One
Ainsley
A four-letter word meaning a horny covering.
I went to type Bull into my crossword app, but that didn’t make sense, horns notwithstanding. Neither did Knob or Flap or Fang.
Beak
Peak
Deck
Wing
No. No. No. No.
Frustrated, I tapped my toe while decadent wafts of melted chocolate curled around me. Another minute and I’d be a floating Minnie Mouse, my nose led by the decadent scents. If heaven had a chocolate shop, it would be Aazam’s Sweet Treats. Towering truffles, smooth peanut butter cups, and mouth-watering bark lined the shelves, nut clusters drenched in chocolate teasing me. Aazam was a genius with the cocoa bean, and all his products were vegan.
A man after my own heart.
The virtuoso held up a finger to tell me my order would be out shortly. I allowed myself a deep sigh. He really was gorgeous. As delicious looking as every morsel in the place. Dark hair and skin, a beard that was sure to tickle, not scratch. Eyes so soulful they practically sang the blues. His lips should be downright illegal, plump and smooth as they were. They had me thinking up other four-letter words for horny things.
Kiss
Suck
Hump
Lick
I nearly wrote Muff into my phone, but erased each letter. My G-rated crossword app might explode. I’d become addicted to the word game recently, a way to pass the time while waiting for the doors to open at a Tiffany’s sale or a secret pop-up store. As I was about to admit defeat on the horny covering—Bark? Bibb? Clip?—Aazam assaulted me with his killer smile.
Wow. Heart, meet belly.
He lifted a brown box tied with bright green ribbons. “Ready for you.”
Not only was he ready for me (God, how I wished), but he slid over a piece of my favorite seventy-percent chocolate with candied violet. High from his smile and the rich smells, I took a bite before thanking him. Double wow.
When I stopped moaning and opened my eyes, I said, “Are you sure you’re gay?”
If I didn’t know better, I’d say my chocolatier was blushing under his dark scruff. “Last I checked.”
“Like, really sure?”
“Yep.”
“Not even bi? I promise I’m great in bed.”
That had him chuckling. I added a bottle of his chocolate-spiked perfume to my order. A couple dabs on my neck always put the sexy in my step.
He ran my credit card, then locked his John Lee Hooker eyes on me. “If I were straight, I’d be all over your offer. Especially with that outfit of yours. Make sure you flaunt it today. Any heterosexual male in a thirty-mile radius will trip over himself to get your number.”
My gingham wrap dress did give me cleavage for days, but the only two men who’d dialed up my lust-o-meter recently had proven poor choices. Emmett, the Adonis at the gym—gay. My heavenly chocolatier, Aazam—sadly, gay. Gwen and Rachel had pegged Emmett’s sexuality right away, my best friends razzing me endlessly. My denial lingered until I’d witnessed him locking lips with a man. Aazam had blatantly turned down my dinner-date offer. He’d sent me home with chocolate, a hug, and a mildly bruised ego.
My gaydar was clearly broken, the instrument fogged up by raging hormones.
I needed to find release.
Finishing off my piece of almost-better-than-sex chocolate, I turned with a wave, but swiveled back. “What’s a four-letter word for a horny covering?”
Aazam scratched his bearded cheek, then clapped. “Nail!”
“Nail? Like”—I fluttered my manicured hand—“nail, nail?”
“I think so.”
I’d never been a language geek, unless Prada and Gucci were involved. But my new hobby had fired up my synapses, transforming me into a well-dressed linguist, who often cheated to finish puzzles. Aazam, however, was a total word savant. I’d once asked him for a five-letter word for a coastal feature, and he’d said, “Bight,” in two seconds flat.
Apparently a horny covering didn’t involve licking muffs (dammit). Horny coverings were nails.
“You’re a genius,” I called as I hurried out the door.
I hit the road, two unpleasant errands left to round out my day. I tapped my horny coverings against my steering wheel, the edges of my nails clipped and buffed to perfection. Ms. Mae’s hand massage this morning had rendered my skin soft as silk, my mind nearly comatose. And her polish job? My tiger-striped French tips, with their flamingo-pink highlights, deserved to be hung in the Museum of Modern Art.
Picasso had nothing on my nails.
He also had nothing on the azure blue Versace draped over my back seat. I’d strip my nails bare for a night in that dress. It was perfection personified, and the slit up the front would highlight Mrs. Arlington’s legs—her greatest asset. She would be thrilled, which meant her husband would be thrilled, which meant I’d deserve the hefty bonus coming my way.
