Jon didn’t care how clichéd it was, he was never going to pass up a bowl of cioppino. He only wished his pals didn’t spend quite so much time ribbing him about it.
“There’s veg, and protein, and bread on the side. It’s got everything you need. Like pizza,” he patiently explained for the umpteenth time. “But posh.” Rust just laughed.
“Pizza isn’t healthy, no matter how many food groups you hit, bro. But I think I speak for everyone who knows you that we’d all rather get pizza than seafood soup every single time we go out.” He stretched his long arms out and gestured around. “Or is this a fame thing? You have a posh quirk to mention in interviews?”
“Good lord, a fame thing? Is that what you all think? I just know what I like is all. People invent quirks for interviews, is that—is that really happening?” Jon was alarmed.
“Sure, man, why do you think people bring beer to all my things? I dropped it in a couple press things that I gargle with Belgian beer after every show. Now my fans make sure I don’t ever have to hit the liquor store again.” Rust smiled contentedly.
“That’s just bizarre. Gargle with Belgian beer?” Jon thought for a second. “Is that why you give me Chimay for every possible occasion?”
“Oh yeah. I never have to think about presents anymore either. Honestly, you probably should mention this soup thing. It’ll improve the quality of tail you’re pulling if they can cook, you know?” Rust nodded to himself.
Jon was speechless.
“Mate, I’m speechless,” he said. Rust just shrugged and grabbed more bread, filling his mouth and winking at some blondes making eyes at him from a couple booths over.
Rust Vee was the lead singer from V, one of Jon’s favorite bands, not that he would ever tell Rust that. He thought he was a brilliant musician, and when Jon finally signed to a label, and it was the same label as Rust, he was thrilled. When a couple of artists from the label took an interest in him and struck up a friendship, he was awed. But every once in a while, he was reminded just how weird musicians and this life could be. Sometimes it was hard to stay grounded.
Rust made no effort at all, which could have been obnoxious, and sometimes was, but mostly Jon found him a mixture of amusing and refreshingly happy with his lot in life. So many musicians put on airs of being too cool, but not Rust. He mopped every drop of life up with bread.
The blondes had evidently chosen an emissary to approach, a leggy girl in shorts and a crop top.
“I bought you a Hoegaarden,” she said breathily, blushing, and handing a glass to Rust.
“Thanks so much! Hey, let me introduce you to someone. This is DJ Force.” The girl gasped.
“Squee!” she exclaimed, and waved her friends over as she plopped down, unasked.
You’re welcome, Rust mouthed to Jon, exposing some not-quite chewed breadstick still in there. Jon just shook his head, which was sort of spinning. Did people really think he was this desperate for—what was it Rust had called it? Tail? Heavens, he had no doubt he could use his moderate notoriety to sleep with a lot of women, but that really wasn’t his style.
He knew exactly who he wanted to sleep with, and her name was Greta Steinburg. She was prettier than these bottle blondes. She was feistier and weird as well, but in a good way.
He thought of Greta and the sassy little girl she was with and smiled. They would never be impressed with him just because he rubbed shoulders with guys like Rust Vee. No, he had to be an amazing date. He was surprised at how much he wanted to impress her. Yeah he wanted to sleep with her, too, he was male. But mostly, he wanted to wipe away some of the mistrust and venom he saw in her eyes. He was going to have to turn on the charm and become a magnificent date. Perhaps he’d google some pointers later.
His phone buzzed, and he pulled it from his trouser pocket.
1st fake date: meet the friends! Free tomorrow? Jon smiled to himself.
I’ll be there. What time?
Bottle blonde #1 was gently rubbing his shoulder, but he brushed her off.
Noon, @ Veghead.
She redoubled her efforts, and it made him feel a little weird to have hands on him that didn’t belong to the girl in his mind.
“Right, then, got to run.” He slid some money onto the table and extricated himself over the protests of his friend and groupies. “Lovely to meet you birds.”
“Enjoy your booty call!” Rust called after him.
