Chapter 22
Chapter twenty-two
Jaxon
“Well, this is awkward,” I say as I stand on Izzy’s porch, my guitar in one hand, a bag of takeout food in the other.
“What’s awkward?”
I jump at the sound of her voice, sure I was alone out here after knocking for almost a minute straight with no answer.
“You can just go in,” Izzy says as she walks down the narrow sidewalk from the street to the front steps. “It’s unlocked.”
“Oh, right. Thanks,” I say, pushing my way inside.
“Need me to grab something for you?” Izzy asks, reaching toward my bag of food, but I just shake my head.
“I’ve got it.”
Izzy’s house is nice. I mean, it’s pretty small—much smaller than either of the houses we grew up in, and much smaller than any house I own now, including my condo in New York, but it has big windows that let light into the kitchen and dining room, and you can tell they take good care of it.
“Thanks for ordering dinner,” Izzy says as I put my bag of food on her counter.
“I was harassed by family members and nosy Nellies all day today after our ‘date’ on Saturday. My mom stopped by the office three times. Three,” Izzy says.
“I hope you grabbed enough dinner for Becca too because she’s really annoyed she had to deal with all the drop-ins today. ”
I watch her unload the takeout boxes from the bag as she talks, her hands moving faster than her mouth by some miracle.
She’s in jeans and a dark gray shirt today, one that dips down in the middle, showing the promise of cleavage while still appearing work appropriate.
Izzy’s never been one to wear much makeup, but I can tell she’s got something on her eyes.
The smokey lining makes her irises darker, a deep chocolate brown with just the hint of green on the outside.
“Becca and I have been officing on Main Street for almost ten years now, and we’ve never had more than one person a day just randomly stop by.
Today, we had seven. Seven. And all they want to talk about is if I’m dating Jaxon Steele.
They all call you Jaxon Steele too. Like they don’t know your real name. ”
“Don’t we want people to think we’re together?” I ask as Becca walks through the front door.
Becca laughs. “Iz is just mad that it’s working so well. According to Ken, it’s all the men at coffee could talk about today. Apparently, everyone saw it coming.”
“Which is ridiculous, since no one saw this coming!” Izzy says. “It’s like we’re back in high school again, and no one will believe us when we say we’re just friends. Though, maybe this is different since we want them to think we’re dating.”
“But it still pisses you off?” I say with a smile.
“Exactly.” Izzy accentuates her point by jabbing her fork in my direction. “They’re clearly assholes for caring.”
“I was thinking the exact same thing. It’s why I told every single person who asked for an autograph while I was picking up this food to just go straight to hell.”
“Only viable option,” Izzy agrees.
“Soo, I’m going to take this food and eat it in my room,” Becca says, interrupting Izzy and me. “Sorry you’re not getting more out of this than you are, Iz. It’s tough for you.”
I don’t miss the annoyed look Izzy sends Becca’s way as she practically skips into what I can only assume is her bedroom.
“She’s right,” I say. “I added this whole writing thing to our agreement without you getting anything else. What do you want? I could…” I trail off. I have no idea what I could help Izzy with. Besides a fake boyfriend, the only thing I know she needs is—
I look up and notice Izzy’s bright red cheeks.
“No,” Izzy says, but it’s with surprisingly little conviction.
“But I could,” I say, the idea taking root in my mind like the most beautiful flower about to grow.
“I…we…it’s a bad idea,” Izzy says.
She’s caving. Oh my God. She’s fucking caving.
“Why?” I ask, trying to figure out how to get her to agree. It’s not about making our agreement fair. It still won’t be fair. She could help me write a million songs and somehow it feels like I would still be getting more out of the deal than she would.
“We can’t have sex!”
“Wait, are you a virgin, Iz?” I ask, suddenly worried I’ve misinterpreted the comment that caused her so much embarrassment.
“I—No! I mean, there’s nothing wrong with it if I was, but I’ve…no. I’ve had sex before. It just…wasn’t very good.”
I don’t love thinking about Izzy having sex with other men, but I try to push that jealousy down. At least they weren’t very good.
“So we’ve both had sex before,” I say. “Why can’t we do it again? But better, obviously,” I tack on, feeling it’s important to remind her that it would be different—better—with me.
“Have you ever spice coached someone before?” she asks.
Wait. What? “I’ve never heard the term spice coach before, so I’m going to go ahead and say no.”
“It’s a romance book term that Lila, Jameson’s sister, throws around sometimes.
