Chapter 1
Valentine
“What about this?” I ask as I take the navy chalk-stripe waistcoat and hold it up for Jeremy to consider. He examines it shrewdly for a moment, then plucks it from my hand so he can look at the price tag. He doesn’t even gulp, but then again, he doesn’t need to. He’s a French, and we Frenches are ridiculously wealthy.
“Not bad,” he says, and then proceeds to put it on over the gray shirt and tie he’d chosen. “You sure this will work for the rehearsal dinner?”
I walk over to the cream silk couch where some nameless, faceless sales associate laid out champagne and petit fours for us to nibble on while Jeremy shopped. The clothing is ridiculously expensive at Bergdorf Goodman, but their service is impeccable.
“It will totally work,” I assure him.
“I like it,” he proclaims as he smooths the vest down and tugs it a little past his lean hips. “So can we go now?”
“No, we can’t go now,” I tell him. “You need shoes. The rehearsal dinner is as important as the wedding. Well, at least that’s what my mom and your mom would say if they were standing here.”
Jeremy and I both shudder over the thought of enduring our mothers shopping with us for his wedding.
Jeremy’s wedding.
Totally not looking forward to it. He’s getting married to a woman I really don’t like all that much and it’s going to be a monstrous affair. All of Manhattan society will be there. It will be the same boring conversation while the women ogle each other’s designer dresses with jealousy and the men brag about how much their portfolios have increased. My mother will glare at me the entire time, because it’s a complete embarrassment that her daughter Valentine French writes a—gasp—sex and dating advice column, and the only way I’ll possibly get through it is by getting drunk.
“I’m thinking the brown boots we looked at on the way in,” he says casually, then his eyes cut to me through the mirror’s reflection to gauge my approval or lack thereof. Just like any good and well-bred New York metrosexual, Jeremy likes to shop and spend money, but he does have his limits.
“Those Ferragamos would look great,” I assure him with a smile, eying the little cakes spread out before me and knowing my hips will hate me if I eat one. “But those gray Tom Fords would be dynamite as well.”
“I thought Tom Ford was so last season,” Jeremy says in an exaggerated stereotypically gay voice as he starts to remove the waistcoat. Jeremy has no clue what’s in season or not. He only knows that he likes to look fashionable and he relies on his fiancée and me to tell him what to wear.
I try hard not to roll my eyes and instead take a large sip of champagne. I love Jeremy to death. He’s not my only cousin, but he’s my favorite family member out of all of them, and truly the only one who admires me for marching to the beat of my own drum. We’re only a year apart in age, went to the same college, and are really more like best friends than cousins.
We see each other for dinner at least once a week and both enjoy indulging in a shared love of clothes shopping, so we do that often as well. His fiancée, Aubrey, is completely jealous of our relationship and constantly tries to derail it by coming up with all sorts of functions he has to attend with her to strip away my time with him. These are all high-society functions that she knows I’d rather be dead than attend, and thus her nefarious plan works too. I suppose this is the reason I don’t like her all that much.
The only reason I’m going to their wedding and suffering the presence of my family and their wealthy brethren is because I love Jeremy and I wouldn’t miss out on his happy day for anything. And even if Aubrey isn’t my cup of tea, she makes him happy, so I will have to grin and bear it.
I drain my champagne glass, pull the bottle from the ice bucket, and refill it as dribbles of water dot the marble table in front of me. Jeremy cocks at eyebrow. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What do you mean?” I set the bottle back into the bucket and take a healthy sip from my brimming glass of bubbly.
“You never drink more than one glass when we go shopping,” he points out as he picks up his own glass and sits on the opposite side of the couch, kicking his feet up on the table. “You think it impairs your fashion sense.”
“Well it does,” I grumble before taking another sip. I wave my glass at him. “But we’re shopping for you today.”
“You’re totally going to buy that purse you were eyeballing a little bit ago when we walked in,” he says with a laugh.
And he’s right about that. The Proenza Schouler shoulder bag would go perfect with the Carolina Herrera dress I was going to wear to the wedding, which is white by the way, and chosen just so I could annoy Aubrey and my family.
“But seriously, what’s up your butt?” he asks with a grin as he flops an arm over the back of the couch. He’s very handsome, and the way his bangs flop over his forehead makes him look young and carefree. I suppose he’s just happy he’s marrying Aubrey, but for the life of me I cannot fathom why. Marriage is just so…so…confining, I guess.