Jon exited the restaurant, equally mournful over not being able to talk to his friend about the girl on his mind, and the cioppino he’d left behind. Truly, hardly an hour had passed since yesterday’s fateful meeting at the coffee shop that he hadn’t thought about Greta. And if they hadn’t been joined by the gaggle of fans, that text would have been the perfect time to bring her up.
What was it about her that rattled him so? She spent a significant amount of time telling him how uninterested she was in him, but he saw her eyes linger on his mouth. And other areas. She definitely was interested in him, and the idea that eventually he was going to make out with her made his trousers tighten. Jon walked towards his flat, smiling to himself.
The last time he was this excited to be seeing someone again had been with Leah. But she was in-your-face easy. The thrill of the chase was missing from their earliest encounters. He knew he was guaranteed an entry into her skin-tight trousers, so there was a very different feeling from wondering if Greta would consent to allowing a snog.
He’d missed the longing, the little glances. The way two people shyly allow their limbs to entangle as they sit next to each other, both knowing what will happen, yet savoring the journey. That was what he was anticipating now, and as Jon punched the code into the front door of his building, he shivered a bit. He was going to be a perfect gentleman, but he was also definitely going to have to negotiate with wee Mina on the kissing.
* * *
Greta had to hand it to Jon—he was remarkably graceful under pressure. And “pressure” was a pretty kind word for the interrogation he was getting from Amy and Summer. Neither girl had even touched her lunch, though they had gathered under the pretext of checking out a new restaurant Summer had been thinking of applying to.
Meanwhile, Greta was nervously nibbling on everything in sight. At least someone would be able to report on the food quality later.
“So you quit college to DJ? Bold move.” This from Amy, who’d famously quit law school to join a radical environmental protection non-profit.
“I wouldn’t say my mum was all too happy with the decision, but she respected my plan. I didn’t quit until I was offered a tour with a quite famous rapper—Dee Q. I could have stayed in school, trying to study between paid gigs, or I could go to Europe for a month and make enough money to pay off all my previous years’ student loans.
“We agreed that I’d finish my degree once the music died down, and by ‘we agreed’, I mostly mean Dad brokered that as a peace agreement. Only it hasn’t died down at all since, so I’m safe from uni exams for now.” He smiled that perfect crooked-toothed smile, and Summer smiled back. Her mom hadn’t been too whipped on her decision to go to culinary school, either.
“So how did you go from Europe and rappers to back here doing your own thing?” Greta asked, interested despite herself. She speared a slice of maitake from Summer’s untouched plate.
“The tour had gone off quite well, so Dee asked if I’d be interested in joining him on the South American leg. Initially I thought perhaps I would, because I felt like my mind had been blown a bit with the new things I’d heard in the clubs in Ibiza and Amsterdam. I wanted to start incorporating those things into my own production, and I figured I’d pick up even more in the lower hemisphere. Then I realized I’d need to update my vaccinations, and decided to just head home then and start building my own brand instead of doing backups any longer.”
“Are you an anti-vaxer? Grrrr. Because you know you are basically a bio-terrorist.” That was an actual growl. Amy’s earlier good cheer was retreating behind her politics. Summer nodded in agreement. After the outbreak of mumps in Mina’s elementary school last year, Greta had to say she was also pretty wary of this turn of the conversation.
Could you catch things like that from wearing someone’s jacket?
“No, love, settle. I believe wholeheartedly in vaccines, I just wish someone would invent a pill form.” Jon pointed at Summer’s mushroom with his fork and cocked a brow at Greta. She gave him a thumbs up—the maitake crudo was delicious—and he stole a piece as well.
“You’re scared of needles?” Summer ignored the rapidly disappearing contents of her dish to look utterly pleased at discovering Jon’s weakness so quickly, and with almost no effort on her part.
“I wouldn’t say scared,” Jon looked pained. “I just vastly dislike them, is all. Doesn’t everyone?” Everyone sort of shrugged. It was a fair point. No one actually looked forward to a shot. Although, most people wouldn’t cancel a career-making trip over the thought.
“And you travel quite a bit now on your own?” Summer had the wanderlust gene, constantly taking foodcations to check out new restaurants.
“Not so much at current. The occasional festival. I’m working on an album, which is sort of slow going. I don’t sing myself, so I work around all my guests’ schedules.
