5. Wall Art
5
WALL ART
Elodie
As my black skirt swishes around my thighs, I head to the door, where my gaze strays to an unfortunate basket of custom-made bath bombs in all scents of the chocolate rainbow. Toffee, mint, cinnamon, milk.
My nose curls from the cloying smell of the woo-me gift that Sebastian Roberts at The Chocolate Connoisseur sent me this afternoon before I took Amanda to her friend Ally’s house. Cocoa soap is not the way to my heart or into my business. I run a finger along the crinkly paper inside the basket but look the other way. I’ll deal with them tomorrow.
Cute cropped cardigan and lucky ring on, I head out, leaving the bath bombs behind. I send Amanda a quick text as I go, letting her know my phone is on if she needs anything. She replies that Ally’s mom is making homemade veggie burgers. That must be a relief for her. She stresses hard if she thinks her food choices are inconveniencing anyone.
I walk down the street to meet my friend Juliet. She lives nearby and has a dinner meeting with one of her clients near the spot where Gage is meeting me, so we’re walking together most of the way.
I spot her on the corner, her chestnut hair framing her cheekbones, her fair skin as dewy as always. “Hey you,” I call out.
We hug like it’s been ages, then head toward the Painted Ladies.
“Are you going into tonight’s date armed with your favorite bad sex position to test with him? Because that’d be awesome for me.” Her green eyes glint with podcast possibility. “You could come on Heartbreakers and Matchmakers and report back. We love real-world details.”
I’ve listened to every episode religiously since she joined the podcast, sharing her optimistic perspective on both dating and moving on with her more pragmatic co-host, a well-known couples therapist. “While I love your show, I can’t help you out. I don’t plan to have bad sex,” I say with a take that, world lift of my chin.
Her brow knits. “Well, I don’t think anyone plans to have it.”
“True. Let me rephrase then. I’ve learned the best way to avoid it.”
“I’m all ears.”
“If a man isn’t good at kissing, he’s a DNF for me,” I say as the light changes and we cross. “Kisses don’t lie.”
She hums thoughtfully, then says, “You know, I think you’re right. But can you train a man to be a better kisser?”
I shoot her a skeptical look. “I don’t train men to become better in bed. And no woman should either.”
I just wish I felt as certain about other things. Even as Juliet and I catch up on our days, those damn bath bombs nag at me. I’m worried they’ll weigh me down all night. When there’s a pause in the convo, I turn to Juliet and blurt out, “But I still don’t know what to do about The Chocolate Connoisseur offer.”
Juliet gives me a sympathetic smile, then rubs my arm as we stride up the hill. “They didn’t up their counteroffer much, did they?”
A little embarrassed, I shake my head. I hired a business attorney to negotiate, and she’s badass, but Sebastian wouldn’t come up by much. The buyout offer is still lowball. And while I’d retain control of the brand and run the shop on a steady salary, technically he’d own my recipes. My precious IP. “The owner is trying to woo me with gifts instead. Last week he sent gift certificates to a spa. This afternoon, he sent me a basket of chocolate-flavored bath bombs, with a card saying this is what my life could be like if I say yes. More relaxing ,” I say, then frown.
“Is that frown because it’s weird that a guy who’s not romancing you sent you bath bombs?”
I jerk my gaze to her. “Yes! I don’t want to take a bath with his bath bombs. But still. I’m torn and I know I should take it seriously.”
“The shop is so successful. Do you have to take it?”
“Elodie’s Chocolates does well for a chocolate shop, but…”
I don’t have to say it. My parents died with nothing. They squandered away their fortune when Amanda was younger. So a shop that funded my once-upon-a-time fun, flirty, very solo lifestyle—full of skirts and shoes, spa days and facials, manis and pedis—now must take care of me and a kid who’s so talented with ceramics she wants to go to a special art school in the city.
Amanda deserves to go to art school. Art school here .
Who am I to destroy her dreams? I want to make sure my sister has everything she could need and want, and I had to take out a small business loan in the last year to cover increased rent since, well, my expenses went up. That’s why the buyout is appealing. It’s guaranteed money versus rolling the dice every day when I go into work. But I don’t want to be impulsive in making the decision either. I’d give up a decade of work building my business as a chocolatier in this city. A decade of recipes. If I ever wanted to start over, I’d face a non-compete for a few years. Ergo, I’m stuck in limbo.
“It’d be a nice chunk of change,” I admit. “A nest egg for her future. And isn’t that what a good guardian would do? Take it?”
Juliet offers a sympathetic smile. “I wish I had the answer for you. We could talk to Rachel and Hazel.” She says it with such problem-solving hope. That’s her fix-it, make-things-better nature. “They’re good at this stuff, too, even if none of us are parents.”
“You’re right. We need the brain trust. Maybe everyone should come to brunch tomorrow.”
“I’ll handle everything. I’ll get a reservation and round up the crew for a morning session.”
“And thanks. I needed this. I’m officially done thinking and worrying about the offer tonight. I’m going on a date with this hot tamale of a man, and I’m going to have a good time. Dammit.”
“Because dates are awesome,” she says as we near the Painted Ladies, their pretty pastels coming into view. “Every date is a new chance for love. This could be yours.”
