Page 51 of Business or Pleasure

“I’m not sure,” I say honestly. It’s true that I haven’t thought about him in at least a week, which is a welcome realization, and I’m no longer checking my phone for messages that aren’t coming. “It’s not that I still think we can be something—I know we can’t. But those feelings didn’t exactly vanish overnight. And, well, I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t also part of the reason I said yes to this job.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry it didn’t go the way you wanted.” He sounds genuine, a kind of sympathy I’m not used to hearing from him. He slips his sunglasses to the top of his head, and I can see that sympathy painted in the soft angle of his eyebrows, the set of his jaw. Suddenly, the way he’s looking at me is too focused, taking me out of this city and into a hotel room.

I still haven’t answered his question, but I’m getting there.

“Then I went to Maddy’s event, and my career seemed like it was going in the wrong direction, too. Like I couldn’t win at anything. So that’s about where I was when you met me—not quite rock bottom, but an all-time low. I’d been focused on my career for forever, and that wasn’t going anywhere I wanted it to. And my romantic life was completely wrapped up in Wyatt. So I guess I thought, when we first started joking about those lessons, that maybe I’d allow myself the chance to have a little fun.”

His eyes haven’t moved from mine “And has it been?” he asks. “Fun?”

The memory of Minnesota sends another wave of heat through me. Minnesota, and Phoenix, and maybe tonight, with no impending deadline and no early wake-up. I’m certain I don’t imagine the way he shifts closer to me.

I press my lips together, giving him a nod. “And I think it’s about to get even better.”

Because we’re standing in front of a shop with memphis erotic boutique spelled out in neon pink letters.

“Why do I get the feeling you planned this,” Finn says with a laugh. “It must be somewhere on that Google Doc. In very tiny letters.”

I lift my eyebrows at him as he readjusts his baseball cap, slips on his sunglasses. Disguising himself. “Seriously? You’re worried the employees of a sex shop in Memphis, Tennessee, are going to recognize Oliver Huxley?”

“Hey. Our fans are diverse and hopefully sex-positive.”

“There’s no shame in this.” I make a swipe for his hat, but he ducks out of the way. “Come on.”

Begrudgingly, he takes off his hat and sunglasses. Still, I catch him averting his eyes as we walk inside, pretending to focus on the displays of toys modeled after parts of porn stars’ anatomy. Finnegan Walsh, in a sex shop, in his Mordor T-shirt. His cheeks turn pink in this adorable way as we pass the more risqué products, the BDSM section, the blow-up dolls. Meanwhile, I let myself look everywhere, half keeping an eye out for anything we could use in our lessons, half because it’s just interesting. The best sex shops are open, inclusive spaces, and it took me far too long to enter one.

I pluck a bottle of lube from a shelf. “Always good to have.”

“Mm-hmm.” Finn nods toward another display. I can see him slowly starting to relax. “What are those for?”

“Vibrating nipple clamps? It’s kind of in the name.”

“Ah. I think I’ll have to work up to that.” He motions to a tube of warming lube. “I could get into something like this, though.”

A jolt of sensation sparks low in my belly. “Yeah? Let’s get it.”

He’s watching me, an interesting expression on his face. “You’re so comfortable with it,” he says, sounding almost impressed as he rakes a hand through his hair. “Talking about all these things. Being here.”

“I guess part of it was school,” I say. “And the rest... I guess you could say that I practiced. I knew that if I couldn’t be comfortable with it, then there was no way I could tell someone else what I wanted.” I give him a sly smile. “It’s empowering, telling a partner what you want. And just because it’s comfortable doesn’t mean it can’t be hot, too.”

“Oh, I absolutely know that now.”

I had this thought yesterday, and today confirms it: we’ve become more open with each other. Against all odds, Finn and I might be turning out to be more than sexual partners or ghostwriter and author: we might be something close to friends.

When we get to the shelf of vibrators, I spend a couple minutes browsing before picking up a clitoral massager not unlike one I have at home. “What about this?”

“I am... looking respectfully.”

“I was thinking we could use it together.”

“And now I am looking very respectfully.”

We make our way to the front with the vibrator, lube, and an array of condoms: flavored, ribbed, ultra-sensitive. The middle-aged woman at the cash register gives us a warm hello as she starts ringing things up, then drops her scanner as she makes eye contact with Finn.

“Oh my god, Finn? Finn Walsh?” she asks in a lilting Southern accent. “I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me when you walked in, but it’s you, isn’t it?”

Finn’s posture goes ramrod straight next to me. He glances to the door, as though debating how quickly he can make it there, then seems to realize there’s no chance at escape.

He lifts a hand in a halfhearted wave. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

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