Chapter Twelve
Dean
The warehouse facility that houses Axe & Snacks sits on a newly developed plot of land on New York Avenue close to the Maryland-DC border. It’s slick and rustic at once, a feat accomplished by narrow lanes of reclaimed wood in the axe-throwing area and black-stained oak everywhere else; chain-link fences and chandeliers live in harmony here. I may not be thrilled about our chosen activity, but I can’t quibble with the venue. Solange came through for us.
Thankfully, she’s the first person to arrive after me. That’ll give us a chance to work out any last-minute details. I catch glimpses of her as she weaves her way through the crowd, then she glides to a stop in front of me.
She’s dressed as casually as one might expect for axe throwing—jeans, a navy blue fitted top, and burgundy Chucks. Yet her appearance makes as much of an impact on me as I’m sure it would if she were standing in the vestibule in a red-carpet gown. Long lines. Curves. Brown skin that looks soft and inviting. And that fucking hair. Curls and curls and curls, some of them artfully arranged around her face and parted to the side. I take a deep breath through my nose and let it out slowly, my hands itching to touch her even though I have no reason to. There’s a lightness in my chest now. As if Solange’s presence is enough to curb my unease about navigating this evening’s sham.
“Hey,” she says, her expression noticeably subdued. “Is anyone else here yet?”
“No, they all canceled.”
She tugs on her ear as she surveys her surroundings. “Good, good. That’s really good.”
Well, something’s certainly off. If there’s been a constant in my and Solange’s interactions, it’s that she always gives me her undivided attention. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
She whips her head around and looks up at me. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I was messing with you and just told you everyone canceled, and you said that was really good.”
“Sorry,” she says, lifting her gaze to the ceiling as if she’s frustrated with herself. “I got some unexpected news today, and I’m still absorbing it.”
I pull her over to a relatively quiet corner where there isn’t much foot traffic. “Is everything okay?” I can’t keep the concern out of my voice, but then I worry it’ll only worsen her own anxiety. Bending my knees to meet her gaze, I try to be supportive instead. “Is there anything I can do? If you need to bow out, I can hold the fort here.”
She draws back, then takes a fortifying breath. “It’s nothing, really. I’m being ridiculous, and there’s nothing for you to worry about. At all. Most well-adjusted people would even say it’s good news, so ignore me, okay?”
I take her hand and squeeze it. “That’s impossible, Solange. There’s no way I could ignore you.” Well, shit. That rolled off the tongue before I could stop it. “I mean . . . it’s obvious you’re preoccupied tonight.”
“I’m fine. Thanks for caring.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
She shakes her head. “Not necessary. I’m still processing. But thanks for the offer.” The sparkle returns to her eyes. “Throwing an axe through the air is exactly what I need to help me get out of my brain. I’m looking forward to this.”
“I’m slowly warming to the idea.” I gesture with my chin to the play area. “I was watching while I waited, and it doesn’t seem all that hard.”
“Don’t get too cocky, okay?” she says. “We don’t want to end this evening with a trip to the emergency room.”
“Not going to happen.” I make a big show of twisting my upper body and stretching out my arms. “I’m ready.”
She flicks her gaze upward, then grabs my wrists, holding me still. “Repeat after me: I am not Paul Bunyan.”
Humoring her, I take a step forward and repeat the phrase: “I am not Paul Bunyan.”
“Excellent,” she says, peeking around my body so she can scan the space. “And since we’re still alone I wanted to mention something.”
“What’s up?”
“Well, this is an informal setting,” she says, the pitch of her voice rising. “Which means we’re going to be standing around, and I think it would be natural for us to be slightly more affectionate with each other.” Seemingly unable to meet my gaze, she continues to scan the crowd. “I’m not talking full-on kissing, of course. Just . . . a shoulder bump here and a squeeze of a hand there would be appropriate. I don’t want to give Peter any reason to start causing trouble again.”
I’m plainly in the Upside Down. Solange is advocating more touching, not less, and I’m supposed to do what? Remain unaffected by it? This is going to be torture. “Yeah, of course,” I say quickly, looking down at my wrists, which she’s still holding. “That makes all kinds of sense.”
She drops her hands and lets out a shaky laugh. “Okay, good. We’ve got maybe one more outing, I think. So we’re almost at the finish line. It’s time for you to close the deal.”
My brain short-circuits for a moment.
“You went there, didn’t you?” she asks, her eyes narrowing.
“I did.”
She shoves me away. “I think I hate you right now.”
“No, you don’t,” I say, pulling her close. “I think you like me.”
“It’s all an act,” she says, twisting out of my embrace, her mouth curved into a lopsided grin. “So don’t forget why we’re here.”
Ah yes, the deal. Recruiting Kimberly Bailey to the firm. Closing “the deal” has always been the goal. But for a moment I actually needed the reminder. I’d rather not examine why that is.
