Turns out if you don’t deal with a pickle, it just gets more and more sour. Ever seen someone who just bit into a really sour pickle? Yeah, that was my face. More and more often.
A week had gone by, and things were moving steadily along. The Claremont? Almost done. The launch party was in a few days and Max Camden had people flying in from all over to see his latest property. I’d worked with their marketing team to make sure the hotel was photographed for several design magazines, and it was being covered in both local and regional newspapers.
We’d integrated environmental concerns into the hard materials we used in construction, so we had that angle to promote as well. In the land of California, ecofriendliness is taken seriously. But what we were really generating a great buzz about were the ongoing sustainability practices central to our design concept, which had made us stand out to the Camden team. These included little things like barrels for the collection and storage of rainwater to be used in cleaning. The vegetable and herb gardens created for use not only in the on-site restaurant but for the community. The classroom space dedicated for elementary schoolchildren to learn about composting.
And my favorite? The rooftop garden that helped to reduce the heating and cooling costs and turned it into a gorgeous space at nighttime, where we’d planned to host Movies Under the Stars evening all yearlong. Weather permitting.
The community was responding well to what we had created already, and with the opening of the hotel, we hoped the buzz would continue.
With Jillian back at work, I was able to focus once more on taking on new projects and continuing to mentor Monica. Business was booming, and I was actually busier than before. I’d even volunteered to speak to the senior design students in the program at Berkeley, the one that I had graduated from not so many years ago.
I was sitting in Jillian’s office, waiting for her. She’d scheduled a planning meeting with me to set up for the summer season. Which was great, because I wanted to make sure I could take some vacation time.
I badly needed some time away. I felt like I’d been underwater for months now, and was hoping to get out of town for at least a week. I hadn’t talked to Simon yet; I thought I’d see where things stood with the house. Maybe we could put Rio back on the table?
Simon was ready to put anything on the table, especially me. Sexually, he was at critical mass. He needed it; hell, I needed it. But O? Fucking fuckity fucker.
Can’t think about that now.
So, back to Jillian and planning. We usually tried to schedule three to five months at a time, allowing us to see spaces for smaller jobs. When we planned like this we usually bounced ideas back and forth, getting inspired and stretching budgets to accommodate the grander concepts we had. I always brought my sketchbook and a stack of colored pencils along; they came in handy.
“Sorry I’m late, got tied up at lunch with Benjamin,” she announced as she sailed into the room. I raised an eyebrow, and she realized what she just said. “Oh my, imagine that,” she mused, getting a faraway look in her eyes.
I wrote TMI on my sketchbook and held it up to her.
“Let’s try this again. I went to lunch with Benjamin, and it was longer than I thought— Oh, I give up!” She threw up her hands. “Anyway, thanks for meeting with me today, Caroline. We’ve got some things to talk about—exciting things.”
I sat up a little straighter. “Is it the Vandertootes? I heard they were thinking about making some updates to that freaking castle, but I never thought they’d actually go through with it. Please tell me it’s the Vandertootes! I’d kill for that job!”
I got my own faraway look in my eyes, thinking of the huge turn-of-the-last-century mansion. It was the Holy Grail of design jobs in San Francisco. Owned by an incredibly wealthy, eccentric couple, the house took up almost an entire city block and allegedly hadn’t been touched by a designer’s hands since 1977. And I thought I had it bad with my mauve wallpaper?
My brain began to buckle with all the possibilities, and I almost didn’t hear Jillian calling my name.
“Caroline. Come back, Caroline; come back from wherever you are.”
“Sorry, got lost in a shag carpet daydream. Anyway, are we pitching the Vandertootes?”
“No, we’re not talking about the Vandertootes. I’m making some changes around here. Big changes.” She sat back in her chair. “I’m semiretiring.”
“Semi . . . retiring?” It felt like the floor had just opened and was threatening to swallow me whole. I pulled out a colored pencil and began to chew.
“Yep.” She grinned. Why the hell was she smiling?
“Okay, I totally don’t get what’s going on here. Do I need to get my résumé together?”
