The Awesome Girl's Guide to Dating Extraordinary Men (37 page)

“No, she will,” Risa said. “Trust me.”

This year, Valentine’s Day was completely different. I had no idea what to get for Mike, because Mike was a superstar, and from what I could see, if Mike Barker wanted something, he got it. Period. From the latest 3-D television set to the most reluctant girlfriend he had probably ever pursued. What exactly did one get for somebody like that?

“Maybe you could make him dinner,” Sharita suggested. “Guys like it when you cook for them.”

“Maybe you could make him dinner
naked
,” Risa said later, when she heard about Sharita’s suggestion.

I had thought that it would take Risa a while to want to speak to me again. But less than a week after our argument, she had called me from the road to talk about a “particularly fucking lame show at the frat boy-est college in the United fucking States” like nothing had changed.

And then, just like before, we called each other at least once a week when the mood struck us, neither of us bringing up Tammy. Though, from what I could glean, Risa wouldn’t be asking for her hand in marriage this Valentine’s Day, which meant I had even more mental free time to worry about what to get Mike.

First of all, he already had a personal chef.
From France
. Second of all, I had no idea what Mike and I were. Caleb and I had done things right, and we’d already had the boyfriend-girlfriend convo when we went out last Valentine’s Day. But Mike and I were in some nebulous state that neither of us was trying to define. He hadn’t brought up the word “love” again since the scene in Tammy’s apartment—which was good. I knew that actors liked to fall in love within a month of knowing each other, but I was a little too practical for that kind of thing.

Mike, by definition of being my complete opposite, was definitely in the “one-month stand” category, but three months had passed since the first time we had slept together. If he were a real boyfriend it would be time for him to meet my friends, but he was a movie star, so …

So I had no idea where we were going with this or what to get him for Valentine’s Day. The only thing he really wanted was to get the Rick T biopic green-lit, but so far, as I had predicted, there had been no takers.

“It’s easy to get bad stuff made in Hollywood,” Mike had explained a few weeks earlier, while we were watching a particularly terrible summer blockbuster in his entertainment room. “If our script had sixteen explosions and some thin-ass plotline, it would have gotten picked up already with my name attached. But since it’s about something deep, it’s got studios scared.”

“Then why not start off with producing an action movie or a rom-com like you used to do back in the day?” I asked. “Maybe try to get the biopic made later?”

But Mike shook his head. “I’m sick of action films. Acting-wise, an action film is the most boring thing you can make. It’s all hitting your cues and having some director shout at you to do it again—but faster. I want to produce something meaty, something that allows me to practice my craft and gives me more of an adrenaline rush than gambling. I need this biopic to get made.”

I didn’t like to think too much about the script. On one hand, I wanted it to get green-lit, because then that would mean a lot of extra money going into my bank account. On the other hand, it felt like Mike was gambling. And that scared me.

“I’m swimming because of you,” he had told me on New Year’s Eve. It made me wonder if he was really attracted to me, or to the rush of my being hard to get. Mike definitely wasn’t used to hard-to-get. He could easily mistake it for love. Yet another gray area in an already complicated relationship.

So I kept on applying for jobs. Contracts administrator jobs, receptionist jobs. I even signed up with a few temp agencies. Like Davie Farrell had said in her book, I had to make my own life my number one priority, so that when this thing with Mike came to its inevitable end, for once I’d be able to stand on my own two feet.

But there hadn’t been one bite on my résumé. And by the time Valentine’s Day rolled around, I had become way too dependent on Mike. Since I didn’t have any new money coming in, it seemed silly to hang out at my own place, where I had to pay for all of my own food and utility bills. Mike had a big bed, a six-hundred-square-foot entertainment room, and a personal chef who didn’t mind making my vegetarian dishes to order.

So, though I still didn’t know exactly what I was doing with Mike, I hadn’t actually been back to my own place to do anything more than collect my mail and drop off my rent check since New Year’s Day.

And though I eventually managed to pick out a two-part Valentine’s Day present for my … whatever Mike was, I presented the first part to him with a bit of reluctance on Valentine’s Day morning, not sure if it was good enough—or even appropriate.

“What’s this?” he asked, when I set down four clear plastic containers, each with a piece of cake inside of it, beside the healthy breakfast and wheatgrass smoothie that Frederic had whipped up for him.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” I said, sitting down in the chair next to his. “It’s cake from Aroma in Silver Lake. I got you carrot, coconut-lemon, red velvet, and German chocolate. I figured since actors are always on a diet, it’s probably been a while since you’ve had a nice piece of cake, but I wasn’t sure what kind you liked.”

He stared at the containers, his mouth hanging open.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “This was stupid. I should have gotten you something else—”

“Ssh!” he said, holding up his hand for silence. “I need a few moments.”

And a few moments was what he took. His eyes bounced from container to container for several seconds. Then he picked up the red velvet cake and opened the box. His eyes fluttered closed as he took several deep breaths through his nose, waving his hand over the cake so that he could inhale even more of its scent.

By this time, Frederic had turned from the stove to see what was going on.

Mike then opened the piece of German chocolate cake and did the same thing, with a blissed-out smile on his face. After giving the carrot cake and the coconut-lemon cake the same treatment, he pushed aside his much healthier breakfast and lined them all up in a row in front of him.

Then he picked up his fork and broke off a bite of the German chocolate cake with a trembling hand before bringing the piece of cake to his mouth.

He slammed his hand on the table no less than three times as he chewed and swallowed. Then he took a bite of the coconut-lemon, and after that a bite of the carrot cake, and after that a bite of the red velvet.

“Cake! Caaaaake!” he said, in the same way that Celie’s long-lost son had said, “Mama!” after being reunited with her over twenty years later in the movie version of
The Color Purple
. “It’s been so long,” Mike whispered. Then he looked at me with wonder-filled eyes. “This is the best gift I have ever received. Thank you,” he said.

