Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Nessa
It was Mame, and her heart jumped.
"Hello?"
"Nessa?"
"Mamie, what is it? Are you okay, is something wrong? It's eleven o'clock!"
"How did it go? Did you like him?"
"Mame, what are you talking about? Why aren't you asleep?"
"Asleep? Who sleeps, at my age? I want to know about your date with Rosemary’s grandson! Did he ask you out again?"
"Ask me… we're still having this date!"
"Has he kissed you yet?"
"Really, Mame, this is not–I can't talk to you now! I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"
"Why don't you come by instead? Girl talk is better in person. Come for tea."
"Since when do you drink tea?"
"I don't. I'll have a martini, and you can drink tea. I want to hear all the details. What did you wear?"
"That's kind of a long story."
"Oooh, good, I love long stories. See you tomorrow–now, whatever you do, don't sleep with him! No matter what they say, men look at you differently if you do that too soon. You may say I'm old fashioned, but some things never change."
Nessa glanced uncomfortably in the direction of the kitchen.
"I'll keep that in mind. Well, good night, Mame. I love you."
"I love you, too, my darling girl."
When she emerged from her bedroom, Matt had migrated to the living room and was flipping idly through the latest Vogue . The look on his face was a strange blend of consternation and fascination, something like a medical student watching their first live birth.
Looking up, he said, "I wasn't eavesdropping, I swear, but did I hear you say 'Mame'?"
"You did indeed." She fetched her drink from the kitchen counter then joined him on the sofa, one leg curled under her.
"Everything okay?"
"Yes. She, ah, had something she wanted to tell me."
"At eleven o'clock at night?"
"You know what she's like when she gets an idea in her head… How's your drink?"
"Delicious. I really like these glasses, they feel good in your hand. Where'd you get them?"
"These?" Standing up, she disappeared into the kitchen, emerging a moment later carrying a box, which she handed to him. "Here's a set. I've already got two dozen."
"Wait–what?"
"They send them to me–I post a photo of my friends having drinks and I mention the cool glasses. But this is a small place, I don't have room for everything. You'd be doing me a favor, and if you really like them… please."
"I do really like them. Uh, thanks. You get a lot of stuff this way?"
"You have no idea. Free stuff, discounts, some stores will lend me clothes if I post it or get photographed. Sometimes my dinners get comped, or my drinks. I mean, I don't wear something or put it online just because they send it to me, I have to really like it. I have to protect my reputation."
"So all this..?" he waved his hands at the apartment in general.
"Oh, no, not everything, of course not! But, yeah, a lot. I give some of it to Liv, if she'll take it. About once a month, I take a load to Boston Animal Rescue, they have that resale shop? They always seem really happy to have whatever I bring in."
"You're like a little economy of your own," he observed.
"No, no, nothing like that, it's just a side gig, really just for fun. Oooh, wait right here!" She dashed off again, returning with a full handle of dark rum.
"Oh, I'm good, thanks. Not ready for a refill yet."
"Take this, they sent me a case! You can make your own Dark 'n' Stormy's at home. What am I going to do with a case of rum? Can't take that to resale, and Liv mostly sticks to wine."
"Okay, stop!" he laughed. "Thank you, I'll take the rum, but no more!"
"How about some towels? Do you have enough towels? I mean, you can't really ever have enough towels, right?" She started to get up again but he grabbed her wrist and pulled her back down.
"You post photos of yourself in a towel?" he asked.
"Just my hair! I was wearing a robe."
"Let me guess–a robe sent to you by… a robe company?"
A half shrug and a sheepish smile was her answer. But she added:
"It's not a bad thing, Matt. For a tiny fraction of a normal ad budget, companies get targeted advertising that reaches a very specific audience. And my followers all know the deal. They trust my advice, but they know I'm an influencer. Like I said, I would never promote anything I didn't love just because I got it for free. It's good for everyone, win-win."
"I can see that. I'm just thinking–I'm always looking for more funding for my programs… but I'm not sure it would work for me, for a lot of different reasons."
"I can help you think it through. I'm sure it could work on a smaller scale. Every little bit helps, right?"
"As long as it doesn't detract from the real work. Maybe you could come to the gym with me sometime, see what it's all about? I'm due for another post. It might be good to get your input."
"Sure, I'd be happy to. When were you thinking?"
"Tomorrow? First thing, before it gets too crowded?"
"Like, ten o'clock?"
"Like, six thirty?" he countered.
"A.m.?” she squeaked.
“Of course.”
“But it's Saturday!" she protested, horrified. "If I don't have a wedding, that's the day to sleep in!"
"If I get there too late, it's too chaotic and I can't concentrate."
"Have you ever thought about yoga? It's very peaceful."
"That would be kind of a hard sell to my followers."
"Maybe, but they'd meet a lot more girls at a yoga class than at some smelly gym. Ashanti, at my office, he's a yoga teacher, and women even follow him out to his car sometimes. Guys, too, actually."
"I see your point, but a lot of these kids are twelve or thirteen," he pointed out, laughing. "They don't have a car, unless their mother is driving them."
"And another great thing about a yoga studio is that you sign up in advance, so it's never too crowded, and they have classes all day. You can relax in the morning, grab lunch, and go in the afternoon–it's very civilized. You should try it."
"Tell you what–you come to the gym with me tomorrow morning and I'll go to yoga with you next week. Fair is fair."
"Fair…" she echoed, calculating in her head. If she had to be ready to go at six a.m., she would have to set her alarm for five. It was dark at five, wasn't it? It was practically the middle of the night. And when that infuriating chime sounded at five a.m., it wasn't going to be because she had to catch an early flight to someplace interesting, or because she wanted to be first in line when the doors opened for an annual shoe sale. No, it was going to be because a guy she was infatuated with–let's just admit that–had invited her to do something she had zero interest in doing on its own merit.
Such was dating.
"...is fair," she finished, taking a sip of her drink and pondering. "But maybe we could start more gently? What if we went to yoga tomorrow and your gym next week?"
"I'd change if I could, but I told some people I'd be there tomorrow," he said. "Sorry."
"No, I get it. Well, if I have to get up at five, and it's eleven thirty now, I think my best plan is just to stay up all night."
"Stay up..?" From the look on his face, she might as well have been speaking Urdu; he clearly could not suss out her meaning, and he just as clearly wanted to very much. Suddenly she saw that her comment could also be interpreted as an invitation.
"What I meant was–"
"–was?" he prompted, in a voice so low and soft and sexy, she couldn't remember what she'd meant. That was then, this was now, and what she wanted right now was to be in his arms, in her bed, with no clothing between them.
Because it was what was underneath that mattered.