I should be sale-at-Sephora giddy.
Except for the box of chocolates hijacking my passenger seat. Another gift purchased on my client’s behalf, Mr. Infidelity himself, Thomas Arlington the Third.
His most recent mistress had a soft spot for sweets. In particular, Aazam’s eighty-percent dark chocolate bars sprinkled with cayenne pepper and pistachios. I noticed the packaging in her trash the first day we met, along with a broken pocket mirror. A replacement mirror, with similar gold detailing, had arrived on her doorstep that week, the chocolates following regularly, all punctuated with love notes from her doting philanderer.
Clamping my jaw, I drove faster and turned up the music. Nothing like a little Pat Benatar to lift my mood. Love was a battlefield, all right. A battle I had no interest in joining. Not when it was littered with duped women and lying husbands. Count me in for the pillaging afterward, though. If it came with a straight Aazam, or hunky men in kilts whose Scottish accents could slip into my Victoria Secret Cheekinis, then giddy-up.
Unfortunately, these days, all my oh-my-God-yes-yes-yeses applied to stellar purchases, not savage plundering.
I parked near the Arlingtons’ house. Thomas’s Porsche wasn’t on the street. He could be working or golfing, or invading enemy fields…
I pulled the Versace from the car, cradling the plastic-wrapped fabric like a Fabergé egg.
A doorbell ring later, Sloane swung the door wide. “Just the lady I wanted to see.”
She ushered me past a pair of dirty work boots, the clanging from above hinting at construction work. Remodeling their bathroom, if I remembered correctly. She disappeared into their modern townhome, and I laid her dress over their leather couch. I checked and rechecked my watch, urging the second hand to tick faster.
Spending time with Sloane was always uncomfortable. She’d chat about her morning playing tennis, and I’d smile and answer while thinking, your husband is a lying sack of shit. A sack of shit who helped pay my bills, which allowed me to wire cash to my parents.
My golden handcuffs were cemented in place.
Sloane returned with an envelope and presented it to me. “Thank you.”
I took it by the edge and looked up at her. Even in my pink Manolo Blahniks, I was a head shorter than the statuesque brunette. “Thank you for what?”
“For that dress, for one. Your eye for clothing is remarkable.” She ran her fingers over the clear plastic. “And for always going out of your way for me. I know you work for Thomas, but your help with the shoe emergency was above and beyond. Plus, you’ve become a friend. So, thank you.”
Running over a pair of heels because hers had snapped in the middle of a fundraiser wasn’t part of my job description, but the friend part of her comment had me wanting to slither out of the room. Friends told friends when bad things were happening. Friends saved friends from future heartache. Having been on the receiving end of a cheating manwhore once, I didn’t wish it on anyone.
Without opening the envelope, I pushed it back at her. “Thank you, but I can’t. I’m happy to help.”
Please, get me out of here.
A loud bang blasted from above us, and we both winced. “Bathroom reno is turning into a bit of a nightmare. And”—she raised a sculpted eyebrow at the envelope I was attempting to refuse—“I’m not taking that back. It’s a gift.” She picked up her dress and hugged it to her skinny frame, a body she kept painfully thin (green-vegetable diet), likely for her scumbag husband. “It’s spectacular, Ainsley. Thomas will love it.”
That part I didn’t doubt. Give me ten minutes in someone’s home, and I could list their favorite beverage and coffee addiction, where they purchased their linens, judge their waist, hip, and bust measurements (Sloane was a size celery), and the jewelry they coveted all with a nod and a walkthrough. Which is why Thomas had passed my cards to his friends, and why I mainly shopped for overpaid lawyers who “worked late” and had unscheduled “business meetings.”
I was to personal shopping what Walter White was to methamphetamine. I was great at my job. I loved scouring stores for that oh-my-God-yes-yes-yes item. I also contributed to the downfall of society and needed cash. (Instead of Breaking Bad, my HBO series would be called Killing Love.)
Insert heavy sigh here.
“The dress will look stunning on you,” I said. “Have a fun night, and you shouldn’t have gotten me anything, but thank you.” I saluted her with the envelope, like an awkward army recruit, and hurried toward the door, speed walking so quickly I nearly slipped on a nail. Not a horny covering. I picked up the offending piece of metal and hightailed it to my car as fast as my heels would allow.