“Tell me about yourselves, though. Summer, what do you do?” She tossed her dark brown hair, the unshaven side.
“I’m a chef. I’ve been cooking since I can remember. After culinary school, I apprenticed at French Laundry and Incanto. Now I’m just feeling a little stuck. I’m nowhere near opening my own place financially, but I need something new. I love farm-to-table cooking, but I’m awfully sick of how precious things like offal have become. I want to do something more rustic, more accessible.” She sighed. “Something normal people want to eat. Being responsible, or even adventurous with your food choices shouldn’t be so … scary.”
Greta had heard this one a few times, and it made her sad every time. Summer was so talented, she didn’t need to spend more time languishing in other people’s kitchens, getting no credit for the dishes she invented. If Greta suddenly won the lottery, the first thing she’d do would be invest in Café Coniglio, as she’d dubbed her friend’s restaurant in her mind.
“Those are some pretty impressive names. I doubt you’ll be working for other people much longer. I dearly hope your new restaurant serves a good cioppino.” Jon really was playing the gentleman, saying just the right things. Despite herself, (and Summer’s well-known dislike of cioppino) Greta could feel her attention being pulled to him as if there were magnets in his smile. “And you, Miss Amy?”
“I’m saving the world.” A simple answer, as simple as it was to Amy.
“And Greta is an au pair. You ladies are quite the diverse team.” Apparently bolstered by the crudo theft of a moment before, Jon followed Greta’s lead and began to eat the vegetable tartare from Amy’s plate as well.
“Delicious.” He was chewing the minced carrots, but looking at Greta. Hey, now.
“She’s not just an au pair,” Summer bragged before Greta could shush her. “She’s an artist.”
“Oh?” He was still looking at her in that wolfish way of his, as though she was the next dish to be sampled.
“It doesn’t pay the bills. Stop doing that.” Talking about her art embarrassed her under the best of circumstances, but how could anyone be expected to focus clearly when a ridiculously attractive man was staring them down like this?
“Doing what, exactly?” His grin spread, exposing that incisor that undid her every time.
“That—thing you’re doing.” He ignored her, and continued doing it. Her Judases were exchanging lewd glances. That was fine. This was all going according to plan. They were falling for him, and the myth of Jetta.
“Birds, tell me about her art since she’s being so retiring on the subject.” They were only too happy to oblige. Stupid friends. But wasn’t this what she’d wanted? And a weird little part of her thrilled to know he’d know she was more than “just” a nanny.
“She illustrates children’s books. She’s had two published already.” Amy had probably bought all twelve copies sold of each, she was so proud. She’d given them out as holiday presents at the Green Guerrilla office last year, despite almost none of her co-workers actually having children. Amy was a good friend.
“It’s not just the illustrations, though. She makes the most gorgeous watercolors you’ve ever seen. When I have my restaurant, she’s doing all my art. If I could plate my food as well as she arranges paint, I’d already have my Michelin star.” Summer was a good friend too. She was lucky. Stupid, awesome, same difference when you were talking about your soul sisters.
“I’d love to see your art sometime.” He wasn’t doing that thing anymore, he looked like he actually meant it. She tried to look away, but his earnestness was drawing her in. She wondered if everyone noticed how thick the air felt all of a sudden.
“We’ll see.” She supposed he was an artist of a sort himself, but it was still kind of like getting naked in front of strangers, showing your work to someone new. He broke eye contact, and she stared at her own coffee cup as though it held the solution to her recovery. It annoyed her.
She was more than annoyed, actually, she was pissed. Her fake date shouldn’t hold real sway over her. Something started to spark in the back of her mind.
“Maybe you should let her paint you,” Summer suggested.
“Ah, yes, I have always wanted a large portrait of myself for above the mantelpiece in my study,” Jon posed and exaggerated his British accent to sound like the lord of a manor.