* * *
The gathering is in full swing now that everyone’s here. With any luck, I won’t sever an appendage or otherwise humiliate myself.
“Are you sure you don’t want to join us?” Kimberly asks Molly, her smile welcoming and wide.
Molly sets her drink on the cocktail table behind the axe-throwing lanes and shakes her head. “I have two left hands, so it’s probably best if I stay right here. Go have fun.”
The rest of the group turns to our instructor, Guillermo, for a few last-minute pointers.
“Hold the hatchet as you would a baseball bat,” he tells us. “Step forward, lift the axe straight above your head, and release as it comes down to eye level. Step. Lift. Release. And remember, the point is not to throw it like a brick. You’re looking for a single rotation. And it’s all about timing.”
Peter, the only person not wearing jeans, asks, “What about scoring?”
His competitive instincts are kicking in early. Figures.
Guillermo points to a metal bin attached to our lane’s chain-link fence. “Pads are over there. Points are on the board. You can go for the blue balls on the fifth and tenth throws.”
“Why are heteros so obsessed with blue balls?” Nia asks.
Solange shrugs. “That’s a fair question I don’t have an answer to. Personally, I’m not a fan.”
Guillermo’s mouth twitches—he’s as entertained by Solange as I am—then he rubs his hands together. “Okay, who’s up first?”
Nia bounces on her toes and thrusts a hand in the air. “Me!”
After Nia’s first few unsuccessful tries, Kimberly says, “You need to bend your knees more, N.” Standing behind Nia, she lightly places her hands around her partner’s waist; Nia sways ever so slightly on her feet.
“Like this,” Kimberly says. “Got it?”
“Yeah,” Nia says, turning to lock eyes with Kimberly, her voice strained.
The chemistry between them is palpable, even when they’re nowhere near each other; standing close as they are now, though, their connection is downright electric.
Not surprisingly, Kimberly takes to the sport like a pro, and much to my annoyance, Peter’s relatively skilled as well. I hang back, hoping the novelty will wear off for everyone by the time I’m up, so they’ll talk among themselves while I embarrass myself.
“Your turn, Dean,” Solange says, cupping her mouth to announce that fact to everyone in the place. She pats my stomach in encouragement, then her breath catches. “Oh.”
Earlier she suggested we touch more; I assume more flirting is warranted too, so I waggle my brows. “Felt the abs, did you?”
Her eyes flash with . . . something. Whatever it is, I’m greedy enough to want more of it.
“I . . .” She clears her throat. “I certainly did.”
“It’s not supposed to be a surprise, though, remember?” I whisper. “In this alternate world, you have an open invitation to run your hands over my stomach whenever you want.”
She stares at me blankly, then nods. “Right. Got it.”
Meanwhile, I’m grinning like a kid in a candy store. I love seeing her out of sorts for a change. Throwing Solange off balance may very well become my new favorite pastime. When I look up, she’s staring at me, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. Dammit, she’s onto me. Knowing Peter’s watching our every move, I grab a hatchet, bump her shoulder, then mimic the playful wink she gave me earlier. “Wish me luck.”
“You won’t need it,” she says, her voice low and smoky. “I have a feeling you’re going to get very lucky tonight.”
Damn, this woman’s dangerous to my health. If she keeps talking like that, this hatchet’s going to land on my big toe. With just a few words, she’s got my brain scrambled. Is this part of our ruse? Or is she flirting for real? And if it’s the latter, what the hell am I supposed to do with that? Shaking off the jumble of thoughts in my head, I step up to the line, get into the stance Guillermo recommended, and throw the axe.
Nia and Kimberly, who, along with Molly, are standing around the cocktail table, where a bevy of snacks and drinks await us, cheer me on. It’s no use, though. The axe lands flat against the target board and crashes to the ground.
Guillermo clicks his tongue. “You released too early.”
“That’s what she said,” Solange says under her breath.
I fake a pissed-off glare. “Stop trying to distract me.”
She straightens and pretends to zip her lips.
Unfortunately, the second, third, fourth, and fifth attempts don’t fare any better. It’s official: I suck at this. Still, I set up behind the line once again, vowing to give it one last try.
“Here,” Solange says behind me. “Let me help.” She’s so close her hair grazes my arm. “May I touch you?” she whispers.
I can only nod. The anticipation alone of having her put her hands on any part of my body is making it impossible to concentrate. For a few seconds, I forget where I am and why I’m here. And before I can truly prepare myself, it happens: Her hands are on me, firmly pressing down on my hips.
“Widen your stance,” she says, her breath hitching on the last word. “You’re leaning forward too much.” Before I can adjust my position, her hand slips under my arms and around my middle. With a gentle push, she shows me how to lift my shoulders and torso. Each place her fingers land is a hot spot, sending warmth through my veins and causing my muscles to clench. “Now try again.”
A series of images flashes in my mind:
Me, walking her backward with my body.
Solange, raising her arms overhead and threading her fingers through the fabric of the chain-link fence behind us.