Now I had to gift chocolate to the mistress.
Once that joyful deed was done, I sat in my Mini Cooper and opened Sloane’s envelope. Two tickets to the San Francisco Ballet’s Cinderella. Not only was she sweet enough to buy me a gift, she also ran a small bookkeeping business. She could walk a red carpet with enough confidence to draw paparazzi…and her husband was cheating on her.
I slumped into my seat, unsure how much longer I could keep this up. I loved aspects of my job—piecing together clues to discern the perfect gift or outfit, helping someone look his or her finest—the rest of it was a giant pile of suck that paid well.
I picked up the metal nail from my passenger seat and flipped it through my fingers. If I had to write a crossword clue for this sucker, it would be:
Four-letter word for a pointed spike I’d like to jam into my eye.
I couldn’t quit my job just yet, but I could do something to lessen this sticky feeling. Like I’d been sprayed by a rogue perfume sampler. Needing assistance, I picked up my phone and dialed Rachel.
Three rings later, she answered. “I just had an orgasm.”
“Manual or with a certain tattooed hunk?”
“Tongue climax without the hunk. This Chardonnay is sinful.”
Aazam’s chocolate did the same for me. “I could use a drink about now. Probably a box of wine.”
She coughed through the line. “Don’t even joke about that. And why do you need this box of wine you will not be drinking?” I could practically see her give a heebie-jeebie shake. Total wine snob.
I traced distracted circles on my steering wheel. “Is your life perfect?”
She snorted. “No one’s life is perfect.”
I waved an impatient hand, as though she could see me. “I’m talking generalities. The big stuff.”
“I don’t know. I mean, I love living in Napa. Viticulture school is tough but rewarding. I’m an aunt to the cutest girl birthed this millennium, and, well…Jimmy.” She sighed on his name, no explanation needed.
Those two couldn’t look at each other without every person in the room swooning or puking. What they had was intense. It was sweet and heart-melting and slightly sickening to witness. It also wasn’t why I’d called her. “You fulfilled your birthday wish, didn’t you?”
Silence answered me. Then, “I felt weird talking to you guys about it, not knowing if you’d worked on yours, but…I did. Why? What’s up?”
“I just see everything in your life falling into place, and I wondered if that was part of the reason.”
She didn’t answer right away, and my mind tripped back to that night, as it often did. The night of our shared twenty-seventh birthday. Being born on April 12th had been as lucky as happening upon my first Vogue magazine. My two best friends had also come into the world on April 12th. Even luckier was finding the three of us coincidentally wasted and celebrating the start of our twenty-first year in the same bar.
We’d spent every birthday together since, but it was last April 12th that had plagued my mind the past six months: the wish each of us had made that night. No. Not a wish. A life-changing resolution. The type of change that would shake things up and trigger a domino effect of awesome. We’d linked our pinkies that night and had promised to fulfill our resolutions by our next birthday.
But I hadn’t done a thing to realize mine.
Rachel broke her silence. “I believe fulfilling my wish played a part. Being a tad superstitious, I still don’t want to hear yours before it’s done, but mine was to find a rewarding career, which I’m working toward. So it’s like carrying out that one big change affected everything else.”
Exactly what I’d hoped for, yet I’d stalled. To fulfill my resolution, I had to become a better person, which meant making amends for my glorified pimping job. “If you’re right, I need to get my ass in gear. I only have six months left.”
“Miracles happen all the time.”
“True. There was that time my brother got laid.”
She snickered. “No way. That chick took pity on him. It was for sure your housewarming gift.”
“I’m an excellent sister.” Who’d framed a condom with the tagline: In case of emergency break glass.
“You can do this, Ainsley.” Rachel’s soothing tone slid over my tense shoulders. “Regardless what you wished for, I know you’ve been down about work. A friend of Jimmy’s volunteered at Habitat for Humanity. Not sure if he’s still there, but he liked it. Doing something focused on helping others might make you feel better. Whatever you decide, I believe in you.”
That made one of us. “I’ll consider it.”
“That’s the spirit. Oh—and Jimmy went to the city last night to meet some restaurant people. I’m joining him tomorrow. I have to see my family and spoil my niece, but we’ll squeeze in some girl time.”
“Roger that.”
