Eight Weeks to Mr. Right (11 page)

Ben came up behind me and peered at the screen, and I smelled his scent, felt his warmth, before seeing his face appear by my shoulder. My heart sped up. He rested a hand against my back, and I tried to remember to breathe.

“Then put the computer away, and just spend time with me,” he said, his words tickling my ear.

I turned to look at him, our faces just inches apart. “Okay,” I whispered.
 

I slowly shut the laptop lid, removing myself from the battle that had consumed me over the past few weeks, and slid it away from me, to the middle of the table.
 

“I got ice cream,” he said, moving to the freezer. “Vanilla. It’s very complex.”

I smiled. “That sounds great.”

He dug into the frozen pint and carved us each a scoop, then sat down next to me again at the table, his eyes searching my face. “That’s better. You look more relaxed already.”

I looked down into my bowl. His eyes were too intense. I felt like he could read my mind with those eyes, and what he’d see there was unbecoming for roommates, or for friends. I took a bite of the ice cream, feeling the cold sweetness slide down my throat.
 

“Remember that first time we slept together?” he asked.
 

“You seemed so nervous.”

“I was. You were so calm.”

“I was just pretending.” Neither of us spoke for a moment, eating our ice cream in silence, and then I added, “That was so long ago.”

“You look just the same,” he countered.

“You smell the same,” I said. “Clean and sweet.”

“What do I smell like?” he asked.
 

“You smell like orange and sea salt. Magnolia. Pine, and maybe rosemary.” I leaned toward him and smelled his neck. “And something that doesn’t have a name, something that’s just you.”

He smiled as I sat back, his eyes lingering on my face a moment too long and causing my stomach to jump up into my throat.
 

“What do I smell like?” I asked, teasing. I knew I was playing with fire now. He leaned forward. “You smell like…” He leaned closer and closer, breathing me in. Then he looked up at me. “This doesn’t seem like a fair game, you know, with you knowing all about scents.” I smiled.

Ben scooped a bite of ice cream with his spoon, then picked it up with his fingers. I watched curiously as he brought it toward me, but I didn’t move, didn’t flinch when it touched my skin. He traced my collarbone with the dripping cream, then popped the rest of it into my mouth. As it melted on my tongue, he leaned in.
 

“You smell like vanilla,” he told me, and I laughed into the still, quiet room.

Then the warmth of his tongue hit the cool ice cream, and I sat perfectly still as he licked from one side to the other, cleaning me off.
 

My heart was fluttering, and I felt weak. “Ben…” I whispered.

“January,” he replied, lifting his face level with mine. He was so close. He could’ve kissed me — like Andrew, while we were cooking in the kitchen on set, who leaned over and found my lips with his. But no: Ben waited for me to come to him.
 

Our eyes locked, I leaned in, almost imperceptibly at first. Then I dropped my spoon, dug my fingers into his hair, and pulled him into me. His lips hit mine and our tongues found each other, just like they had fifteen years ago. My heart beat harder, my whole body screaming out for him, and our mouths moved frantically now.

But then he pulled away, straightened back up.
 

“Poor girl, you’re all sticky,” he whispered. “Let’s get you into the shower.”

He reached for the hem of my shirt, then waited for my nod before pulling it up and over my head, and I sat there in our kitchen in a pale pink bra and jeans. He leaned over me again and licked up from between my cleavage, back to my throat, and I moaned without meaning to. Then Ben reached behind me, unclasped my bra, and I wiggled out of it, leaving it lying there on the kitchen floor.
 

He stared down at my hard nipples, then dipped the tip of his middle finger back into his ice cream and painted a tiny white dot on the tip of each nipple. I shivered at his touch.
 

“Yes,” I said. “I could definitely use a shower.”

I stood and pulled his shirt off too, then pulled him into a hug, skin to skin, warm, and couldn’t tell whether the pulsing I felt was my heart or his. My nipples pushed into him, transferring stickiness to his chest, and then I pulled back and stroked up and down him, remembering his contours. He was bigger now, more muscular, but still lean, still the same shape I remembered from all those years ago.
 