With a sigh, I set down my champagne glass, because I’m actually getting a small headache and that’s really why I don’t drink more than one. I look longingly at the petit fours and then turn to Jeremy. “I’m bored.”
“Bored,” he repeats with confusion in his voice. “Of shopping?”
I lean over and punch him on the shoulder. “Bite your tongue. I’ll never get tired of shopping. But I’m tired of my life lately.”
“What in particular?” he asks as he scoots a little closer to me. This is why we are the best of friends…because he listens to me.
“Men,” I say, voicing the one word that has been plaguing me lately.
“Want to try a woman?” he asks seriously, and then adds almost dreamily, “because we’ve got this new broker in the office and she’s gay and smoking hot. And has these lips that I know would just—”
“No, I don’t want a woman,” I snap at him so he’ll focus.
“But you don’t want a man?” he asks hesitantly.
“Not the men here,” I say as I wave my hand in a circle above my head.
“In Bergdorf Goodman’s?” he asks.
“Stop being purposely obtuse,” I say with an affectionate grin. “I’m tired of the men I’ve been dating. Here. In New York City.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
I huff out a breath of frustration. “They’re all the same. Predicable, even.”
“Let me guess,” he says as he points a finger briefly at me. “They’re focused on the rat race, trying to rise to the top. Career is more important than love and you’re feeling slighted. In fact, you begin to ever wonder if you’ll find true love. You long for a husband and babies and—”
“Honest to God, Jeremy,” I say with irritation as I cut him off. “Don’t you read my blog anymore?”
He snickers. “You know I do and that I’m just getting your panties in a twist.”
“Then you know it’s not that,” I say pointedly. “You know I’m not about love and settling down.”
“Then spell it out for me,” he says.
My gaze roams up to the chandelier hanging above us and I think for a moment as I study the sparkling crystals. I want to compose my thoughts, which have been running rampant lately.
I look back to Jeremy, who is patiently waiting for me to enlighten him. I’m pretty sure he’ll get me. I know damn well he won’t judge me, because he hasn’t yet, and my behavior has been pretty dicey over the years. He’s the only one who has supported me and has encouraged the family to let me shine rather than berate me for not falling into line. It goes without saying that the French family is as embarrassed and astounded today that Valentine French writes a sex column as they were the day they read my first post.
“Did you read my last piece?” I ask him.
“ ‘Will the Metrosexual Kill the Orgasm?’ ” he says with a nod, repeating the title. “It was good. Very witty and tongue in cheek.”
“It wasn’t meant to be tongue in cheek,” I say flatly, and his eyebrows rise sky high. “I meant every word.”
“I don’t understand,” he says as he cocks his head at me. “You essentially talked about how metrosexuals are the perfect men to date. We’re bright, successful, fashionable, and take damn good care of ourselves. Every woman loves a man with well-trimmed pubes down below. That’s exactly what you said, and you reminded womankind why the greatest dating in the world is right here in New York City. In the end your conclusion was that metrosexuals have kept the female orgasm alive and flourishing.”
I shake my head. “No, I was being sarcastic.”
“No, you weren’t,” he says firmly. “It was cheeky but it was genuine, and all of your fans thought so. You had a ton of praise over that article. I mean, you’re the queen of dating the metrosexual, after all.”
“I was being sarcastic,” I insist, but then lower my gaze almost in shame. Picking at the edge of the hem of my skirt, I add softly, “At least my inside voice was being sarcastic. I’m sick and tired of them.”
“So your article defended the typical man you tend to date—a typical New Yorker—but you really want something different?” he surmises accurately.
With a sigh I admit, “I just feel like there’s something more I’m missing.”
“And this doesn’t have to do with love?” he asks for clarification.
I wrinkle my nose. “You know I don’t do love. But Jeremy…I think the metrosexual did kill my orgasm.”
“Explain.” His brows are furrowed and he watches me with genuine interest, because Jeremy knows me well. I’m a man-eater. I love men. I love to date, and I love to be treated well, and I love good sex. I love everything about being a single woman in New York City, and nothing evidences that more than the fact that I write an extremely popular blog on dating and sex, focusing mostly on how a man can please a woman based on my experiences. It’s so popular, in fact, I’m a bit of a local celebrity here, and I love it. I clearly don’t do it for the money, because I have gobs of that, but I do it because I love writing and I love what I write about.
