Eight #2
Charlie lets out a small breath. “You have the opportunity to use your very large platform to change the way men talk about sex, about their partners, about being more giving and communicative in bed. You can speak about the importance of gender equality and how it can benefit even a cis-het white male.”
“Am I a cis-het white male?” He gestures to himself.
“Some would say you’re an entitled nepo baby.”
He rolls his eyes.
She continues. “While your comment may have been offhand and flippant, it’s had real consequences.
It contributed to the epidemic of toxic masculinity by indicating that the only valid sexual acts are penetration and the male orgasm.
If that’s what you want, by all means keep going.
” She taps the space bar, and the next slide appears, displaying a picture of a stunning Asian woman shaking Malala Yousafzai’s hand.
“But I also know you have bigger aspirations.”
Additional digging led her to an article from a few years ago about how Theo had been denied a seat on the board of directors of a nonprofit run by his mother—Academy Award–winning actress Cecilia Gao—that works to provide more opportunities in film, television, and other creative media for people of color.
It also strives to create opportunities for low-income and underserved communities to become involved in artistic spaces.
Theo’s podcast was deemed too off-brand to be associated with the organization.
Charlie clicks the space bar again. The screen flips to a photo of Theo staring sensually into the camera next to the press release from a few years back announcing his podcast. “You mention here how you want your podcast to highlight underrepresented voices discussing their relationships and sex lives, but so far, it’s only highlighted your illustrious sex life and those of other men like you. ”
Theo stares at her for several moments. “This isn’t public broadcasting. I’m not going to start a fundraiser for your organization.”
“I’m not asking for that. But your podcast can raise awareness of the benefits of our clinic and others like it and how important they are to overlooked communities.
It might show certain people that you care about all perspectives, not just those of men who flaunt their masculinity by denigrating women and spreading lies about condoms.”
Theo’s gaze roves over her, assessing, frown lines between his brows. Then he glances at Wes. “Wesley never mentioned how fucking ruthless you are.”
Pride and hope burst through her, but Charlie holds her breath while Theo’s answer hangs in the balance.
“You’ll record at my studio in New York,” he finally says. Charlie sits up straighter. “Next week. One episode. After we record, if I don’t think it’s salvageable, I have the right to cut it entirely.”
Charlie presses her lips together.
Would Victoria agree to travel to New York? Charlie has yet to discuss this plan with her. Will she even want to appear on the podcast in the first place? She came up with the idea so quickly, she hasn’t had time to ask.
Theo shifts and Teddie scampers out of his arms. “Why not. It appears you’ve convinced me, Curls.”
Charlie stiffens at the nickname. The Maryland humidity makes her hair wilder than ever, like now, when her dark curls are an untamable mass around her head.
“Theo,” Wes murmurs with a note of warning. Charlie shoots him a look so he’ll keep quiet.
“Okay,” she says. “We’ll record at your studio. And you can cut it if it’s not salvageable.”
Theo stands, a bland smile back in place. “Wonderful. I’ll stop by tomorrow before I head back to New York.”
Charlie opens her mouth to ask if he wants her number—or her email address, at the very least—but he disappears into a room, the door snapping shut behind him.
Wes watches her with something she might call fondness, but she doesn’t want to lie to herself.
“That went…” She pauses, biting her bottom lip and fighting a smile. Some of the weight lifts off her shoulders now that Theo has agreed to her plan. “Better than I expected.”
Wes slides off the barstool. “You are ruthless, you know.” He whistles low. “Watching you put Theo in his place was very impressive.”
“Thanks.” Shutting her laptop, she slides it back in her bag. When she goes to put her shoes back on, Wes’s long fingers gently clasp her elbow.
“Not to mention,” he whispers, his lips grazing the shell of her ear, “how goddamn sexy you looked doing it.”
Her pulse trips, her mouth going dry, the memory of his mouth on her skin sending a bolt of heat through her.
She’s undone by his words, undone in a way only he has ever managed.
When he drops his hand, she steps back, her palm sweaty around the strap of her bag, a swirl of heat and desire pulsing between her legs.
Leaning against the counter, he regards her with interest, then raises a hand and tucks one of her wild curls behind her ear. “You always know what you want and how to go after it, don’t you?”
She forces herself not to lean in, not to press him against the counter and beg him to finish what he started in her apartment. She blinks, a flush crawling up her neck, a rebuttal catching in her throat about how she often doesn’t get what she wants.
He winks. “Have a good night, Rogers.”
She leaves before she does something foolish.