Page 92 of Gin and Lava

“Actually,” Mason begins in a tone that makes my muscles tense. “Youcanhandle my cock—likereallyfucking handle it. So … a logo and a website is nothing.”

“Ha ha,” I say dryly, realizing I walked right into that. “Running a business, that’s what I’m talking about. You have a business,” I point out. “You know how difficult that is.”

Mason shakes his head. “Think about what you just said. EvenIcan run a business.” He points at himself. “The naked shmuck over here. If an asshole like me can do it, then someone like you would bloody blow me out of the water.”

“You’re being sweet, Mason, but—”

“Stop calling me sweet!” he growls, making my body heat. “I’m sitting in your five-hundred-dollar designer chair over here butt-ass naked. I’m not sweet.”

“It’s kind of sexy,” I counter.

“No.” Mason wags a finger at me. “You’resexy.” He picks up one of my necklaces off the desk and holds it up. “This hanging between your tits is sexy. That thing on your hips—sexy.”

“I’m not designing for porn!”

“You could,” Mason rebuts. “You’d class it the fuck up.”

“Ha ha! This is serious, Mason.”

“Okay fine. Just because I will forever call that the reverse cowgirl,” he points to the gold on my hip, “doesn’t mean that’s how others have to see it. Who are you actually designing for? Who’s your ideal client?”

I roll onto my back and look up at the ceiling. “Who’s my ideal client?”

“Yeah,” Mason gets off the chair and lies down on the floor next to me, grabbing a throw rug from my couch and slinging it over his hips.

“You suddenly feeling shy?” I ask, nodding to his impressive cock that he’s suddenly hiding.

“I know how easily you get distracted,” he deflects. “And this is an important question. Who do you imagine wearing your work?”

I stare at him, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. I have no clue how to answer that.

“Stop thinking about my cock!” Mason teases. “Unless you’re going to start designing Prince Albert studs for when I pierce this bad boy.”

“That sounds painful.”

“Duh. It’s my cock,” he agrees. “But you’re avoiding the conversation. Ideal client. Go.”

“You’re not going to let up on this, are you?”

“Close your eyes and tell me who you see wearing your work, Tate. What do they look like? Where are they wearing it?”

“Fine.” I close my eyes to humor him, but the things that flit through my mind feel too big. Out of my reach.

“Stop overthinking it,” Mason instructs. “Just start talking.”

“Okay! Bossy.”

“Nope.” I hear Mason shake his head. “You’re the boss. You’re the one in control, remember?”

Thinking about how confidently I took him on this rug moments ago, weirdly makes me feel brave. “Okay, I see …” I roll my shoulders back and try again. “A modern fairy tale. High-end establishments, fancy dresses, up-dos—you know, to show off the earrings or the necklaces.”

“Like at a wedding?”

“Yes, like Ned and Olivia’s wedding—but not just that,” I explain. “Places like art openings, or black-tie galas, or an expensive restaurant. The kind of place where the hors d'oeuvres are art pieces in and of themselves.”

“Like Flambé?”

“Sure,” I nod. Arie’s does turn everything into chocolate scaffolding and meringue sculptures. “But not here. Not Hawaii. Places more metropolitan: the Upper East Side, Beverly Hills, Barcelona, Paris.”

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