“But what would I even do with love?” I ask, though I adore her attitude. Juliet is a breakup party planner for the best of reasons. She sees every end as a new beginning. For a while I was like her, hunting for big, swoony, head-over-heels love. Now, I just can’t imagine making it fit in my very messy life. “I can barely figure out how to send a sex toy to the right address,” I say breezily.
“We all make mistakes. Maybe yours happened for a reason,” she says as we hug goodbye, and I head off to meet Gage Archer a block away.
The sexy-as-sin bartender is waiting for me at the entrance to Alamo Square Park, next to the famous houses. His shirt is nice and snug, hugging those pecs and showing off some seriously strong arms. When I checked him out online, I learned he’s a former major league pitcher, and he sure looks like he’s still got a strong body. He strides up to me, all confident and assured, the kind of man who’d put me on my hands and knees then spank me into next year.
When he reaches me, he doesn’t hesitate—doesn’t shuffle his feet or awkwardly offer a hand to shake. A man who knows his mind, he sets a hand on my shoulder. “You look stunning, Elodie,” he says, curling that palm over me as he drops a chaste kiss to my cheek.
I can’t speak for a few floaty seconds, all thanks to a whisper of a kiss on my right cheek. A starter kiss that definitely didn’t lie. “So do you. Nice shirt,” I say. “I’d like to give thanks for how it shows off your arms.”
He laughs, dipping his face in the slightest show of…shyness. “My brother got it for me.”
“He buys you clothes?” That’s unusual.
Gage shakes his head. “He bought it for me for tonight’s date. Along with my daughter. Then they tried to pass it off like they hadn’t joined forces.”
That’s a whole lot of intel dropped in three sentences. “You have a kid.” I’m a little delighted.
“I do. She’s eleven.” He sounds so proud.
“Mine’s thirteen. She’s my sister, and I’m raising her solo,” I say, but I don’t get into the our parents died detail. Now is not the time to dive into grief or how I’m sometimes a mom and sometimes a sister. “She arrived at the shop right as you were leaving yesterday. She’s at the age where she thinks she knows everything.”
“Eliza’s at the age where she thinks my clothes are boring.” He pauses for a beat, giving me a warm look. “And I’m raising her solo too.”
Well, then. We’ve declared enough. With a smile, I say, “Do tell her I approve of the shirt.”
“I will,” he says, and we both know he probably won’t but it’s sweet anyway that he says it. “And she approves, too, of your chocolates.”
His big gesture was such a better gift than chocolate bath bombs to get me to sign a deal. “What have you got next in that bag of tricks?”
Gage didn’t tell me what was on the agenda tonight. Just that he wanted to show me an art installation he thought I’d enjoy then take me to dinner.
“Let me show you.” He sets a hand on the small of my back as we walk along the edge of the park. I shiver a little under his firm touch as he says, “But I have a theory about dates.”
“I have this theory about men who put their hands on the small of women’s backs,” I counter.
His eyes spark with interest. “This I want to hear.”
“You’ll have to earn that. Maybe I’ll tell you later,” I say with a playful lift of my eyebrow.
He shakes his head, smiling in admiration. “You are definitely making me work for it, Elodie,” he says, then clears his throat. “My theory is this—if you over-plan a date, it takes away from the fun. But I think you’ll like my plans.”
When we turn the corner a few blocks past the Painted Ladies, we arrive on a street teeming with storefronts and murals a few buildings ahead. That must be the outdoor art installation—bright, bold graffiti art I can’t quite make out yet. “I had a feeling you might like graffiti art,” he says.
“Presumptuous,” I tease.
“Only because I know a few things about you already.”
“Like what?”
“You’ll see,” he says, walking me toward the first mural.
It’s a huge mural of a proud, red rooster. My hand flies to my mouth, covering up peals of laughter. After a few seconds, I swat his chest. “You’re mocking me.”
I don’t even see it coming, but he grabs my hand and holds it tight. Then he meets my gaze with the most playfully sincere look. “I would never mock your affection for roosters.”
He takes his time, threading his fingers through mine, then he rubs the pad of his thumb along my palm. I stop laughing instantly. I stop smiling too. Because it feels so good. I’m quiet, caught in a hushed charge of electricity. His green eyes turn a dark shade of emerald as he holds my gaze with such intensity I can read his desires like they’re a marquee above a theater at night.
My body aches a little for his touch. For those lips to crush mine and for his kiss to take me away.
But he doesn’t make a move. He just strokes the place between my thumb and forefinger, which is officially a direct line to my panties right now.
So far, in the span of five minutes I’ve learned his chaste kisses don’t lie, and nor do his hands. This man turns me on.
“Are you going to show me the others?” If he keeps touching me, I might melt. Best to at least move so I don’t turn into a puddle.
“I am. But first…”
He leans in and dusts a kiss to my left cheek. When he lets go, he gives me a closed-mouth smile, then says, “When I kiss you for real…”
That’s it. He doesn’t finish the thought—just leaves it hanging in the air between us. A sexy promise of more plans I’m sure I’ll like.
He clasps my hand and we wander down the street full of graffiti art.
A rooster riding a bike.
A rooster sunbathing in a flower bed.
Then, a painting of three roosters and a chicken, titled Her Posse. Next, one that says Wake Me Up .
“Well, thank you for the cock art, Gage Archer. I can honestly say I’ve never had a tour of so much cock before.”
“Good. Let’s get something to eat then, Elodie.” He takes a beat. “I’m very, very hungry.”
I hope he says that to me in other ways later tonight.