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Hundreds of likes, some comments, and a few tags. This truly is the perfect gift, and one that’ll keep me occupied while I’m avoiding Rich and his family this weekend. I scroll through the alerts until I can’t anymore, and I only make it through this morning. “How often do you check this?”
“Couple times a day. Once to post, once to see how it’s doing.”
“Wow.” I wiggle my feet in his lap. “It’s way more exciting when you get to see that bubble pop up with—” My jaw drops when I navigate to his profile. “Finn.”
“What?”
“You have DMs. So many!”
“DMs?”
I widen my eyes at him. “You’ve never checked your messages?”
“I didn’t even know you could get them.”
I browse his inbox. There are too many for me to get through now, so I read the first couple. A request from a half-naked girl to post her photo. Shit. Maybe it’s best he doesn’t read these. The next one mentions the captions, and I smile to myself. Whenever I start to wonder if Finn even needs me for this project, I read comments that make me think my poetry is a big part of the reason we’re doing so well.
I open one with simple black and white logo as its profile picture—two B’s back to back. They’ve sent more than one message, so I start at the beginning.
Hello Mr. Cohen,
My name is Kelly, and I’m the marketing director here at Butter Boudoir. We’re huge fans of your work and we’d love to talk with you about partnership opportunities.
Underneath her unanswered message is another, sent a week later.
Hello again. I know you must be inundated with requests, but I hope you had a chance to consider my previous message. Can we send you some complimentary lingerie for your photo shoots? Or, if you’re willing to act as an ambassador and promote our brand, we can offer $1000 in exchange for 10 posts. Thanks for your consideration and we look forward to hearing from you.
Kelly
“Oh my God.”
“What?” Finn asks.
I look up, grinning. “There’s a message here from a lingerie company. They want us—me—to model and post their stuff. They’d pay us.”
Finn snorts. “Scam.”
“No, it isn’t.” I click on the profile photo. There are photos of women in Butter Boudoir’s pieces, but nothing nearly as stunning as the work Finn does. I should know, I’m an expert at analyzing art for its market. The description has a website, so I browse their shop. “It’s totally legit.”
“Well, if it is, doesn’t matter. I’m not posting photos of you in lingerie.”
I raise my eyebrows. “What about the stockings?”
“That was a one-time thing, and you were completely covered.”
“But—”
“Halston.” He gives me a look. “I don’t want my fucking girlfriend naked on the Internet.”
I sit back, surprised by his obstinacy. “First of all, nobody would know it was me. Second, what do you think we’ve been doing? It’s the same thing.”
“No it isn’t. Every photo we’ve taken has been painstakingly presented to be suggestive, not explicit. They’re erotic, not pornographic. That’s a line I don’t want to cross.”
“You were literally inside me during one of the photos,” I shoot back. “Like, we were having sex when you took it.”
He thins his lips into an angry line, and I feel immediately scolded. “You don’t see that in the photo.”
“But it’s implied.”
“That’s why it’s sexy. If I posted a picture of us fucking, that’d be porn.”
I look back at the screen. That sucks. The garments are beautiful and tasteful. Black and white lace. Little pink bows. I’d love to own some, see how they’d look in a photo, and I think Finn could use the money. I haven’t told him, but I eavesdropped on some of his conversation with Marissa the morning she was here. I couldn’t resist poking my head out. When I’d heard how cute he was with her, I hadn’t wanted to stop. Then, she’d called him broke, and my heart had dropped. It shouldn’t have surprised me. Finn never acts as though money’s an issue, but he hasn’t had much work in the last year.
I clear my throat. “They’ll pay us,” I say. “A grand.”
He looks at his plate. “Just to post some pictures?”
I nod. “We can make money at this, Finn. I know you’d hoped to get some commissions out of what we’re doing, but that’s only one way to do it. People will pay us to post, and the more followers we get, the more money they’ll offer.”
Finn reaches out and takes my hand, lacing our fingers together. “Then another offer will come along. Something that works for us. This . . . you, out there, I’m not comfortable with it. Maybe I’m a greedy bastard, but I want you all to myself, Hals.”
