Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Ivy
Playing Romeo's girlfriend, at his brother's wedding?
Um, what?
Only I could hire an escort and somehow find myself with a commitment.
"I'll reimburse you, of course," he says. "Financially, if you'd like. Or—" His eyes flit to the bedroom. They fill with intent. An intent I really, really want to answer.
Having this conversation in his boxers is smart.
The man looks good in the sleek black underwear. Very Italian, actually. Italian-Mexican, I guess. That explains the darker, browner tones in his complexion.
He is handsome. Sexy. Last night was fun. I didn't entirely believe it, and I didn’t quite feel comfortable enough to tell him everything I wanted, but it was fun.
It's a podcast episode, for sure.
And I certainly need another.
Even if it’s emotionally awkward. Even if that part of it isn’t there.
I don’t need it there. I need to do what’s best for the show.
I need to keep it going. Or I’ll lose the ability to work with my best friend.
I’ll lose the only place I’ve ever had to speak my mind.
And I’ll even have to move back in with my parents while I rebuild my business. A terrible fate.
But I can’t agree without more information. "Why do you need a fake girlfriend?"
"It's a long story."
"I have time." I take a long sip.
He smiles, pure charm. Somehow, his dark eyes contain the perfect mix of desire, approval, and coyness. It's like he's wrapping me in a blanket of compliments without coming across as desperate or overly attached.
How does he do that?
Or maybe it's me. Maybe I'm attached to the first good fuck I've had in a long, long time. Maybe I'm not one of those women who can’t enjoy casual sex. Maybe I catch feelings.
"I'm used to good coffee. A lot of people are these days." He takes a long sip. "There are options, even here in Orange County. We have Philz, for pour-overs. Local stores. But where can people go for a latte? Or a single-origin espresso?"
What? "I told you. I'm a tea person."
"It suits you. Zen. Subtle."
"I appreciate the compliment, but maybe…" I motion for him to move things along.
"Too much practice teasing, huh?" He takes a long sip and lets out a soft sigh. Not one of pleasure. Something else. Exhaustion, I think. "You met my mother. She's from Italy. We spent summers there, sipping macchiatos at cafes."
"Sounds nice," I say. I’m happy for him. Really. It sounds like he has a lovely family. But what does that have to do with me?
"My father was from Mexico."
Was. So he's no more. Again, I’m sympathetic, but I’m not seeing the connection.
"We were there too. Went to coffee farms. Mexico is still ignored, in the world of coffee and chocolate.
When we were kids, my brother and I talked about that.
How we were going to change it. Bring our parents' love together to make a shop that married their backgrounds.
Mexican coffee and chocolate in an Italian style coffee bar. "
Sounds like a nice business. And still, no idea what it has to do with me."What happened?"
"He's always putting it off. Because he doesn't respect me. Thinks I can't commit to anything."
"What's he think you do?"
"Nothing," he says. "I tell him I do accounting for small businesses, but he assumes Mom is paying my bills."
"But, really, you're making all your money, running this small business?"
He nods. "I won't pretend I'm the world's best businessman, but I know a lot. I have a partner."
I swallow a sip, so I won't reply. So I won’t go down a rabbit hole. I’m not his therapist. I’m not slipping into therapist mode.
"A business partner," he says. "Strictly professional. And platonic."
"How can a professional relationship be platonic in your line of work?"
He chuckles. "We did go on a call together once, but it was a train wreck. We couldn't stop giggling over the absurdity of seeing each other naked."
"But you run this business together?" I'm curious about his colleague. And how it all works. And, dammit, I’m already going into therapist mode. “So what does this all have to do with me, Romeo?”
“He won’t go into business with me, because he thinks I’m a fuck-up who can’t commit to anything. If I can commit to someone smart and responsible…”
“Then he’ll want to create a company with you?”
“And he’s getting married. So I need to come with a date anyway.”