Me, grabbing her ass and hoisting her up.
Solange, wrapping her legs around my waist and drawing me close, then pressing her open mouth against my neck.
Christ. I wish I could tell her how I feel. That I want her. But to what end? None of this is supposed to be real, and I promised myself I wouldn’t ever toy with a person’s emotions.
“Thanks,” I say, looking back at her.
She swallows, and my gaze drops to her neck, to the soft skin peeking out from the vee of her shirt.
“Of course,” she says, her body inching forward. Then she lowers her voice so only I can hear it. “Peter’s up next. It’s the perfect time for you to chat up Kimberly without him interrupting.”
“C’mon, Chapman,” Peter yells. “Stop dawdling. Some of us want to play too.”
“Like that,” Solange adds, her voice tinged with amusement. “He has a knack for it.”
I’m slow to connect the dots, but then it hits me: Solange is strategizing about luring Kimberly to the firm, while I’m . . . thinking about my fake girlfriend, as if she were the objective. Time to get your head out of your ass, Chapman. “Right. Good point. I’m on it.” I lift the hatchet above my head and release the moment it enters my line of sight. Bull’s-eye. I spin around and strut like a peacock as everyone cheers. Then I guide Solange to the cocktail table, knowing my window of opportunity to engage in a Peter-less conversation won’t last forever.
Molly drifts off to check on her husband, who’s taking this activity way too seriously.
“Well done, Chapman,” Kimberly says. “Not bad for a first-timer.”
I shake my head. “Can’t take all the credit. Solange is a great teacher.”
Kimberly taps Solange’s hand. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. What’s it like being with him? I mean, do you see each other, or are you two ships passing in the night?”
“Hmm,” Solange says. “Honestly, he’s a bit of a workaholic. He’s in the office nearly every day, and we rarely go out on the weekends. We haven’t hung out together this much in a while. I get it: He wants to make partner. But sometimes I wish he’d jump off the treadmill. Smell the cherry blossoms, so to speak.” She gives me a playful hip-bump. “I should point out that this is totally a Dean thing. Molly says Peter’s always home for dinner.”
I’m stunned. Save for the implication that we’re a couple living together, Solange didn’t tell a single lie. I am a workaholic. An occasional pickup game with Max at my neighborhood Y does not a social life make. And even when Ella and I were dating, we essentially worked on separate projects at home most evenings. Solange would never put up with that shit.
Nia nudges Solange with her shoulder. “They’ve been talking so much about his work. What about yours?”
Solange gives them a crash course in her workforce development curriculum, eventually mentioning that she’s hosting a Career Day event next week.
“Sounds interesting. What do you have planned?” Nia asks.
“It’s totally informal. Just a day for the students to learn about various careers. I’ve invited people from different professions to visit the classroom and share their wisdom or whatever else they want to talk about.”
Kimberly turns to me. “Let me guess. She roped you into talking about being a lawyer.”
I blank for a minute but recover quickly. Figuring it would be weird if Solange didn’t ask her boyfriend to speak to her class, I nod as if the invitation were a foregone conclusion. “You know it. There was no way she’d let me dodge that assignment.”
Nia’s eyes light up. “Oooh, Solange, I’d be happy to speak to your students if you’d like. I can share my own path, which was nontraditional too, so maybe it’ll resonate with them?”
“Oh my God, I’d love that,” Solange says, beaming. “Thank you, thank you. But it’s only a few days away. Next Wednesday at five. Would that work for you?”
“We’ll still be around,” Kimberly says. “I have another round of interviews later in the week. But how about we make an evening of it? Maybe go to dinner afterward?”
“Sounds great,” I say. “I’ll fill Peter in on our plans later.” He’s currently pacing the width of his lane and muttering to himself while Molly tries to calm him down.
I’m all smiles about getting another opportunity to hang out with Kimberly and Nia—I thought tomorrow’s party would be our grand finale—but then I realize my big, lying mouth has roped me into speaking at Solange’s Career Day event. Judging by the way Solange is sheepishly baring her teeth at me, that fact just dawned on her too.
She sidles up to me as Nia and Kimberly chat on their own. She leans in so close, her shoulder brushes against my chest, then she rises on her toes and whispers in my ear. “Told you not to get too cocky, didn’t I?”
Damn. Solange is just standing next to me, but I’m wrapped up in her. The warmth of her breath skates over my skin. The coconut scent in her hair drifts around us. And her face is inches from mine, hijacking my view. It takes a herculean effort not to pull her closer, but I manage to resist the urge and instead bend to her ear. “You only told me not to get too cocky about axe throwing.”
“It goes without saying: You shouldn’t get too cocky about anything.”
“Are you sure about that? I can think of one big reason why being too cocky could be considered a plus.”
She draws back, her mouth rounding in a soft O. I appear to have rendered her speechless. Which tells me I’m crossing the very lines I said I never would.
Nice job, Dean.