“Why, you planning on leaving me?” she asked, still grinning.
“What the hell is going on, Jillian?” I half shouted, my voice sounding more than a little crazy.
She swung her laptop around to face me and started scrolling through pictures. Her and Benjamin under the Eiffel Tower. Her and Benjamin in an alpine meadow. In front of Prague Castle. On a gondola in Venice.
She stopped at a photo of a tall, thin, five-story house in what looked like Amsterdam. “See that house?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said slowly.
“We bought it.”
“You’re moving?”
“Semimoving. Hence, the semiretirement.”
“I’m fully confused.” I sat back in my chair. “I still have no idea what’s going on.”
“Though I love what I do, I want more than work. This trip was a totally different way of living, one that I want. We’re young, Benjamin’s been very lucky financially, and we don’t want to be tied down any longer.”
“This is being tied down?” I asked incredulously, looking around her fabulous office in her fabulous design firm.
“We’d rather spend our time living our life now than waiting to live it tomorrow.”
“You sound like a commercial for fiber bars,” I grumbled, getting up and starting to pace.
“This world is too big to not try and see it all.”
“And now it’s a bladder control commercial,” I muttered. “So what exactly does semiretired mean?” I asked, turning and heading for the other end of the office.
“We’ll be here half the year, and in Europe the other half. We’ll have this great base in Amsterdam to travel from wherever we want, have friends come to visit, whatever we want to do. Who knows? I might even start up a little design consulting business over there.”
“And what happens here?” Pace. Pivot. Pace.
“I talked to my lawyer and my accountant, and we’ve come up with a plan that will enable me to keep my hand in the business and oversee things, but let me start stepping back.”
“Oversee things? That’ll never work!” Pace. Pivot. Pace. “Before you went on this honeymoon you were here all the time, all hours of the day!” Pace. Pivot. Pace. “You’re the Jillian of Jillian Designs, for Christ’s sake—how in the world do you think this place is going to run without you half of the year?”
“I’m making you my partner, Caroline.”
“You’re making me your—whuh?” Pivot, trip, face plant.
Thank Christ I was no longer chewing on that colored pencil.
• • •
“You face planted? Right in her office?”
“Totally. I ate carpet.”
“I knew you weren’t just experimenting in college!” Mimi yelled. I was on the phone with her as I drove home that night, still stunned over what had transpired.
“Funny,” I muttered, making the final turn and heading down my street. “Then she helped me up, and then she proceeded to make me an offer I felt like I couldn’t refuse.” And I could kiss Rio good-bye.
“Why in the world would you refuse to be a partner? You’re not even thirty, for God’s sake; that’s incredible to get an offer like that! Although we’re getting close to the big three oh, can you imagine? Thank God I’m getting married before then, I can’t imagine being over thirty and not being married—”
“Hey! Focus up—we’re talking about my day. And what the hell, I didn’t say I was going to refuse. And what the hell, Mimi, who gets married before they’re thirty anymore? Besides, I’m three years away from being thirty! And what the hell is in my driveway?” I yelled, swinging wide before I plowed right into . . .“Let me call you back.”
I hung up the phone. Because in my driveway was a white Mercedes convertible. With a red bow on it. What the actual fuck?
I parked the van, hurried up the walkway, opened the door, hurdled over a sawhorse like an Olympian, and dashed into the kitchen. Where I found Simon, on a ladder. Faded jeans. No shirt. Tool belt.
“Um, what’s that in our driveway?” I asked. He turned in slow motion, it seemed, and I noticed for the millionth time just how stunning he was. Sculpted arms, broad shoulders, dipping down to that sweet spot just above his bum. And a six-pack that, when he was really worked up, gave up a seven and eight as well. And then that V on either side that just seemed to slip into those jeans.
“Well, it was the funniest thing,” he started, climbing down off the ladder and setting down his belt sander. He gave great sander. “I was watching you drive off today in that ridiculous van and I thought, my girl needs some wheels.”
“So you bought me a car?” I asked, confused. Brain was not liking some of these words, but every other part of me was liking the walking sex coming right at me.