I’m not sure I see the vision, but I suppose I do see the logic. He wants his family to believe he's got a nice, normal girlfriend.
Which is not what many people think when they meet a sex therapist. Even back in college, when I was studying psychology undergrad, and I first decided to go into sex therapy, I got the weirdest responses from people.
Some were intrigued. Some found it cool. Others suggested I was a freak or a pervert or a slut because of the interest.
Mostly, they hinted at it. This is California, after all. We’re polite here. But they got the point across.
What sort of weirdo wants to help people fuck for a living?
After my first year in grad school, I learned how to own it. Sure, call me Doctor Good-Fuck. Of course I know which vibrators are the best. Will I talk to your teenager about sex? Why not? I got a lot of practice for my role as no-nonsense super-freak Doctor O.
"Are you sure your brother will be convinced by someone like me?" I ask.
"A doctor?" he asks.
"With a PhD in fucking," I say.
He chuckles. "Have people really said that."
"A few."
"Did you tell Mom?" he asks.
I shake my head. "I didn't want to…" Force him to stick with any one story. "Put you in a corner."
He nods. "She'll love it. Daniel, not as much, but he'll like that you're a doctor. And he'll understand it. I… well, let's say I turned my hobby into a career."
That’s quite the euphemism. It’s honest, without being truthful. Is he not a truthful person? No, dammit, we’re not in therapy. Though I do need to get to know him if I’m going to play his girlfriend.
Shit, am I actually considering this?
Am I out of my mind. "And that's why he won't start this business? Because he thinks you’re irresponsible and you spend all your time sleeping around?" I ask.
"One of the reasons," he says.
"What are you not telling me?" There's something I'm missing. There always is with families.
He knows there is. It's all over his face. But he doesn't say it.
And I, well—
I get a little distracted by the whole not wearing a shirt thing. He really is sculpted. Shoulders like a swimmer. The arms of a uh, well, a person who really works on their arms a lot. The strong pecs. And abs.
Not so much that he looks ridiculous.
Enough.
He is sexy.
Maybe I should focus less on his reasons and more on what I get out of this.
I can practically hear Meredith, the angel and devil on my shoulder.
We need material, Ivy!
Have some good sex, girl!
What do you care about his twisted family dynamics? Get laid!
"We didn't grow up with money," he says.
"But when I was a teenager, my father's aunt married a rich man.
A very generous, very rich man. All of a sudden, the family had everything.
It changed us. Daniel became stiffer, more uptight.
I went the other way. Ever since, he's seen me as this lazy playboy.
My mother too, though she has more respect for it. The Italian culture of pleasure."
"And you can't use your boutique business as an example of your business savvy," I say.
"But if I show up with a serious girlfriend, who wants to share stories from my 'real' career, then they won't see me as a fuck-up anymore."
I take another sip of tea. I channel Meredith. What do I want? What can I get out of this? Sex. Companionship. Content for the podcast. I need that. We need that. Mer may play cool, but she’s not swimming in extra cash or opportunity. Neither of us are. "And how would this work?"
"The wedding is at my mom's place. It's a small ceremony. Family and a few friends. They’re doing some pre-wedding retreat at my mother’s house. A combination of preparation and games, to celebrate love, make sure they’re ready. Something like that. It should be a few days. A week max.”
That's different. But something I should be able to navigate, professionally at least.
"And they'll probably need help, with planning. Cynthia will need someone to hold her hand. She always gets cold feet. Daniel, too. They're both neurotic messes. They're perfect for each other that way," he says.
"Why would Cynthia want my help and not a friend’s?" I ask.
“She’ll trust you to see the situation with clear eyes,” he says.
That’s not a bad reason, but it still doesn’t explain why she doesn’t want the counsel of a friend. “I don’t know.”
“Just meet her. See how you connect. If it’s not happening, you don’t have to push it,” he says.
That’s fair enough. "You're not a planner, huh?" I ask.
"You can't plan human relationships," he says.
He has a point there. But then why is he trying to trick his way to this?