I hit End and stared at my dashboard. The fact that Rachel sensed my wish without me breathing a word of it was a testament to our friendship. I was also a step ahead of her. I’d made a list of Ainsley-tailored volunteering:
Doing makeovers.
Helping fashion victims.
Saving discarded haute-couture items, one Dior at a time.
Soup kitchens involved touching meat. Animal shelters made me sneeze. Working with the elderly reminded me of my grandparents; I’d probably spend my time bawling on some granny’s flower-print lap.
That left the Habitat build. Rachel had mentioned it once before. I’d been too anxious to sign up, but if Rachel—who’d held enough jobs to employ half the city—could fulfill her resolution and stick with a career, I could wear sneakers and dirty my hands. Plus, working on a Habitat project didn’t require experience, and I’d be helping put a roof over a family’s head.
Something I was already familiar with, but paying my parents’ mortgage wasn’t bettering society. It was taking care of my own. Like the framed condom.
Confidence growing, I turned my ignition and pointed my car away from Nob Hill’s Victorian homes and headed for the address I’d driven past too often this month. Each drive-by had involved me slowing down, my heart revving up, then I’d peel past the construction site. It was ridiculous. I was an adult. Doing something new, by myself, shouldn’t have reduced me to a stage five stalker. Still, each time I’d contemplate stopping, I’d be transported back to high school and the last time I’d stepped outside my element.
That shit show had involved a Chucky’s Chicken paper hat, enough grease to drown a small country, and me praying to the porcelain gods before my shifts. Each yack fest was followed by a thousand screw-ups, then co-workers would lob insults my way, like they were spectators watching me die a glorious Roman Gladiator death, cheering for blood.
But I was done creeping the building site. I wouldn’t drive by out of fear again, or put off volunteering by claiming I’d sign up online. No. This time I’d force myself out of the car. I would put the “con” in contractor and fake it until I made it. I would study my dictionary app and learn every construction term there was. I wouldn’t make a fool of myself, circa 2006. (The Chucky’s Chicken Maggot Incident was responsible for my vegan ways.)
By the time I parked at the curb, it was late afternoon and the Habitat build was winding down. When construction had begun a month or two ago, people were always scurrying about. Today there were only a few volunteers around, most looking ready to leave, but I wouldn’t let that stop me.
According to their website, twelve two-bedroom townhomes and eighteen three-bedrooms were being built. Affordable houses for the less fortunate. A serious karmic opportunity. The orange hardhats were a concern—not my greatest color—but wearing one would be my first sacrifice.
I looked down at my cleavage and frowned. Walking up in my Michael Kors dress would have me labeled Pampered Princess next to the T-shirts and ripped jeans worn on site. The museum-worthy nails and Blahniks wouldn’t help, either. They’d assume I dished out thousands on my wardrobe and appearance, when in reality I could sniff out sample sales better than a Chanel-trained bloodhound, a handy superpower when bartering for manicures and haircuts.
If I didn’t look volunteer-ready, I would at least sound it. I scrolled through my dictionary app and studied up on construction terms.
Boom. Brace. Framing. Fuse. Infiltration.
The latter sounded more special ops than volunteer work.
Hammer. Circular Saw. Drill. Screw. Nail.
I laughed at the last one, horny-coverings quite the focus of my day today. English hadn’t been my best class in high school, but the language had become a fascination since playing my crossword games. One word could have so many definitions. I even watched spelling bees and loved the part where they’d have to use the word in a sentence.
My manicured nails deserved a two-page Marie Claire spread.
I would hammer nails like a regular Bob the Builder.
As I gripped my door handle and prepared to earn my Girl Scouts’ Good Samaritan badge, I noticed an unfamiliar man on the site, or, more accurately, an apparition in the form of a dirty, sweaty, panty-melting hunk.
If this were a music video, mist would be floating up from the ground, the sun setting, this man wiping his brow as Faith Hill sang about bare feet, country nights, and skinny-dipping in a rambling river. In worn jeans and work boots, he looked part-cowboy and all rugged. His ratty white T-shirt clung to his broad chest, biceps bunching as he lifted wood planks. Cheekbones I’d kill for upped his hot factor. He didn’t talk to anyone, just went about his work. The pinched lines of his face hinted at a broody nature, and I liked me some tormented heroes.
My hormones sparked to life, Aazam’s recent rejection and my dry-spell fanning the flames. A new definition popped into my mind, sending a smile skipping across my face.
I wanted to nail that man.