I couldn’t let him just buy me a car, could I? Oooh, he’s walking.
He crossed to me, slowly, and I walked backward as he advanced. Before I knew it, I was up against the wall. With a shirtless Wallbanger inches from me.
Now, for the record, when I went vaulting into the house, I was pretty sure what was going on. And what he’d obviously done. And I was pretty sure I was pissed.
Remember that.
Now think about how good he must have looked to make me forget how pissed I was.
“If you don’t like the color, we can go down and pick out another one,” he said, now only one inch from me. I could feel the heat from his body begin to penetrate mine. Penetrate? Yes, please.
But wait, he can’t just buy me a car!
“Yeah, you can’t just, just buy me a, ummm,” I breathed, my words getting fuzzy as he leaned into me. There was so much tension in my body I was starting to vibrate like a tuning fork.
“Yes, I can just buy you a car. It’s a gift—get over it,” he replied, his brow furrowing as if he couldn’t understand why I was giving him shit about this. And at that very moment, I couldn’t tell you why either.
I’d never gone this long without having sex with Simon, not when he was in town. It was starting to get to me. And he smelled so good!
“But a car, Simon? I . . . uh . . . what is that cologne?”
“It’s polyurethane.”
“They should bottle that shit,” I breathed, my voice going husky.
“It comes in a can.”
“It’s really working for you,” I moaned as he dipped his head down and dragged his tongue right up my neck.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmured, burying one hand in my hair.
“Did you do this on purpose? This whole handyman fantasy? The tool belt? The abs? The—holy fuck.” I gasped when he took my hand and pressed it against his . . . drill bit.
“You came home early,” he explained, thrusting into my hand. “I like early.”
“Lucky me.” I sighed and dropped my head back against the wall. He took this to be a green light, because within seconds my shirt was ripped, my skirt was pushed up, and he’d wrapped my legs around his tool belt. “I liked that shirt,” I protested.
“You really care?” he asked, slipping his fingers underneath the lace of my panties. Slippery already, and he moaned at the first touch.
“Not really.” I marveled at his strength; I always had. The idea of being actually wall banged always seemed impossible to me. Until Simon. He was strong without being beefcake. And he could carry my body around like I weighed next to nothing, when that wasn’t the case at all.
“How much do you care about these?” he asked, tugging on the waistband.
“One guess.” I smirked.
Off.
And then we were off.
We were half naked on the stairs, where he made me walk in front of him. We were lying on the floor, half in and half out of the bedroom. We were on the window seat, highlighted against the bay window.
We were hanging off the edge of the blow-up bed when a particularly powerful thrust made the bed blow up and poof to bits all around us.
And when I rose above him, sliding him inside deep and thick and heavy and oh so deep, my orgasm rocketed through me, bursting behind my eyelids and tingling through my skin, and every single part of me cried out as he grinned from underneath me, saying, “There’s my sweet girl.”
I exploded again and again, our bodies soaked with sweat and gleaming as I rode him hard and fast, his voice now bellowing his own release. I slumped down across him, panting heavily. He lifted his face to mine, kissed me deeply, and before he coaxed my head back down into the nook, he looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Don’t ever shut me out again like that, you hear me?”
He knew.
I kissed him back. “I promise.”
He was still wearing the tool belt.
• • •
An hour later we were in the kitchen, heating up yet another microwave dinner. The avocado appliances had been removed, but the new ones not yet delivered. So every meal was prepared in the microwave, then usually eaten on a tarp-covered box.
“Potpie or Salisbury steak?”
“Salisbury steak? Is this 1979?” I asked as he held up two boxes.
“Don’t mock the steak, this is the best! My mom used to make these the nights I had soccer practice. Dad complained, but he secretly loved these frozen dinners,” he said, plugging in the microwave. It moved daily.
“Potpie for me, then. I don’t want to come between you and your steak,” I replied, pouring a glass of wine into a plastic cup. I watched him as he moved around the kitchen, thinking how much more freely he mentioned his mom and dad and his childhood these days. That reunion had really changed things. He’d finally created a Facebook account, and was in touch with the apostles almost daily.
