Definitely Naughty (10 page)

Aubrey sighed as she looked at him. Long enough for him to see her poor red eyes well with tears, and even though she tried hard to blink them away, a few fell. He wanted to kiss her so badly. Hold her tight, help her believe in her own talent.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice as tight as a corset. “I love that you’d come here and say that. I wish it were true, but art isn’t like that. Every piece stands on its own.”

“No, I get that. And you’re right. But remember, I was a beat cop. I walked through half a dozen pairs of shoes on the streets of Manhattan. Each one of those ideas on the board is better than anything I’ve seen. Even the ones you’ve crossed out.”

He leaned in and kissed her quivering lips. “Look, we both know I’m not really a muse. The thing is, you never needed one. You’ve already got all the discipline, the bravery and the talent. But I don’t regret a minute of pretending I made a difference.”

Knees popping as he got to his feet, he tried to come up with another reason to stay, but that was just selfishness. Sure, she needed some distance until this was over, but she’d realize the time limit was just part of the game. “Once we get through this next week, things’ll go back to normal. I promise. You’ll feel better about everything. About us.”

The change that came over her made his gut tighten and his jaw tense. The panic was gone, replaced with a sadness that was painful to look at. “Liam. I know you don’t want to hear this but please listen to me. This was never meant to be anything more. I should have ended it earlier, but it was always going to end. I don’t want things to go back to normal between us. I’m sorry.”

All the air left the room. The dagger in his chest made it impossible to breathe. She meant it. Every broken word on that voice mail. She didn’t want him. Want them. The end.

“I’ll miss you,” he said. “A lot.”

She sniffed, nodded, couldn’t meet his gaze. And she didn’t ask him to stay.

Aubrey had chosen the thick red marker because it was the only color that felt right. Black made her spiral into darkness, purple made her throat tight, and forget about blue. Red was the answer.

Now if she only knew the right question.

So she let her arm and her hand and her fingers take over, let them make scrawls and circles and wavy lines on the biggest of her sketch pads. Unfettered, not thinking at all, just doing.

Only that wasn’t true. She was thinking. Not about the window, though. Not about anything useful.

Caro telling her she’d set herself up for failure. Sanjula calling her out for running. Liam.

Her hand stopped.

Caro’s voice in her head. “Work with what you have.”

The marker moved, jagged shapes, no symmetry, ugly, harsh.

Caro’s disappointment. In her eyes and the crease in her forehead, in the tilt of her blond fauxhawk.

Sanjula’s pronouncement. “You’re a moron.”

It was true, but not for the reasons they suspected. Not for facing the truth. Aubrey’s hand shook, but she kept on going as she thought about exactly how stupid she’d been for letting him get to her. Letting herself fall for him. She’d always known she’d end up with someone in the arts. A musician, a sculptor. God help her, an actor. Someone temperamental and selfish and as full of himself as she was. It would be stormy and dramatic and eventually tragic. Worse, it would whither into nothing when they both realized their talent was marginal, their achievements minor.

Shortly before Aubrey had left home, she’d confided in her mother that very picture of her future. It wasn’t often that they shared such things. Mostly, they argued or her mother despaired. Aubrey had waited for a disagreement, a denial. Instead, her mother had looked at her with deep sadness in her dark eyes.

The marker had stopped again. She let it drop to the paper, saw the horrible red stains on her arm. Like a rash.

She tore the page off the pad and wadded the thing up until it was a tightly packed ball, all the while staring at the whiteboard.

And it hit her. The sleepover. The cocktail party. Neither one worked as singular ideas, but together? She tossed the wad behind her on the pile of other wads, and began again. This time with pencils. With purpose. It wasn’t caffeine that got her blood pumping this time. It was adrenaline and magic.

Liam should have gone back to work, but he couldn’t seem to get up off the couch. He hadn’t even taken off his coat. A glance at his watch made him wince. For two hours he’d been staring at that preposterous Christmas tree on the table.

Who makes a Christmas tree out of cupcake liners? He hadn’t even realized those things had a proper name. They’d always just been what wrapped cupcakes and muffins. Since Aubrey had decorated his apartment, he’d learned they came in an assortment of colors and sizes. He’d ended up buying a blueberry muffin at the coffee place just because he’d been staring at it for an uncomfortably long time.