“I didn’t mean you should be the subject. I meant you should be the canvas.” Summer’s smile was as wicked as any Jon had ever thrown Greta’s way. Yeah, they’d definitely fallen for her ruse, imagining there was sexual tension there when really it was just aggravation and an acknowledgement of attraction. Greta wasn’t going to sit around and listen to this, though, and Summer had given her a terribly brilliant idea anyway.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said to Jon, as her friends giggled. If only they knew. If Jon wanted to play chicken, she was in.
“Anything you say, love.” He tossed some money on the table and swept his jacket around Greta’s bare shoulders. It wasn’t even cold out today, but she had to admit, the smell of his cologne was sort of addictive. It was like the Bay and Fog City Leather all wrapped up in one. The alluring scent wasn’t enough to make her feel bad about her plan, though.
“Take it easy on him!” called Summer, while Amy did gross things with her tongue Greta tried very hard to unsee.
“Time for our real date, then. Are you taking me to your studio?” He leaned down to murmur into her ear. The shivers that went down her neck didn’t even make her voice waver as she replied, proud of herself.
“Not mine.”
He was obviously waiting for her to continue, but she didn’t. The closer they got to her destination, the more upset her stomach felt at what she was doing, but no. He’d wanted to make her feel uncomfortable, and she was going to do the same thing right back. She squared her shoulders, and ignored Jon for the final block.
“Saint Frank Design Collective. This looks quite fancy. I didn’t realize you were represented by a gallery. I’d have thought that was something your friends would have mentioned. Or is this more of a shared maker space?” Jon stared at the nondescript brick building with its hand-painted wooden sign. “Either way, I’m keen to see it.”
“Not quite either.” Greta pushed opened the heavy pine door, letting the staccato buzzing noise from within float out onto the bright noontime street. She held the door as Jon stepped in and then quickly stepped back out, several shades paler.
“It’s not your studio,” he stated.
“Nope.” She held out her arm to usher him back inside.
“It’s a tattoo shop.” Instead of walking ahead of her as she’d intended, he took her arm and they walked in together. Even through the thick jacket, she could feel his hand trembling. Well, she wasn’t going to feel bad about it. If he was foolish enough to admit he was frightened of needles, then she’d be just as foolish to ignore the addition to her arsenal.
With any luck, he’d give up right then and there, and she could go home and tell her friends they just weren’t sexually compatible. Maybe she could even insinuate the fault lay in his anatomy. Though—she side-eyed his long, lean physique and confident stride—she somehow doubted that was the case.
“Looking for new ink?” asked a burly, heavily tattooed man in the corner without a client in his chair. He certainly knew how to take the focus off of Jon’s jeans. With terror, maybe, but still.
“Absolutely. Both of us are,” Greta said with a confidence she didn’t necessarily feel. After all, she’d never gotten one before either. But Summer had a bunch, so it couldn’t be that bad. Although Summer was a little tougher than she was. Okay, maybe a lot tougher. Still.
“Flip through here, let me know if you see something you like. I do custom pieces too, so don’t be shy.” The man handed them a thick binder filled with pictures of various tattoos he’d done. Every one of them looked fresh—which meant raised, red, and in some cases, still sporting a smear or two of blood.
Jon’s eyes visibly widened, boosting Greta a bit. Maybe she wasn’t as badass as Summer Coniglio, but she certainly wasn’t going to faint like her “date” looked ready to. Something caught her eye, and she looked closer. Maybe this tattoo thing was a really good idea after all. She often had really good ideas, she reminded herself.
“I like this watercolor thing,” she told the artist. “Can I get a couple splashes of color behind a Deathly Hallows on my wrist?” Mina was going to freak at how cool this was when she got picked up from school. “Actually, give me a sheet of paper. I’ll show you exactly what I want.”
Taking control of it restored Greta’s confidence. She could handle tattoos if she drew them herself. It made her feel confident in this plan, no matter how last-minute it was.
“Won’t that hurt?” Jon asked.
“It doesn’t tickle,” replied the burly man, chuckling ominously to himself as he began to assemble an equally ominous looking needle contraption. Greta swallowed, but gave a giant smile when she caught Jon’s gaze on her.
“You’re quite brave to go first, love.” His eyes still twinkled out of his white face. How utterly irritating of him, to look so good despite feeling so bad. Likely he chalked this up to his gentleman status. Hah! She’d prove him wrong.
