Prologue
Teddy Ray Fletcher
When Teddy Ray Fletcher’s children were little, his fridge was covered in finger paintings, macaroni art, and paper mosaics framed with Popsicle sticks. He kept their masterpieces in his office and hung them in the hallways of his house; he made mouse pads and coffee mugs with their pictures and proudly showed them off to his friends, his performers, and complete strangers alike.
That said, Teddy rarely knew what those early pictures were supposed tobe—occasionally one might be able to identify a flower or a cat, but for the most part, Teddy tried to see the pictures the same way his then-wife talked about the abstract art at the galleries she was always dragging him to: as a display of movement and color.
Or something like that. Teddy hated abstract art.
But he didn’t hate hiskids’art, and so as a father, he promised himself he would never be handed an adorable mess and say,Um, what is it supposed to be?He just praised them for being perfect little geniuses, telling them that they were just as good as Picasso or Monet. Or the people who drewThe Wild Thornberryscartoons.
And so today, when his twenty-something daughter bounced into his office and plonked a shiny rectangle onto his desk—a rectangle with a cylinder attached by a still-twist-tied cord—Teddy didn’t ask what it was supposed to be. He said, “Astrid, this is so great! Did you make it yourself?”
Sunlight winked off the medusa piercing right above her upper lip as she rolled her dark brown eyes. Her eyes, curls, and warm sepia skin were her mother’s. (Her lactose intolerance and penchant for semi-regrettable body modifications were all Teddy’s.) “It’s a prototype, Dad. Obviously.”
He lifted it up, giving his best all-knowing-dad expression as he did. “It’s a great prototype, sweetie. It’s very proto.”
“Do you even know what it is?”
Teddy looked down at the thing in his hands—hands still sunburned from an outdoor MILF shoot near Big Bear. Astrid’s contraption looked like a Walkman with a tiny microphone attached, except that everything was made of a matte plastic he suspected had something to do with being phthalate-free. “Is it for”—he mentally cast around, trying to think of where he’d seen tiny microphones before—“TikTok? Are you going to be a TikTok star?”
“Dad.It’s for Venus!”
Venus was Astrid’s eco-friendly sex toy startup, and one of the reasons Teddy had expanded his operation last year to produce wholesome holiday movies along with regular non-wholesome pornography. (The other reason was his son’s art school tuition, which Teddy tried not to think about without a glass of Jim Beam in his hand.)
“Ah,” Teddy said. He still had no idea what it was for.
Astrid beamed. “It’s a solar-powered vibrator!”
“I thought you were doing the nipple clamps first,” Teddy said, setting the prototype down and looking up at his smiling daughter. He was a terrible investor—not because he didn’t believe in Astrid’s climate-conscious vision, but because once she started talking about polyvinyl and thermoplastics, his attention started wandering to things like the new doughnut place in Westwood or if maybe he should text a certain pantsuited talent manager he couldn’t stop thinking about.
“I’m still trying to source a carbon-neutral steel supplier for the clamps.” Astrid sighed. “But I’ve been thinking about maybe doing more of a tassel-type thing with vegan leather instead— Oh, hi, Sunny!”
Teddy’s eyelid twitched as Sunny Palmer bounded into his office. Her cat, Mr. Tumnus, had eaten some vital cord coming from the back of her computer last month, and ever since then, she’d been using Uncle Ray-Ray’s equipment to edit her solo videos. Which Teddy didn’t mind per se, but having Sunny here was like having a tiny kitten in the office. She got into everything, squawked at inanimate objects, and sometimes fell asleep in sunbeams before bouncing awake and coming to pester him while he was trying to squint his way through the latest editionof union bylaws for his performers. She was a lot. And Teddy preferreda lotwhen he didn’t already have his hands full of Christmas movie bullshit, like he did today.
“Ooh, your proto-vibe came in!” Sunny squealed, reaching toward Teddy’s desk and snatching it off the top like a tattooed Swiper the Fox. “This looks amazing! Will it charge on cloudy days? Do you think it would charge in space? Also, Teddy, there’s someone here for you. She’s finishing a call and then she’ll be in.”
“If she’s making a delivery, tell her she can just leave it inside the front door,” Teddy said automatically, turning back to his laptop. It woke up with an obnoxiousI’m an ancient computer please let me diewhirr.
“No, no,” Sunny said absently, her attention on the solar-powered sex toy in her hand. “It’s what’s-her-name from Christmas Notch. The mean sexy woman. Steph something.”
Time slowed down; Teddy’s pulse sped up. It was thundering in his ears, and it matched the pounding in his chest.
Steph.
Steph was here.
Steph was here and he still had toasted BLT crumbs on his shirt.
Panicked, he tried to brush his shirt clean—along with his mustache—while also simultaneously straightening his desk and making shooing noises at his daughter and his performer to leave... which they characteristically ignored.
And then it happened.
Steph D’Arezzo, talent manager and the most perfect woman in the world, walked through his office door like she did it every day.
He hadn’t seen her since they’d slept together seven months ago at a Fourth of July barbeque, but it didn’t matter. His body remembered the press of hers like it was yesterday. And the impeccably tailored pantsuit she wore—cherry red with a black top underneath—would have reminded him if he hadn’t remembered. It showed off those soft hips, those even softer breasts, and those long legs, which ended in black heels sharp enough to cut the five-tier wedding cake that appeared in his sappiest, most private daydreams. A single string of pearls hugged the base of her long, pale neck; her hair was down in dark waves.
She wore lipstick the same color as her pantsuit, and it made Teddy shift in his seat.