I glanced at the willowy Frederic, who stood at the Viking stove with his arms crossed, looking very much offended.

“Um, you’re welcome?” I said to Mike, feeling a little bit like an intruder in what had obviously become a very profound and tender reunion.

He took another bite of carrot cake. “The only problem is, I doubt my gift’s going to compare to yours. It’s in my office. You can go get it while I enjoy this beautiful, beautiful cake.”

I rushed out of there, eager to escape the glaring Frederic, who said to Mike as I left, “I, too, can make the cake recipes. I did not, because you say you are afraid of attracting the belly.”

Happy to get out before that argument really got started, I opened the door to Mike’s study and saw that I had also received the best Valentine’s Day present ever.

Because sitting behind Mike Barker’s desk was a very dark-skinned woman with a large afro, wearing a Strokes T-shirt and a big smile.

“Hi,” Davie Farrell said. “Mike tells me you need some help with your career.”

SHARITA

L
ast Valentine’s Day, I had taken off work early and cooked a huge dinner for Marcus with all of his favorite foods. He said, “Thanks, baby,” after dinner and gave me a drugstore-brand box of chocolates. Not exactly a match for my gift, but I’d appreciated it required a little forethought, which had been way more effort than Marcus had put into our relationship up until that point.

But this Valentine’s Day, the Scot and me argued about dinner duties. “You cook all the time, woman. It’s time for you to stand down and let me at the stove,” he said.

I giggled. “I like cooking for you.”

“And I love your cooking, but a man ought to be able to make his woman a nice meal every now and then. It’s only fair.”

His woman? I allowed my heart to thrill a little at those two words. Our first breakfast date had lasted so long that he had offered to buy me a late lunch “at the Korean place across the street.” Then that lunch had lasted so long that he had asked if I’d like to go to a movie.

And then after the movie it had been, “Well, then, we might as well grab a bit of dinner.” And after dinner, he told me it was only fair that I join him for “a couple at the pub”—which had translated into a glass of wine for each of us at the Burbank Bar & Grille before he walked me back to my car, which was still parked in front of the Granville Café, where we’d eaten brunch.

I had expected him to kiss me, but he just said, “I’ve consulted with a number of my American friends, and they say we’re not supposed to see each other again until the weekend next. But can’t we negotiate that down to say this Wednesday coming? That’s two whole days.”

More than a bit mystified by this foreign man who, unlike any other guy I had ever dated, seemed to both enjoy my company and know what he wanted, I simply said, “Okay.”

On Wednesday he met me downtown near my office and took me to dinner, and then he demanded another “couple of drinks” after that. Then he negotiated another date for Friday.

Still no kiss. Bizarre. I would have called Thursday about it, since she was the white-boy expert, but I still wasn’t quite ready to admit that I was dating a white guy. Also, I knew that Thursday would never let me hear the end of it.

I still wasn’t quite sure how I had come to be in this situation. The Scot was so interesting and easy to talk to. And he was a master haggler. One date had turned into two. Two into three.

After a Friday night filled with a movie, dinner, and drinks, he had asked, “Now, what are the rules about sex in your country, which seems to have rules about everything?”

I laughed. “We haven’t even kissed yet.”

“Well, that’s because if I get to kissing you, sweet girl, I’ve no plans to stop. So will it be tonight or after two more dates? I bought a few of your ladies’ mags to research the subject.
Cosmo
says three dates,
Marie Claire
five, and funnily enough, your
Essence
didn’t have any advice whatsoever on the matter this month.”

Now I was really laughing. “You did not read
Essence
,” I said.

“Oh yes, I did, and can I tell you that the black lassie at the Rite Aid gave me a right hard time about buying it. Her: Is this for your girlfriend? Me: No, it isn’t. She’s all: Why you buying
Essence
and that. I tell her, ‘Well, I enjoy a nice read on top of the loo, don’t I?’ And she says, “You strange.’ Do you think she said this because I’m Scottish? Was it discrimination, Sharita?”

I was laughing too hard to answer, but after further negotiations, we settled on five dates before sex, but ended up in his bed after only four.

I had thought my first time with a white man would be different, but the only difference was that the Scot didn’t put on any music before he started kissing me. The kiss was very good—direct and to the point, but tender enough to make me melt down below.

Apparently, he felt it, too, because he cupped the back of my neck to pull me deeper into the kiss with one hand and started unbuttoning my
blouse with the other. “This is nice. This is verrae nice,” he said, in between kisses. “I like this. I like it verrae much.”

And that was all he said for a while. Neither of us were rock stars in bed, and there were a few awkward moments: I banged my shoulder against his forehead, eliciting a grunt followed by a chuckle. There was a moment of alarm when he went down on me, because this was first sex and I’d never had anyone go down on me on first sex. But the alarm soon passed, replaced by a building warmth as I ground myself against his mouth. Then just as things were starting to build up, he said, “Okay, then, let me just take care of this condom business …”

And then his face was above mine and he was guiding himself into me. His eyes closed and he let out what sounded like a sigh of relief when he got inside of me. “I don’t want to take our Savior’s name in vain, but Christ, that feels good.”

I didn’t mind. I felt the same way, and my eyes closed, too. Usually I started worrying at this point during sex, about whether I was moving my hips the right way or if my hair looked messed up from his vantage point. About not coming and if I’d have to fake it afterwards.

But I didn’t worry with the Scot. In fact, worry was the last thing on my mind as my hips met each of his thrusts, my hands clenching his butt as that same delicious warmth started building up inside of me again. I ended up coming before he did. And when he slumped on top of me a few minutes later, we both had to catch our breath.