“I didn’t know you’d be so easy to out-man,” Greta replied steadily, although her heart was starting to race as the artist swiped some alcohol over her wrist and laid it down on a plastic-covered extension of the chair. He freehanded the familiar shape of a triangle encasing a circle and a vertical line on her wrist as her palms broke into a clammy sweat.
She stared straight into Jon’s clear green eyes with her own brown ones as the artist tapped twice on his pedal to test his machine. When the needle broke her delicate skin for the first time, she hissed a sharp inhale and kept her face straight. Tough. You’re tough. You got this. Be a badass.
It lasted about two more seconds before she broke.
“This feels horrible! Distract me!” She tried to keep her voice down, but owwwwwww.To his credit, he only half-smiled before he leaned in. Greta began to turn her head so he could whisper his I-told-you-so or words of wisdom in her ear, but his hand landed on her cheek and held it steady.
Her eyes stayed open, sure he wasn’t going to do what it seemed like he was going to, but oh he did it. He pressed his lips to hers, as velvety and smooth as she’d imagined but somehow even more overwhelming. At first she stayed utterly still, surprised. His tongue drew a path until she relented. Was her stomach dropping out her knees because of him or the needle? She couldn’t tell, and couldn’t bring herself to care.
She forgot to be mad as he kissed her. She forgot she didn’t like him as she kissed him back. She forgot about the loud droning noise of the machine as his lips gently parted hers. The painful vibration in her wrist turned into a hum she felt through her whole body as she tasted the faint echo of the risotto with lemon sorbet he’d eaten as his own lunch. Her other hand came up to trace the impossibly perfect line of his jaw.
Her heart was no longer racing as if running away; it was leaping in excitement. His scent was all around her, as dizzying as the citrus of his tongue. He sucked softly on her lower lip, drawing a gasp. She opened her mouth more fully, let him claim her. The moment seemed to last forever. Oh God. What has he done to me? Her head was spinning, and so she closed her own eyes at last, just as he pulled away.
It took a moment to register that her tattoo was complete, so sudden was the shock of his mouth’s departure, and then she squealed.
“Look how pretty this is! I love it!” Greta bounced up and down as she watched her new adornment get covered in plastic and taped up for safety. She glanced back up at Jon, suddenly nervous for a different reason, not certain what to say to him. He saved her the trouble.
“My turn.” As they traded places, eyes never leaving each other, she knew he was doing that thing again. It wasn’t the tattoo he meant at all.
And what did she mean when she nodded? The kiss was a bad idea. It gave the impression that he could get ideas about her, and Greta didn’t want that. On the other hand, they’d already crossed the line. And she wasn’t even the one who was terrified of needles. Maybe just this once more wouldn’t hurt. The first time did feel awfully good—more than good. It was earth-shaking.
“I’ll have what she’s having, only with different colors,” Jon told the tattooist, who was changing out his gloves.
“Deathly Hallows? Are you—” Greta was surprised.
“I’m an Englishman under thirty. Of course I’m a Harry Potter fan. I’ve a picture on my Facebook page of myself at Platform 9 ¾. I’ll friend you later so you can see.” He pointed at a couple of plastic squeeze bottles of ink that would complement her own pink and orange rather nicely.
As the paper package was ripped to expose a fresh needle, Jon’s color faded again. He was trying to take deep breaths but looked too ill to gain any relaxation from them. He didn’t get up and leave, though. Greta started to feel a little bad. He was definitely the tougher of the two of them.
“Just don’t look at it. Right here. Just look at me.” She slid onto his lap, straddling and facing him, careful not to disturb the wrist already being sketched on. He stared into her eyes, and as the machine fired up, she leaned in for his turn, just as he’d suggested. This time the kiss wasn’t soft and sweet, but deep and searching. She could feel his nervousness in the hand that clenched her ribcage, holding her close against him.
His heartbeat pounded against hers, with hers, as their tongues danced around each other. Too soon, it was over. As they paid and received their aftercare instructions, one thought kept rebounding off the walls of Greta’s mind: how could something so off-plan have felt so perfect?