He also hadn’t known that companies made novelty crime scene tape.

It had made him smile every time he looked at it. Not this time, though. Now he felt like throwing the stupid thing in the garbage, but he couldn’t rally the energy to go out to the Dumpster.

Maybe as the new reality sunk in, he’d feel differently. All he wanted to do was have a drink. The Scotch in his cupboard was just a few feet away. Maybe that was good. Getting drunk wasn’t his thing. He’d tried it a couple of times in college, and it hadn’t ended well. In truth, the part where it was pleasant and numbing and terrific was really short, and the part where he felt like crap lasted a really long time. And hell, he already had the feeling-like-crap phase down pat.

He’d expected her to say something before he left. To stop him. It had been tempting to try to persuade her with a dose of logic and some sweet talk, but then he’d finally gotten it, finally understood that her meltdown wasn’t just about her deadline. Her panic was about them. He knew there was nothing more he could’ve said or done.

But damn it, he liked her. Too much, obviously. When had lots and lots of sex turned into this? An incredibly complicated mess. Next to the tree sat a pair of tickets and a confirmation. The surprise weekend trip to Oyster Bay was going to be her Christmas present. He’d been trying to decide if he should have it gift-wrapped. When had he begun to think of them as a real couple?

Hell, he’d told his folks about her. His mother had been concerned that she was a window dresser. Asked him if that was a stable career. He’d stood up for Aubrey. Tried to explain that she was an artist. A real talent. There was no telling where she’d go from there.

“Fuck,” he said loudly. He pushed himself off the couch and went to get the Scotch. He wished he could call a friend. Go to a bar, get cajoled into a better mood. But his whole life had been so wrapped up in his work, then in defending himself against that meme, against being typecast and dismissed. He’d skipped the part where he was supposed to make friends.

He could call Alex, his college roommate, but they hadn’t spoken in too long. There was always his brother. Truth was, he didn’t much care for Ted. He could go to the White House, see if anyone was there. Maybe Tony Ricci would be itching for a fight. That had some promise.

Or the Session House. Where he’d met Aubrey that first night. God, she’d been something. So bright and vibrant she’d seemed to dim the lights. Made everyone else in the bar feel like extras, props. She’d just been totally herself. Undiluted Aubrey, and it had made him drunk with want. He’d really liked that fedora. She’d worn it for him a few nights later, unencumbered by any other clothing so he could get the full effect.

Every time he’d been with her it had been like Christmas. He’d unwrap her like a present, peel away the dress or the skirt or the pants until it was Aubrey neat, like a perfect Scotch straight up.

Goddamn it, he knew what she tasted like. Smelled like. Blindfolded, he would find her in a crowd, just with his nose.

The thought of trying to forget made him crazy.

He poured himself a drink, shot it back with a jerk of his head. It burned like a slow match in the back of his throat and shook him out of his pathetic self-pity.

Fuck it, fuck this. Something had been bothering him since she’d told him goodbye. Things weren’t adding up, and the hell if he wasn’t going to get to the truth. He’d always had to fight for what really mattered. Why should this be any different?

He needed to be patient, though. Wait until the window debuted. Once the stress of her deadline ended, he’d get her to focus on them. He wasn’t asking for forever. If she was commitment-phobic, fine. He wasn’t looking to book a church. That didn’t mean they couldn’t stay the course, see how things shook out. For about the tenth time he listened to her voice mail, and there it was. Evidence.

She’d admitted it herself. She couldn’t stop thinking about him. About them. She might be scared, but she wasn’t ready to let go yet. For Chrissakes, she’d taken him home to meet her friends only yesterday. Maybe letting him get that close had set her off. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t giving up. It would be a bitch waiting for the damn window launch to be over with, but it would be worth it. She was worth it.

He turned to the Christmas tree on his coffee table and felt better than he had all afternoon.

“Oh, Aubrey, that’s it!” Yvonne turned from the sketches on the whiteboard. Her private smile, the one that was asymmetrical and a little goofy, was on full display. “The press will eat it up.”

