say no, not when my body gravitates toward him, when I can sense my heart opening up to him, even when I try to hide it or hold back. He’s got me hooked. It’s undeniable.
I’m positively hooked on this man.
I try to keep my emotions casual, though. “What were you thinking?”
His nervous ticks morph into a confident smile as he reaches to pull out something else from his back pocket. He holds a piece of paper in front of me and then flicks his fingers so the one piece of paper in his hand turns into two. “Care to go to a Fleetwood Mac concert with me?”
“What?” I shout, standing from the couch and grabbing the tickets to look at them closely. “No way. There’s no way . . .” My eyes scan the tickets. “Holy shit, these are tickets, these are real fucking tickets. Huxley, did you know these are real tickets?”
He chuckles as he stands as well. “Do you think I’d buy fake ones?”
“No, I mean—I just thought, you know, it would be like a fake ticket and then we go on the patio and play the music, pretending it’s a concert, but these are real. They have a barcode on them.”
“The barcode makes all the difference.”
In disbelief, I stare down at the tickets. “I can’t believe this. I didn’t know they were going to be in Los Angeles. I—Huxley . . .” I glance up at him. “Wait. This concert is in Portland.”
Hope falls as I realize the mistake.
He tilts up my chin and says, “I know. The jet is ready to take us once you get dressed.”
“Jet?” I ask.
A cocky smirk appears on his face. “Yeah, you do realize I have a private jet, right? We can go wherever we want, when we want.” He winks, the confidence in full swing now. “That’s what happens when you have a rich fake fiancé.”
“Wait . . . so we’re flying to Portland tonight and we’re really going to go see Fleetwood Mac . . . in concert?”
He nods. “Yup. There’s also this burger place in Portland called Killer Burger. We should go there for dinner. Maybe Voodoo Doughnut for dessert. That’s if you’re up for it.”
“Are you kidding me?” I nearly shout. “Of course I’m up for it.” I look him in the eyes. “Thank you, Huxley. This is . . .” I catch my breath. “This is really thoughtful.”
This is why I’m falling for this man. This right here.
That smile.
That kind heart.
That attentive, sexy mind of his.
“I wanted to do something nice for you.” He pinches my chin with his forefinger and thumb. “I’m really grateful for everything you’ve done for me.” And for some reason, that comment diminishes my hope that this is something more. He’s grateful for the work I’ve done for him. Deep sigh. I can’t let that ruin my night, though. He might not be in the same headspace as me, but at least I can enjoy tonight. He looks at his watch. “Think you can get ready in half an hour?”
“On it,” I say while squeezing the shirt to my chest. “I have the perfect shorts to wear—ugh, you took my clothes away. I don’t have jean shorts.”
“I had your clothes brought over this morning. Figured you’d want something casual to wear tonight. Everything is in your room.”
“God bless you.” I stand on my toes, lift up, and, because I have a death sentence, I place a kiss on his jaw. “Thank you, Huxley.”
And then with my T-shirt in hand, I run up the stairs to my room so I can get dressed. I can’t believe I’m about to see Fleetwood Mac in concert.
But more importantly, I can’t believe I’m going on a date with Huxley Cane.
KELSEY: He’s flying you to Portland? What? For a date? Where can I find myself a Huxley?
Lottie: He has two brothers.
Kelsey: Unlike you, I don’t mix business with pleasure. But enough about that. HOLY SHIT, Lottie, you’re going to see Fleetwood Mac. Did you tell Mom?
Lottie: Not yet. I figured I’d send her a picture.
Kelsey: Where are the seats? Front row?
Lottie: I didn’t even look. Probably not.
Kelsey: He’s flying you to Portland in his private jet. I’m pretty sure he didn’t mind spending money on expensive tickets.
Lottie: He has the tickets, I’m getting dressed. I’ll let you know where the seats are when I look at them again.
Kelsey: What are you wearing?
Lottie: He gave me a vintage tour T-shirt with the Rumours cover on the front, so I’m wearing that and my ripped jean shorts. Hair down and curled, and my boho hat. Ankle boots.
Kelsey: It’s perfect. Think he’s making a move?
Lottie: I honestly can’t think about it. I asked him if it was a date and he said yes. But he also thanked me for the work I’ve done. This was what I was worried about. I really like him, and I don’t think he returns the feeling.
Kelsey: Then just enjoy. Maybe this is the olive branch, him trying to connect the two of you on a different level.
Lottie: I’m nervous. All the teasing, the sexual tension, that felt easy, but a date? That just feels all too real.
Kelsey: Because it is real. Don’t waste your time worrying about it. Just enjoy it, because when do you ever get whisked away on a private jet?
Lottie: Never.
Kelsey: Exactly. Enjoy the moment, sis. Take lots of pictures and enjoy yourself. I love you.
Lottie: Love you, too.
