Araminta eatsup my every word as I describe my bargain with Monty. I leave out certain details of our first modeling session, particularly the part where I took off my shirt and forgot about it. My stomach churns as she flies off to study my sketch for herself, but when she returns she only says, “Not bad.”
That’s quite the endorsement as far as Araminta goes.
“So when is your first sex lesson?” she asks, lying on her belly at the edge of my desk and kicking her legs against its polished mahogany surface.
Alarm ripples through my chest at her words, nearly causing my pen to slip from my fingers. I cast a glance at my nearest coworkers, but no one seems to have heard her.
“Courtship lesson,” I whisper, dipping the golden nib of my pen into my pot of rich black ink. Writing may not be as fulfilling as painting, but I still treat the act with reverence. I return to the sentence I was in the midst of writing, a response to a promising query Fletcher-Wilson received a few weeks back. “Courtship. Not sex.”
“But you could use the sex, couldn’t you? How long has it been, anyway?”
I purse my lips, refusing to answer. While I enjoy sexual pleasure, and it has been quite some time since I’ve had a partner, I’ve yet to find someone I actuallywantto have sex with. Someone who makes me feel desire forthemand not just the fantastic sensations this seelie body is capable of generating.
“I see you’re ignoring my question,” Araminta says. “Fine, I’ll return to my previous one. When is your firstcourtshiplesson?”
I finish penning my sentence. “This Saturday. We’re demonstrating what Monty considers his most important principle, which is attending social functions where I can meet marriage material.”
“That’s hardly novel,” Araminta says. “Though for you, I suppose socializing is a shocking concept. Where will you go?”
“He hasn’t told me yet.” My insides writhe with nerves. “I hate not knowing. I hate even more that I don’t know who I’ll meet or how I’ll meet them. I wish we could orchestrate a chance meeting with a potential partner ahead of time.”
Araminta snorts a laugh. “Do you even hear yourself? You can’t orchestrate achance encounter. It’s either chance or it’s orchestrated.”
“I know that,” I mutter, lowering my head to finish my correspondence.
“How have you met previous lovers?”
“Work, mostly,” I say with a shrug.
Araminta taps her chin with a tiny forefinger, a conspiratorial look on her face. “On second thought, I like your idea.”
“What idea?”
She rises to her feet and tiptoes across the edge of my desk, balancing along the woodgrain like it’s a tightrope. “Here’s the thing. I need to get some of David’s attention off of me. He’ssoclingy.”
“Didn’t you praise his skills as an expert lover?”
“He may be an expert lover but he is far too obsessed with me. He wants me to meet his friends this weekend as if I don’t have a plethora of other things I’d rather do.”
I arch a brow. “Like what?”
She turns to me with an innocent look. “Like spending time with you, bestie. So, what do you say we help each other? Once you know where your lesson will be held, tell me and I’ll orchestrate this meeting with David’s friends at the same place. You can practice your courtship lesson with one of these friends so that I don’t have to pretend to be interested.”
“So devious,” I say with a shake of my head. Her proposal doesn’t benefit me much, considering I’ll still be meeting a stranger. Multiple strangers, if David intends on introducing Araminta to multiple friends. Yet I do feel some comfort in the predictability of our plan. I’ll have one less surprise to worry about. I’ll have some strategy to ponder ahead of time to ensure I’m armed with relevant small talk.
“What do you say? Is it a great idea?”
“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “We’ll…help each other.”
“Great! How about another favor? Can I live at your place? Now that I know how amazing money is, I need a job and a place to live?—”
“No.”
Her lips pull into a pout as she sinks down onto my desk, shoulders hunched. “Will you pay me as your assistant, then? We can do a fifty-fifty split of your earnings.”
I eye her with a stern look. “If you want a job at Fletcher-Wilson, you’ll apply like everyone else and probably start off as an intern.”
She wrinkles her nose in distaste. “I think I’d prefer something more glamorous.” With that, she flutters off, leaving me to finish my work in peace.
