How to Be a Grown-up (23 page)

It was so unfair. The homeless guy marinating in his own feces could have offered a hug and I would’ve accepted. But a full-blown—what were we calling it—consultation? Date? Booty call? Whatever it was, I was as vulnerable as Lindsay Lohan leaving rehab. My bed hadn’t been covered with this many clothes since the upstairs neighbor’s tub overflowed into our closet. Throwing on Blake’s old cashmere V-neck that shifted to expose the lacy top of an uncomfortable bra, I tugged on skinny jeans and—because you can take the girl out of Oneonta—denied myself a hair-flattening hat.

James Stanhope lived in a double brownstone in the far West Village—one I had walked past many times over the years, and never failed to sigh with envy. The interior was everything I’d imagined it would be. A fire crackled in the living room. A bottle of wine sat uncorked in the kitchen. And James greeted me in a white dress shirt made to fit his muscular torso and jeans that grazed the tops of his tanned feet.
Unfair,
I wanted to cry.
Unfair, unfair, unfair.

“So is this all you?” I asked instead, taking in how the back wall of the building had been replaced with glass overlooking the garden. A wonky snowman complete with earmuffs stood outside holding a martini glass in his branch arm. “The decor, I mean.”

“The art’s mine. The rest I can’t take credit for.”

“Not even Rat Pack Frosty? That’s a shame.” I took the wine from him in one of those stemless glasses. “What do you do professionally?”

“You didn’t do your due diligence?” he asked.

“I’m old school. In it for the adventure.”

He laughed. “I’m an investor. Start-ups predominantly.” Okay, he must have stumbled across me on JeuneBug. This was definitely just a consultation. But then he asked, “You want to join me upstairs?”

I didn’t look away. “You’re always asking for company.”

“Am I? Funny, I like being alone. Except when I don’t.”

“I can’t imagine that’s a challenge for you.”

“Quality is always challenging.” He set down his glass and lay his hands on the marble island across from me. “I can describe her room to you if you’d feel more comfortable. I don’t mean to be pushy.”

I wanted him to push, to pull, to bend me over the stone. “I like to lay eyes on the goods.”

He walked a few feet ahead up the staircase, which curved against the wall, past darkened floors where I caught glimpses of art and sculpture illuminated by the street lamps. We arrived at the top, and he flicked a switch in Suki’s pop art nursery. I took it in for a moment before stepping around him to the windows overlooking the ivy-covered walls abutting their yard. I could feel him watching me from the doorway. “There’s the ICEHOTEL in Reykjavik,” I mused. “I could conjure that. Pale blue lacquer walls, a clear acrylic princess bed and play table. And I could do laser-cut snowflakes to tumble down the windows. Modern, chic, and not a spec of glitter. Think your manhood could handle it?”

He grinned. “And I didn’t even offer you a chair.”

“I work fast.” I walked back to him feeling . . . what was it . . . it was heady, unfamiliar . . .

“Good, more time for dinner.”

Oh. Confidence.

Dinner was at the crowded bar of a cozy restaurant a few doors down. Sitting so close my knee pushed against his thigh, I debated going home with him after we were done. Three more glasses of wine didn’t make him any less charming. Our hands brushed. He helped me on with my coat, and for a second I felt the length of him at my back.

“James,” I said, slowing as we reached the corner, feeling I should give some speech, some warning. It took me a second to compute he was stepping forward to hold a cab from which someone was emerging. Thank God it was too dark for him to see me blush.

“Let’s take advantage of this time,” he said, as I pushed myself to get in, our faces inches apart.

“Yes, let’s,” I answered, not wanting to move. “It’s the name of a theater improv game, I don’t suppose you ever played it in college?”

He shook his head. “I went to St. Andrews in Scotland. Major in whiskey, minor in golf. Are you a fan?” he asked.

“Of which? Whiskey, golf, or Scotland?” I replied.

He grinned that grin. “Just lie to me.”

“Fine. I want you.”

His eyes widened, and I slipped in the cab and left.

For the next week, I planned outfits and drafted e-mails with such care that it made me wonder where the energy was coming from and if it had been there all along. Had this part of my brain shut down when I got married? When I got pregnant? Was it subverted into keeping homework on track and toothpaste in stock?