I take a deep breath and let it out. “I’m tired of going out with men whose nails are better manicured than mine and who spend more on hair-care products than they do on dinner with me. I’m tired of discussing fashion trends and the best exfoliation products. It pisses me off when my dates admire themselves in a mirror anytime we pass one or they have to check their stock portfolio at least once an hour on their smartphone. I’d like their tans not to be so orange and their teeth not to be so blindingly white. It’s the same, date after date, and I’m just…tired of it.”
“You do realize you just described me to a T,” Jeremy says dryly. “Well, except the orange fake tan.”
“Yes, well, you’re my cousin and I don’t care if you’re a metrosexual or not. I’m not dating you.”
“Then what do you really want?” Jeremy prods.
I give a long, painful sigh. “I don’t know. Just something different. A real man, you know?”
“Again…I may enjoy all those things you pointed out above, but I do believe I’m a real man. I drink beer, belch, and even fart sometimes. I watch football and leave my underwear lying on the floor, which drives Aubrey batshit crazy. But I give her amazing orgasms, so I can say this metrosexual has it going on between the sheets.”
“Ugh,” I say in frustration as I lean my head back against the couch and stare at the chandelier again. “I’m not making myself clear.”
“I’m not getting it, Valentine,” Jeremy tells me bluntly. “Now quit beating around the bush. What the hell do you think is missing from your dating life?”
A million lies run through my head, but this is Jeremy, and he’ll call me on every one of them. And if I screw around, someone might buy that Proenza Schouler I want.
My head turns to the left and I look at Jeremy. “I want to feel really wanted. I want to drive a man crazy. I want him to look at me like I’m an oasis in the desert. I want a man who would battle an army just for the chance to be with me, and once he was with me, he’d battle a million armies just to keep me. Men here aren’t like that. It’s too easy for them. Pickings are abundant and no one has to fight for real companionship because we’re all so self-absorbed we’ve learned to do without it. I want a man who can and would take on the world for the right woman. And most important, I want that feeling that would come from having a man like that. Oh, and I’m betting a man like that would be amazing in the sack.”
“Be careful, Valley,” Jeremy chides. “You find a man like that, you’ll probably fall in love.”
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen,” I say dryly, dismissing such an idea. I’m not anywhere near ready to settle down. “I know one thing: I’m done with the men around here for a while. Maybe I’ll just take a break or something.”
“Why don’t you try a change of scenery?” Jeremy suggests as he stands from the couch. He pulls a Donegal sweater out of a box that had been placed there earlier by a sales associate and inspects the collar stitching.
“Change of scenery? You mean like a new bar or something?”
“No, like a new location. Not New York City.”
“You mean travel somewhere and sample the men there?” I ask with a laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?” he asks, and his tone is so serious I sit up straight on the couch to listen further. “Why not? You’re independently wealthy and you can write your blog from anywhere. You say you’re bored with everything around here, so pack up your trunks, grab your yappy little rodent of a dog—”
I lean over quick as lightning, grab a petit four, and launch it at Jeremy’s head.
Score.
A direct hit.
Jeremy turns to glare at me but doesn’t miss a beat. “—grab your cute and lovely dog, and go explore the world a bit. Maybe you can find your real man out there.”
Hmmm.
That idea actually has some merit. It would reinvigorate my blog as well, because if I was getting bored with the city men around here, I’m sure my readers were getting bored of hearing about it.
“But where would I go?” I muse out loud, thinking of perhaps Paris or Barcelona. I think Spanish men are really sexy.
“Alaska,” Jeremy says, then pulls the sweater over his head. When it pops through, he looks at me through the mirror. “Remember Jordie Cambridge? I went on that fishing trip for his bachelor party there a few years ago.”
I vaguely remember Jeremy going on that trip. But they were fishing, and that really didn’t interest me much, so I can’t recall much about it.
“Why Alaska?” I ask.
“Because the male population is like fifteen times that of the female population. Someone like you would be a hot commodity and there’d be herds of men from which you could cull,” he says matter-of-factly. “Is this sweater any good?”
Fifteen men to every woman?
And I’m thinking big, rugged manly men who don’t give a rat’s ass about fashion or manicures, and I bet their tans are natural.
“Alaska,” I murmur to myself.
This idea definitely has merit.