Risky Business

“Yes, it is.”

I feel Carson’s eyes on me and realize that however cheesy it might be, he’s complimenting me instead of the spectacular view. A small laugh tries to bubble up. “Does that usually work for you?”

“I don’t know. You’ll have to tell me because I’ve never used this one before.” He reaches over, his fingers making slow, torturous trails over my own as though asking to hold my hand. My focus zeroes in on the sensitive skin there, and my fingers search for his. We intertwine our hands, his thumb still drawing shapes over my skin that make me hyperaware of his touch.

“I guess that answers that, huh?” I whisper, the laugh finally popping free.

Instead of laughing back with me, he frowns. “Why do you do that sometimes? Play things off as a joke instead of facing them head-on?”

I don’t do that. Do I?

I think back, from our first not exactly friendly meeting to now, and realize he’s right. But . . . “I think I do that with you. I guess coming into this, I expected you to be . . . different.”

I think back to my research and the pre-conceived perceptions I had after seeing Carson on the viral video and reading what information was available online. I thought he’d be a grown-up version of a spoiled rich kid with no regard for anyone but himself.

But he’s not. He’s something else entirely. Demanding and exacting, yes, but of himself as well as everyone around him. Blunt and confident too, in a charming, sexy way that makes me think he’s used to getting what he wants, even if he has to work for it.

“You think I’m playing games, fucking with you?” he asks, sounding hurt.

Wanting to explain, I say, “When I meet people, it’s usually because something catastrophic has happened. They’re not at their best, and I give a lot of grace for that. But also, to work with a variety of people, I have to figure out how to help them help themselves. Some people need a bossy bitch, others a sweet, cajoling, grandma type, others still a bestie to cheer them on. I become who my clients need me to be so they can get to the next level.”

Gentler, he says, “Then who’s the real Jayme? I’ve met the bossy bitch, the excited cheerleader, and the brilliant idea generator. But who are you when it’s not about the client?”

The air is heavy with his meaning. He doesn’t want to be another line-item on my list of successful campaigns. But can he be more?

“That question is harder to answer than it sounds,” I confess.

His thumb begins its slow strokes again. “Start at the basics. Your Wikipedia page.” I haven’t forgotten that’s what I called his basic story. He’s using my own tricks on me.

“I already told you some of this to convince you to work with me, but . . . I have four brothers, and I’m the youngest.” I’m not sure why that’s where I start, but it seems safest.

He winces but immediately grins. “No wonder you’re tough as hell. You had to be.”

“You’re not wrong,” I agree, remembering the trouble my brothers gave me. “One summer, my brothers convinced me that girls did not burp. Only boys, and that any boy who heard me would never want me as a girlfriend. Never mind that I was only eight and had zero interest in boys then, but I decided I wasn’t going to burp ever again.”

His chest is jumping as he fights back laughter. “How’d that go for you?” he chokes out.

“Not well. I damn near exploded, trying to keep it in or run off to burp where no one could hear me.” I think back to the crazy antics I went through to not let anyone hear me, including climbing a tree in the garden out back and telling Mom that I only wanted chicken noodle soup to eat because for some reason, my childlike mind thought it wouldn’t give me any gas.

“So then my brothers got more creative. They started drinking sodas in front of me, guzzling them and burping so loudly it rumbled their chests. And then they’d offer me a sip. I tried to say no, knowing I wouldn’t be able to hold it in, but they’d get fancy new soda flavors at the store that I couldn’t resist when they were all talking about how delicious they were. I mean, who can turn down green apple soda? Not eight-year-old me, for sure, so I’d take a drink and they’d hold me there, waiting for me to give in and burp. If I didn’t, they’d tickle me until my laughter would bubble up and bring the burp with it.”

I laugh now, almost the way I did then, but thankfully, I don’t have a soda-filled belly tonight.