While my world at home shrank to a path from the TV to the fridge—with their doors closed, the kids might have simply been asleep—I lived to swing by James’s place at the end of each day to manage the transformation of Suki’s ice palace. Lacquer requires plastering and buffing and waxing, followed by layers and layers of rapidly applied paint. I had a crew going twenty-four seven.

“Honey, I’m home!” James called Friday evening as I heard him jog up the stairs. “Holy shit.” He stood in the doorway. “This is amazing,” he murmured. “I can practically see myself in the walls. Great blue.”

“Thank you.” I turned under the heat of the drying lamps. “It’s gray actually. If we’re splitting hairs.”

“Is there an upcharge for that too?” He slipped his hands in his pants pockets as he strolled over. He hadn’t even stopped to take off his coat.

“Want to see my design for the bed?”

“I’ve thought of nothing else,” he joked.

I slid the schematics from my satchel and looked around for a clean surface, wondering if he really believed I wore four-inch heels to work. I went to lay them on the plastic-covered carpet, but he lifted me up by my forearm. “Downstairs, don’t you think?”

“After you,” I agreed.

He jogged down a floor to his study and flicked on the Eames desk lamp. I spread the papers in the pool of light, and we peered at them as if plotting our next battlefield maneuver. “Fantastic.”

“Happy you like them,” I found myself almost whispering in the stillness.

“No, I mean, seriously. These and the other sketches you sent me. I’d like to show them to a licensing agent, this friend of mine. Any interest in designing your own furniture line?”
My own furniture line? Hold my heels while I do a back flip!

“I’d consider it.”

“Great.” He walked away, back into the shadows. “This is a pit stop, regrettably. I have to go back out for an opening.”

I nodded, stuffing the designs in my bag, deciding he was just a flirt. “Have you read all of these, or are the spines chosen for their color?” I asked of the wall of artfully arranged books as I passed them.

“I just offered to make you a fortune, and you want to know if I read?” he balked.

“Due diligence. Trying to be a grown-up.”

“Overrated,” he said, stepping into my path, desire written on his features. I took a half-step back, my breath slowing. He reached out his finger and it landed, warm and curious, on my collarbone. Tracing downward as his eyes held mine, his palm spread over where my blouse opened. His pinky dipped into my bra, circling down to graze my nipple. I didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

Suddenly there was the clamor of painters returning downstairs.

He dropped his hand. “In case I haven’t made myself clear,” he said steadily, “I want you, too.”

“Not just my furniture?” I managed.

“Do I have to choose?”

“Mrs. Rory?” the contractor was stepping onto the landing outside.

“Coming,” I called.

“Count on it,” he said, waving a hand gallantly toward the doorway.

Did working for James have my panties in a twist? Yes. Was it delicious?
Yes.
The answer had arrived! I could have my own career
and
a sexy rich husband! Did I accidentally give my furniture designs for Suki to Ruth along with the tear sheets to be copied? That too.

“What do you mean Kimmy took them?” I looked up to where Ruth stood over my desk, fussing with her chipped nails.

“She was at the sink by the copier doing something to her nose, which was kind of disgusting. Have you seen it? With a little pitcher? Water was going in and coming back out the other nostril and I didn’t know that was possible. Did you?”

“Ruth.”

“Yes.”

“You were making copies and Kimmy took them away?”

“Just the ones of that plastic bed. And the other sketches. Um, I’m going to have to get you the research for the next shoot later. I didn’t get to it.”

“But I already gave you an extra day,” I said, trying to imagine what Kimmy would want with my designs.

“I can do it tonight. Maybe.”

“Rory?” Kimmy called from her office.

She was smiling. Kimmy was smiling.

“L-O-V-E, love.” Taylor circled the chair where I sat in stunned silence.

“Um, thank you.” I needed to get back to my desk if I was going to cover Ruth’s work and get to James’s to meet with the guy doing the snowflake installation.

“Of course, we have to watch our asses with Disney, but we’ll call it something else.”

“Snow Castle or something,” Kimmy tossed out.

“A furniture line for JeuneBug. On. Fucking. Point.” She clapped to emphasize each word.

“There seems to be some confusion,” I tried. “These were just some ideas I was toying with for a pet project.”

“What ‘pet project?’ ”

“My daughter’s room. I shouldn’t have used the copier.” I eyed where the sketches were held hostage on her desk.

“You should take another look at your contract, Rory,” Taylor informed me. “In addition to a noncompete—”

“—JeuneBug owns everything you design while in our employment,” Kimmy finished her thought. “Everything.”