It’s where, you know, you coach someone in how to have good sex.
” Izzy’s cheeks are bright red as she explains it to me, her gaze focused on the window over my shoulder like it’s the most interesting thing she’s ever seen.
“So it’s not about mutual satisfaction, it’s about the…
coach…helping the…coachee…try out different things so they are more prepared for future sexual encounters. ”
The final part of that sentence doesn’t sit right with me, but I brush it off. That’s a problem for future me to deal with once I’m back in Nashville. “I can say without a shadow of a doubt that I’ve never done that before—”
“See? No—”
“But”—I say when Izzy cuts me off—“I can do it. I know I can. And it would make me feel so much better if I could do something to pay you back for spending time with me while I attempt to write my music.”
“I would do it anyway,” Izzy admits, her eyes finally meeting mine.
“As would I,” I say, enjoying the blush that flares on her cheeks at my admission.
“Come on, Izzy. Please? Let’s just try it. If you’re uncomfortable at any time, we’ll stop.”
She shakes her head.
“Come on, let me sex coach you. We can have rules and everything.”
“It’s called spice coaching,” she says, and I can tell from her tone that’s she’s giving in. “It somehow seems better than sex coaching.”
“Okay.” I pull out my notebook and pen. “Rule number one: Consent matters.”
“Solid rule.”
“So I need you to agree to this, Izzy.”
She nods.
“Verbally. I need you to agree verbally.”
She draws in a deep breath like she’s steeling herself. “Fine. I agree to hang out with you while you write music in exchange for you giving me orgasms.”
Fuck, I like the sound of that. “Was that so hard?”
“Yes.”
“Number two,” I continue, ignoring her. “We don’t talk about sex club.”
“Unless it's in either of our biographies when we're over the age of...” She thinks for a few seconds. “Seventy.”
“Iz, this is important to me.”
“Because your life plan has your biography being published at sixty-five?” she asks with a smirk, and I love that she’s decided to shake off her embarrassment and roll with this.
“Because I’m famous, and people would pay a lot of money to hear this story. I make most of my…dates sign NDAs.”
Izzy snorts as she shovels the brussels sprout hash into her mouth. “Well, where is mine?”
I could ask my lawyers to draw one up. However, as much as I know I should get her to sign something, it just doesn’t feel right.
“I trust you,” I say.
It might be the most accurate statement of my life. I have no doubt she won’t tell a soul.
She stares at me for a moment. “Because you know I’d be way too embarrassed for it ever to be worth it for me tell someone?”
I shrug. “In the same way it could cause an international scandal if I told anyone about it, yeah.”
“It’s not my fault I’m so famous,” Izzy jokes. “Oh, and Becca knows, but there is zero chance that she’ll tell anyone because she’s an excellent friend, and also I know a secret about her that could always be used as blackmail.”
“Okay,” I say, writing down assured mutual destruction.
Izzy shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s a rule. It just…is.”
“Okay, well, what do you want to write on our sex contract? Because I’m in uncharted territories here.”
She pulls her long hair into a bun at the nape of her neck. “I’d like to keep the no-kissing rule.”
“What?” I ask, scanning her face for some kind of context clue. “I thought that was a terrible idea for fake dating, and I can assure you it’s a bad idea for sex coaching.”
“For the love! Could you please stop calling it that?” she huffs. “I agreed to your argument that, in public, we may need to kiss once if the situation called for it. But we don’t need to kiss during sex.”
“No,” I disagree, folding my arms across my chest.
“What do you mean, ‘no’? I’m just saying no kissing during sex. It’ll feel…too real.”
“Veto, Iz.”
“Isabel,” she cuts in, copying my body language now.
“Kissing is an important part of foreplay,” I argue.
“Foreplay is an important part of getting you off. I have to be able to kiss you.” I stare at her lips as I say it, wondering how I’ve never noticed just how soft her lower lip looks.
The urge to nibble on it is strong, and I have to force myself to look away.
“Fine. But no romantic kissing. No sweet kisses.”
“I will endeavor to only suck face,” I say, nodding seriously while writing, No romance.
“And finally,” Izzy continues, as I take a sip of the beer she opened for me, “no butt stuff.”
The beer shoots directly up my nasal cavity, spraying over my arm as I attempt to cover my nose. I’m hacking and coughing, my brain burning from the alcohol wash.
“What the fuck, Iz?” I say once I can breathe again. “You can’t just start talking about butt stuff without warning a guy.”
“Exactly. Which is why it’s on the no-go list.”