I took him by the hand and led him down the hall to the bathroom, turning on the shower in the clawfoot bathtub, and then we both stripped off our panties, our underwear, and stood naked in front of each other, shy but eager. He was hard, and something throbbed deep within me at the sight of him.

I smiled at Ben, not sure what to say now, and felt the water with my hand. Warm already. We stepped in, pulling the shower curtain closed behind us, and I stood under the faucet and let the water spill down my hair. When I was wet I moved aside to give Ben a turn. He stood under the water and began soaping me up with scented body wash. I breathed in.
 

“That’s the rosemary I smell on you,” I said, and he nodded as he worked my breasts into lathery suds.
 

When I shivered, he moved me under the water again, and as the rivulets swept the bubbles away I lathered him instead.
 

We kissed, watery and warm. This felt so right, so good, so normal, as though no time had passed at all. He reached between my legs, and I moaned again, spreading them wider as his finger probed my soft wetness.
 

I pinned him against the wall and kissed him again, feeling his erection press hard into my thigh, wanting him. But the water was trickling down the wall outside the tub, so we stood back up, shut it off, and stepped out.
 

“Here,” Ben said, wrapping a soft towel around my shoulders, and I pulled it tightly to my dripping body.
 

He wrapped one around himself too, then gathered me into a hug. “I’ve been wanting to do this since I first saw you in that bar,” he said, kissing me again.
 

I traced a finger down his damp arm, then intertwined my fingers with his, and he led me down the hall to his bedroom. We fell into his bed together, pulling off our towels and letting our cool bodies press up against each other fully for the first time.
 

For the first time in years.
 

Ben reached over to his bedside table and pulled open a drawer, pulling out a small square packet. “Do you want this?” he asked, pausing before tearing it open.
 

“Yes,” I breathed. “Yes, I want you.”

He rolled the condom on, and then I straddled him, easing him inside of me, and we rocked together, our bodies and faces close, until I had whimpered in his ear, and he had groaned into mine, and our bodies had stilled.
 

WEEK 5

I woke up in a tangle of sheets on Ben’s bed early the next morning. As I lay there watching him breathe slowly in and out, his eyes shut, mixed emotions swirled around my brain. I was giddy with excitement at spending the night with Ben, a fluttery feeling in my chest, and part of me never wanted to leave him. I pressed up closer against his prone body, feeling his warmth as I watched his chest rise and fall.
 

But another part of me was screaming
No, no no! You can’t do this!
This wasn’t part of the plan. Back in New York, I’d made a plan for exactly how the next few months would go, how they’d lead into me living the life of my dreams. It started with going on the show, proving to Andrew that although I was surely not the woman of his dreams — because after all, what were the odds? — that I would be a great employee for La Joie. That I was creative, that I was focused, that I was a hard worker, and above all that I was passionate about perfume. I would be level-headed, not get involved with drama — in a word, I would be professional.

After the show, I would live in this limbo period, waiting for the episodes to air, waiting for Andrew to realize even more in retrospect how he had to have me working for him. And then, once the show was over and our contract allowed it, I would contact him. Casually check in with him. See how he’d been doing since the show. Inquire about the company. And let him know that I’d be interested in working for him if anything came available. He would realize it was a perfect fit.

Sleeping with Ben wasn’t part of the plan.
 

Then again, neither was falling for Andrew.
 

What did I even want anymore? I couldn’t deny that it felt amazing to have been wrapped in Ben’s arms, to feel protected by him and as though we were the only two people in the world.
 

But I still desperately longed to work for La Joie. Could it even still happen? Everything felt up in the air now. With the way I was being portrayed on the show, surely Andrew would not want me involved with his company. He would think I would only bring drama to it, the way I was being shown to bring drama to the house. None of this was going according to plan.
 