I should be swooning. Grateful to have someone who cares enough to keep me safe. But I can’t ignore the tug of disappointment. I’d look good in that lingerie, and based on previous, sexier posts, I know it’d get us a lot of attention. “Okay,” I say. “We’ll just ignore it.”
“Yeah.” He nods at the phone. “Anything else good in there?”
“I’ll look while I’m at work. If something else comes up, you’ll consider it?”
“If it makes sense for us. Would I like to get more work, or maybe even sell some of the stuff on my website? Yes. But not at the cost of our art. Or our relationship.”
The sincerity in his green eyes is overwhelming. I almost can’t believe I’m not dreaming. Maybe I am. I don’t know what I did to deserve Finn. I get up and go sit in his lap. “I don’t want to go to work.” I kiss him lightly on the lips but pull back when he goes in for more. “Let me stay here. We’ll take photos all day and figure out how to make lots of money so I never have to go back to that stupid office.”
“Mmm.” He squeezes my hip, chasing me down for a kiss. “I wish you could.”
“I can. I will. Screw my job. This can work, Finn. We just need a business plan. We can do this.”
He smiles and runs his hands up under my tank top, exploring, like it’s his first time touching me, but also navigating my body like a map he’s memorized. “You’re so smart,” he says. “I’ve got lots of business experience, but you’re a natural. I just want to take pictures and for people to pay me to do it.”
“You can get there,” I say. “But you have to start somewhere. Working artists have to make sacrifices. Just little ones.” I peck my way around his mouth. He has the most intoxicating lips—inviting, soft, full, wet.
Agreeable, even. Maybe I can kiss my way to getting a yes.
Because this is my venture too, and I don’t see why we both shouldn’t get what we want.
21
At the sound of a car engine, I walk to the dining room window and pull the drapes aside. Rich waves. He and his parents are bundled head to toe. “They’re here,” I say, turning away.
Dad sets his prized honey-baked ham on the table. Candles on the banquet warm the room with a glow. In a pullover and gray slacks, after a couple spiked eggnogs, Dad looks relaxed. He comes over and takes my shoulders, kis
sing me on the forehead. “Thank you for today. If they hadn’t come all the way from Chicago, I might’ve canceled on the Halperns just to spend more time alone.”
All day, he’s been easygoing. We’ve come a long way. Ten years ago, around this time, in this room, we had our worst fight to date. I decided last minute not to attend my mom’s funeral, but he wouldn’t hear of it. I smile. “Really?”
He shrugs. “Despite the mess, and a few bad batches, baking with you was fun. The sugar cookies were . . . they tasted just like your mom’s.”
A lump forms in my throat. Dean Martin Christmas music plays in the background. For the second time today, I’m tempted to tell him about Finn. I’m afraid of turning the warmth cold, though. “It was a nice day,” I say as the Halperns knock.
He leaves to get the door. I chose the black tulip dress I’m wearing for its pockets. I pull my phone out of one and text Finn.
They’re here.
He writes back immediately.
Good luck. Just arrived in Greenwich. Call if you need anything.
I take a deep breath. The light bourbon buzz I had going fades when I hear Rich in the foyer. It’s my fault he’s here, but I’m not in the mood to play future daughter-in-law tonight. Rich’s parents prefer denial to reality. If they sense anything off tonight, they won’t mention it. I don’t know whether to feel sad or happy that I’d probably be standing in this same spot living that same life if it weren’t for Finn.
Finn. Naked and tangled in his buttery sheets. Eating ice cream out of a shared cup as we walk home from a show in forty-degree weather. Reading softly to him from my journal in the twenty-four-hour diner, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up because the people in the booth behind us can surely hear. I’m not the sweet, quiet girl our families want me to be. I like sex and black coffee and knowing I’ve made someone feel something. Even if they’re feeling it in a plastic-covered booth.
Glasses clink from the family room. Pre-dinner cocktails. I should join them, but to put it off a little longer, I resume my project of sorting Finn’s direct messages. Between yesterday being the last business day of the year for our office, and the time I spent with Dad today, I’ve been too busy to get through them all. I open them one by one.