Though I’d released a lot of tension upstairs only a short while ago, I could feel it beginning to creep back in.
“So, something a little epic happened at work today,” I offered, examining my toes.
“A little epic?” He laughed, peeling back the plastic and popping in our dinners. I dug through our silverware drawer (read, the plastic bag) for forks.
“Well, a lot epic. Did you know Jillian and Benjamin bought a house in Amsterdam?” I eyed him carefully.
“They did? That’s great. He mentioned something about that, but I didn’t know for sure.”
“Benjamin mentioned something as huge as buying a house in mother-flipping Amsterdam, and you didn’t tell me?” I asked, incredulous.
“The problem is Jillian is ‘semiretiring,’ ” I snapped, air quoting so angrily I almost got a finger cramp. “And she offered to make me a partner.”
“Whoa, what does that mean?”
“I don’t know yet. We just talked about it for the first time today and I don’t know all the details.” I filled him in on the details I did know: the six months she’d be gone, what I’d likely be doing in her absence.
We settled across from each other with our dinners.
“Well, it’s obviously a tremendous opportunity for you. Congratulations,” he said.
I couldn’t figure out what he wasn’t saying.
“Thanks?” I said, making it a question.
“It’s a huge deal. I’m proud of you,” he answered, stabbing at his Salisbury steak. He didn’t look up at me.
“What’s on your mind, Simon?”
“It’s just—you’ve been working so hard. And so much. I thought things were going to slow down a bit for you now.”
He only said everything I’d been thinking, but it bothered me to hear someone else say it. I balled up my napkin in my fist. “I can’t turn down a huge opportunity like this. No one gets a chance like this at my age. And I love my job—how could I ever say no?” I chewed my potpie angrily. “And as far as us not seeing each other, that’s kind of how we’ve always been, right? We’re used to that. I mean, we used to be used to that—you used to be gone more often than you weren’t,” I said pointedly.
“I’m home now, though,” he said back, just as pointedly.
I wanted to scream, “But no one asked you to do that!” And then I was horrified that I’d even think such a thought. Who the hell complains about that when a boyfriend’s as incredible as Simon? Case in point: the tool belt and the multiple orgasms I just enjoyed not thirty minutes ago.
But I said nothing about that. No, I went right ahead and opened up another jar of pickles. “Plus the money is going to be incredible.”
“We’ve got plenty of mon—”
“You’ve got plenty of money—not me. There’s a difference.” I pointed my fork at him. “Speaking of which, we need to talk about the car situation out there, while you don’t have your hands in my panties.”
“What’s wrong with the car? Don’t you like it?” he asked, truly not getting it.
“I love the car. How could I not? But you can’t just buy me a car.”
“I think I just did.”
“I know, and it’s incredibly sweet. And incredibly kind. And incredibly expensive, and I incredibly don’t need it,” I said, standing up to throw away my potpie.
“Caroline, come on. You loved driving Jillian’s car. Don’t tell me you didn’t.”
“This isn’t about whether I love the car, Simon. It’s about you buying me a car.”
“Dammit, I wish I’d been outside when you pulled up. I had this whole thing planned out, and I think if you’d—”
“Simon, there’s a brand new-car in the driveway with a red bow on it! I think I see what you were trying to do. And it’s incredibly sweet, but it’s just too much!” I sat back in my chair, at a loss. Was I out of line here?
“I don’t get it.” He sighed, standing up and throwing his dinner into the trash can. As he turned back to me, I saw total confusion in his eyes. “When I was thirteen, my dad bought my mom a new car. She came home from the grocery store one day, and bam—there it was. Red bow and everything. And she said all the same things you’re saying. It’s too much, you shouldn’t have done this—everything. And my dad kissed her, handed her the keys, and said, ‘Let’s go for a drive.’ And that was it. She gave in.” He leaned against a sawhorse, dragging his hands through his hair. “You know why? Because she knew how much it meant to him. Everything he did was to make her happy.” His voice deepened toward the end, sounding rough and a little choppy.