Even if it's about this business.
I'm missing something, I am.
Not your problem, Ives.
Content. Extra subscribers. Rent money for this really, really good tea. That is your problem.
Or do you want to have to buy whatever Trader Joe's has available this week?
"And what do I get out of it?"
He smiles and sits up straighter. "Now we're getting somewhere. What do you want?"
Content for my podcast, but I can't say that. Meredith and I swore when we started—we'd stay anonymous, whatever it took, even if we got married.
Still. I can ask for that. Just not in so many words.
"I want to explore my sexuality," I say. "And I want to be able to tell whoever I want—the world, if I want to."
"Write Eat, Pray, Fuck?"
"Eat, Pray, Love is a very good book," I say.
"Mom didn't like it. Said it stereotyped Italians."
That… is probably true. "Did you read it?"
"The audiobook," he says. "I liked it. Though the author reminded me of my brother. She's neurotic the way he is."
"She's adventurous too. It's an interesting combination." Like my fake podcast persona.
"I tell you what. I'll take another look, as part of the deal. Or read any other divorce memoir that speaks to you."
That's such a strange and random offer. But considerate in the weirdest way. Since I am trying to explore myself post-divorce.
Is he trying to understand me in some way? Or at least meet me halfway?
That's a lot more than my ex did.
"You can stock up on material for Talk, Listen, Fuck," he says. "Just change my name."
"So, what? We play your game all day and mine all night?"
"I don't know, Ivy, do you have that kind of stamina?" A teasing tone drops into his voice.
It makes my cheeks flush and stomach flutter.
I like it far too much.
I like him far too much.
But that's ridiculous. Where would he ever fit into my life?
No. This is perfect. We're two people whose paths will never cross again after this.
Meredith says that's the key to a successful casual thing.
There is one problem though.
Ahem. "I… I appreciate this was on my terms," I say. "And I do need that. Someone who will encourage my desires. But I don't want it to be the sort of thing I pay for."
"You want to have real sex," he says.
I nod. "If you're not really interested, I understand. I'm sure, you—"
"I'm interested." He says it matter-of-factly. As if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "It won't be what you'd get with a boyfriend, but I can drop the pretense. Give you a more honest fling. No charge."
No charge as part of the deal or because he actually wants to have sex with me?
I’m not sure I want to ask. Does it matter, really?
I need the material and I want to have sex with him.
I need to do what I tell clients to do: focus on what I want, not on other people’s motives. "Was there pretense last night?"
He doesn't answer. "I'll drop a little pretense each time, to ease you into a more honest dynamic."
He can tell I can't handle asking for what I want without encouragement. He's good. He should get into my line of work.
Or maybe we should collaborate. I handle the mental prep. He takes on the actual experience.
It's not a bad idea. In a world where people don't look down on sex workers. In this one, the law isn't on our side.
Which means I need to keep my current gig. "Are you sure I can say anything I want?” I ask.
“Do you already have a book deal?” he jokes.
“Something like that.”
He nods. “As long as you change my name,” he says again. “Then go wild.”
I shake.
We iron out the initial details over another cup of tea (coffee for him). The rest, we figure out over text, over the next few days.
The wedding is in three weeks. The retreat starts in two. I iron out the schedule with Meredith, so we won't miss an episode, so she deals with minimal retreat interruption.
She wants details, but I'm not ready to share. I don't really want to share them with my listeners either. Not yet.
What would I say about the experience? How do I explain how it feels to pay someone to pretend they like me?
It was good sex.
But it wasn't what I want out of sex either.
And here I am with two weeks to figure that out. What I want from sex, from my job, from my life as a single woman.
I spend my time researching, swimming extra laps, prepping future topics. Then, three days before we go on the trip, Romeo and I meet for a real date.
Well, a lightning round of getting to know each other.
Then a practice date.
With his best friend as the judge.
She'll decide if we're selling this or not.
No pressure.