“If it all comes together. Do you think we can get enough people to participate?”

Her boss waved her concern away. “Of course. In fact, we’ll have two complete showings. The first at ten, then again just before midnight. We’ll have everyone change clothes at least once. That will allow us to show off more of our exclusive lingerie and provide more photo and video opportunities. But there’s a lot to be done in a very short time.”

Didn’t Aubrey know it. “I’ll need sizes, so as soon as we have people on board—”

“Yes, yes, I’ll get them to you immediately. And I’ll take care of the press release. I have an interview with
Time Out
tomorrow about the fundraiser, which will tie in beautifully. You just take care of the physical aspects, yes?”

“I’ve got it covered.”

Yvonne perched lightly on Aubrey’s desk. “Now, before we move on, would you like to tell me what’s wrong?”

“Pardon?”

“Makeup and eyedrops only cover so much,
ma bichette
.”

Aubrey tried to make a joke but Yvonne had been so trusting throughout this process, it didn’t seem fair. “I let myself get too close to someone, when I knew all along it wasn’t going to go anywhere. I’m just sorry I didn’t end it sooner. I might have had this idea days ago.”

“I don’t believe creativity works like that. Especially when there’s so much pressure.”

Aubrey’s expression must have given away her surprise because Yvonne chuckled as she shook her head.

“I was aware of the difficulties. If you hadn’t come up with this concept by tonight, I was going to insist we run with the slumber party. But this is so much better. It will highlight much more than just our inventory. The rest of New York will be sleeping, and Le Muse will be the talk of the town. It’s altogether genius.”

Aubrey winced at the word, never wanting to hear it again. She was lucky, that was all. “If it all works, that is.”

“We’ll make it work. You’ll make it work. The difficult part is already done. The rest is details and timing.”

“I’m sorry I made you worry.”

“I hope the next time will go more smoothly.”

“Next time?”

“Yes, next time. Tell me, this man. He hurt you?”

“No. I hurt him. But it was inevitable. He’s a policeman. A detective with big career plans.”

“And…?”

“And I think I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Aubrey murmured, feeling a new threat of tears.

Yvonne smiled and rose. “Well, I have many phone calls to make. Most likely, you won’t have time to think about anything else until the big event, yes?”

“Right.” Aubrey walked her to the stockroom door. “Thank you so much. For believing in me.”

“You have a gift. I saw that from the beginning. Now, go. Work.”

Aubrey should have been over the moon. Somehow, she’d done it again. At least, on paper. Yvonne’s enthusiasm was like receiving a Get Out of Hell Free card, only this time, she’d brought a piece of hell with her.

Her purse was in the bottom drawer of her desk, and she reached inside the front inside flap. How many times had she looked at Liam’s trading card? She’d memorized all his answers. How he’d wanted to date, not marry. He’d taken her to the Parlor Steakhouse, although thankfully, the Mets hadn’t been brought into the picture. But his Bottom Line had: “To find a woman who shares my goals and values.”

Turning the card over, it seemed hard to believe that as she’d gotten to know him, he’d become better looking. She should have realized much sooner that she was in trouble. Probably should have called the deal off after the first night.

But that was her all over. Diving straight into the deep end without regard for what lay down below. She’d cajoled her way into Pratt to get her degree, only to bolt when it came time to prove herself. Every time she got involved with a man her first order of business was to figure out an escape plan.

The window designs had, up until now, felt more like a game than a job. Despite so much riding on the outcome.

And then there was Liam, who’d had a whole long-term life plan worked out before he got into college. He’d hit every goal, despite the jealousy of his fellow officers. She doubted he’d ever had a plan B, whereas she always kept plans B through Z in the back of her mind.

It wasn’t even their different goals that made her the wrong woman for Liam. It was his values. The way he regarded himself as capable, as willing to do whatever it took. He wanted to make a difference in the world, make things better.

She wanted the employee discount on underpants.

Instead of throwing the card away, she found an envelope and decided to mail it back to him. The note was brief and achingly honest: “You were the best muse. The best man. Thank you for everything.”

Three tears fell on the note, right on the word
muse.
She’d been so thrilled when fate had tossed him into her arms. She should have known it would end in epic sorrow.