And then there was the fact that I had developed feelings for Andrew. Maybe I had ruined my chances of working for him way back on the show. Maybe it was everything leading up to The Horrible Day that had ruined it for me. I had certainly not acted professional then. If I had really wanted the job above all else, I never should’ve let myself fall for him.
 

Now I liked him less and less the more I watched him on TV, while the TV me liked him more and more, moving us inevitably closer to The Horrible Day. I was just glad most of that day wasn’t caught on film. I knew I would have to watch my own elimination, but to have to relive that whole day would’ve been excruciating. It would’ve been too much.

But Andrew aside, it was the company I was interested in. Did it matter that we’d had a relationship? I’d been persuading myself it didn’t all these weeks, that he would still see the benefit of hiring me despite everything, but maybe that was naive. And now La Joie was changing their formulations to use synthetic ingredients just to save a few bucks. Did I even want to work for a company like that?

But if I stayed in San Francisco…if I stayed with Ben…what would I do? My odds of getting a perfume job were much better in L.A., even if I didn’t end up working for La Joie. If somehow I still did, moving to L.A. would be nonnegotiable. And my money was running out, so I’d need to make a decision of some kind soon.

I bent my head and kissed Ben on the shoulder, unable to resist. His eyes slid open, and my worries melted right away. Now all I could think about was Ben. He smiled at me in the morning light, and I rolled on top of him, staring down into his face.
 

“You’re so beautiful,” I whispered.
 

“January…” he whispered back, and traced his fingertip along my arm toward my hand, then interwove his fingers into mine.
 

“Ben,” I said back, and descended on his lips, gently parting them with my tongue. Soon I felt him getting hard beneath me, and a moment later he had slipped a condom on and slid back inside of me, and I was rocking against him, our bodies connected.
 

On Monday my dad called. “How are you holding up?” he asked.
 

“Okay,” I said. “Have you been watching?”

He laughed. “Of course we’ve been watching!”
 

That was embarrassing, though I’d expected it. Who else I’d known throughout my life who was now watching me make an idiot of myself on national TV?

We talked about the show for a few minutes, and he tried to reassure me that no one would remember it soon, and I could go back to being just January, not January, Reality TV Villain.
 

I hoped he was right.
 

“Ben’s been helping me get through it,” I said. I wasn’t ready to tell my parents Ben and I were…whatever we were, but I couldn’t help but mention Ben’s name. He was on my mind all the time, and his name was constantly on my lips, ready to be spoken aloud. “He’s been really great. We’ve watched all the episodes together.”

“I’m glad you have someone to help you out,” Dad said. “I always liked Ben.”

“He’s a good guy.”

“So it’s been a while since we’ve seen you,” he said then. “We miss you over here.”

“I miss you and Mom too,” I said. It was true. It had been less than three weeks since I’d moved out of their place, but so much had happened since that it felt like ages.
 

“Why don’t you come over for brunch on Sunday? If it’s nice, we can eat outside, have some mimosas.”

“That sounds great,” I said. The weather had been surprisingly nice lately, and if it held, Sunday brunch outdoors would be beautiful.
 

“And hey,” he added, “why don’t you bring Ben along?”

I hesitated. “Oh, I…I don’t know,” I said. I imagined Ben sitting out on my parents’ deck sipping a mimosa, and I knew he’d fit right in. But I had my contract to think about. And more than just that, I didn’t want to appear in any more tabloids.
 

Something had changed now that Ben and I had given into our desires. Whereas before I’d been willing to risk it going to the wine tasting with Sophie, now I felt that our mutual attraction was so palpable, so obvious, that no one looking at us wouldn’t be able to tell. And that could end very badly for me.
 

“I’d like to bring him,” I told Dad. “But I can’t.”

“Okay, well, if you change your mind we’d love to have him,” Dad said. “We’ll invite Sophie too, make it a party.”

“See you Sunday, Dad,” I said, and hung up feeling sad. I wanted Ben to come to brunch. I wanted my parents to get to know him again, and my sister. I didn’t like having to edit my life for the show, for the off chance that someone would catch us together and sell photos to a tabloid.