His blue eyes were huge, and I could see his jaw clenching. He cleared his throat. Twice. Then he swallowed hard. Shit.
“So keep the car, don’t keep the car, whatever. I just wanted to do something nice for you, because I could.” His voice wobbled a bit, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I was in front of him, pulling him close and wrapping his strong arms around me. I held him tight. A minute later, I felt him hang on. Sweet boy.
What the hell was wrong with me? Picking a fight with my favorite person on the entire planet.
I pulled away just a smidge, placing my hands on either side of his face. I kissed one cheek, then the other, then his eyelids. My lips came away just the tiniest bit damp. I cringed inside, but all he saw was my smile.
I backed away and started pulling on my jacket. “You’re leaving?” he asked.
“Yep, and you are too,” I said, handing him his coat. “Let’s go for a drive.”
There is nothing like a Wallbanger grin. It gets me every time.
Just before we left, I heard the telltale rattle of glass. Racing, Simon beat me to the dining room and snatched up Clive, who was halfway through the rusty old casement window again. I checked Clive over, then slammed the window shut.
“I’ll keep the car if you fix that damn window,” I said, pointing my finger at Simon. He nodded and I turned my finger on Clive. “And if you do that again, you go on catnip detox. Permanently.” He rolled his eyes at me.
Then Simon and I went out for a joyride in my new effing convertible, which I admit, was totally sweet. The things you do for love.
• • •
It was late, well after three in the morning. We’d been lying in the dark talking for what seemed like hours. It was as if once I started, I couldn’t stop telling him everything.
“And now this thing at work—I mean, how in the world could I ever say no to this? It’s such a great thing. If I had to do this on my own, do you have any idea how long it would take to try and build my own business? It’s not enough to just be a great designer; there are very talented people who try to go it alone all the time, and it just doesn’t work for whatever reason.”
He nodded, rolling over to be closer to me as I talked it out. It helped.
“But now, to be offered the chance to basically help run things? Permanently? It feels amazing. That Jillian has that kind of faith in me, you can’t know what that feels like. It’s a lot more work, sure, but I can do it. I’d have to be crazy not to, right?”
He just showed me his teeth. He knew better than to answer that one.
“And then this house—it’s literally a dream come true. Well, it will be when all the work is done. But holy shit, it’s overwhelming! Living through a renovation like this is a pain in the ass! And I know it’s been tough on you too, being stuck here all day while it’s going on. It’ll be worth it, though; this place is going to be amazing.” I sighed, laying back and curling closer.
I wanted to say the other things, the bigger pickle things, but I couldn’t. It was as if I said them out loud, especially in this house, then I was admitting I had a problem. Not “the first step is admitting you have a problem” kind of thing, but—
Actually. Maybe that’s exactly what I needed to say. Maybe I needed to give voice to the bigger issue here—the one that was so terrifying that I was even avoiding it in my own head. What was my problem?
We met under very unconventional circumstances. We fell in love in the most unconventional way possible. The first time we made love? Conventional. Didn’t work. The first time we fucked? Definitely unconventional, what with all the flour puffing and the raisins. Fucking fireworks, baby.
And for a year we lived unconventionally. He was gone, I was here. We traveled together when we could, seeing places and doing things I’d never imagined were in the cards for me. I didn’t need spooning every single night; I liked having a bed to myself every now and again. We laughed, we loved, we nooked. And it worked.
Now we were moving closer and closer to a more conventional relationship, which was packed with awesome, no doubt about it. But it was almost . . . too . . . shit. I didn’t know what it was. I just knew I needed to say it out loud.
I was once herded—very delicately, but herded nonetheless—toward a conventional relationship. I didn’t want that. So at some point I was going to have to share this pickle.
“Keep this between us, okay, mister?” I said, scratching under his chin.
Clive gave a soft meow, and nodded his head toward the stairs. I picked him up and took him back to bed, where Simon was sound asleep in the remains of the blow-up bed.
