The Honey-Don’t List by Christina Lauren
If someone had asked me at the beginning of this job—even this tour—whether I could see myself at some point wildly making out with Carey Duncan, I would have given an easy “No.” In hindsight, I’m guessing I might have even been a bit of a dick about it. The glaring truth that Carey and I come from two completely different worlds used to seem like a barrier between us: she’s a small-town woman who’s only ever lived in one place, and I left the Southwest ten or so years ago to live on the East Coast for school, then work. At first blush, we had nothing in common.
But there we were—kissing madly, with a fever I haven’t felt in what seems like ages and feelings that seem to grow exponentially with every conversation we have—and now here I am, watching Carey bolt out of the pool and back into the hotel without a backward glance.
I glare up at the balcony just when the kids from earlier duck back inside. They should feel like monsters for breaking up a moment like that, but I’m sure they’re oblivious, so there’s no convenient outlet for my irritation and disappointment. An electrical storm rages along my skin. I count a slow fifty then climb out, grabbing a towel from a shelf and padding back over toward my clothes.
The concrete is icy beneath my feet. It’s jarring to be pulled so immediately back into the most banal of bodily sensations when the feel of Carey’s tongue and mouth and skin is right there at the front of my thoughts. Did I know the second I stepped outside tonight that I wanted to act on the quiet longing that’s been pulsing in the background of my thoughts? Or was it the way she opened up to me with such unguarded sweetness?
I’ve never been with anyone like her. My previous relationships have always been with women who seemed to be cut from the same cloth as I am. The last person I was with was a medium-term girlfriend—nine months or so. I knew we were over when we stopped excitedly telling each other every detail of our day, stopped wanting to bring each other along to every outing with friends, and the sex started to feel safe and quiet. I rode it out for another month, but when I realized neither of us was all that invested and she was never going to admit it, I finally put us both out of our misery. The idea of spending the rest of my life in the routine we’d fallen into—of monotonous workdays followed by takeout, polite conversation, and quiet, focused missionary sex—sounded terrible.
But I can already tell there’s no chance of that with whoever ends up with Carey. She may take a passive role in her job, but I can’t possibly be the only one who sees the passionate woman trying to fight her way out of the mold she’s been pressed into. Whenever she manages to figure out what she wants in life, she’ll be a force of nature.
I head upstairs for a long, cooling shower. Maybe tomorrow we’ll laugh off the abrupt end to the night and the weight between us will still be there. Maybe we’ll carefully and quietly shape this into something worth pursuing. Or, maybe Carey regretted the kiss immediately, and tomorrow—an already loaded and stressful day—will be awkward and exhausting. Realistically, the odds of the two of us ending up together are minuscule. A disappointed ache corkscrews through me.
The upside, I guess, is that I don’t have to spend much of the next morning worrying about it, because I wake to a flurry of texts and notifications. The Variety announcement—that the first season of the Tripps’ new show, Home Sweet Home, can soon be streamed in its entirety on Netflix—hits all of our socials just after eight a.m. Melissa has texted me to let me know that a stylist is coming to get Rusty ready, and I’m to accompany Carey over to Boulevard restaurant at the Embarcadero to help set up for the party this afternoon. Based on our itinerary, there will be about fifty guests, and Melissa wanted something iconic for the sit-down lunch. By the time guests arrive at noon, we should (according to Ted) have a pretty good idea what the show buzz is, and we’ll know in a few days whether it gives the Tripps the expected boost they’re looking for in book sales.
I have barely enough time to get myself presentable—let alone spend any of it worrying about how things will be today. By nine thirty, I’m waiting at the curb, ordering a Lyft for us, when there’s a tap to my shoulder.
Carey stands there, hair blowing across her cheek in the San Francisco wind. The woman can’t hide a blush, and relief passes through me seeing that she’s nervous, too.
“Hey,” she says. “I didn’t know you’d be coming with me.”
“Melissa’s instructions.” I give a lame little salute.
We stand there for a few awkward beats, and I have to assume we’re equally unsure what to say to get the conversation rolling. For the life of me, the only thing that seems to flash across my thoughts is the final second before we kissed last night, that moment of intense anticipation followed by the powerful relief.
“So,” she says, wincing sweetly.
“So,” I say back, biting down on my grin. Every time I did that last night she’d look at my mouth. Maybe the weight between us is still there today.
Carey tilts her head to the side, brows raised. “So is that our car?” She gestures to the curb, to the white sedan that’s pulled up, window down, driver leaning impatiently toward us. “James?” he asks.
With a mumbled confirmation, I open the car door for Carey and watch her slide across the seat, giving myself exactly the time it takes for her to adjust her skirt over her legs to appreciate the flash of bare skin.
We pull away from the curb and again, my mind goes blank. “How—um—are you?” I ask.
“I’m glad to get out of the hotel for the day, I’ll tell you that.” She glances behind us as if to somehow reassure herself that Melissa is well and truly not around.
“I bet.”
But is being alone together any more relaxing? I have no idea. It’s certainly not relaxing for me. I can close my eyes and remember how intense it was just unbuttoning her jacket, or the way her tank and skirt were soaking wet and clinging to her, or the way she blinked the water out of her eyes and her gaze kept sinking to my mouth as if pulled there by a weight.
“Did you sleep okay?” she asks.
I swallow a laugh. “Not really.”
When I look over at her, the blush is back. “Yeah. Me either.”
This seems like a fantastic opportunity for us to talk about why we both slept like crap, but of course our phones buzz in unison.
Robyn
Today is the day the Tripps become the most popular home renovation experts in the world!
This is a huge day for all of us.
Chin up!
The window to talk about the us in the car together closes as the other, bigger Us takes over again. Carey pulls in a deep breath and rubs her face, groaning. This event is probably the most important of the tour. Although the party is small, there will be hugely influential journalists and industry people in the room—from the Chronicle, Goodreads, Apple Books, and, of course, Netflix. The Tripps need to be at their very best. So it’s probably good if I’m not distracted by the idea of kissing Carey again anyway.
“Tell me how I can help you today,” I say quietly.
“I think everything should be ready to go.” She opens her notebook. “I have the menu confirmed, seating chart, florist …” Trailing off, she drags a finger down the page. “I don’t even know that I’ll have much to do except make sure things go smoothly.”
“Did you and Melissa talk about last night?”
“Um.” She closes the notebook in her lap. “Briefly, yeah.”
I can tell the abrupt subject change caught her off guard, but I’m invested now in her being more assertive and valued in this job. I don’t want her to sweep this under the rug. “I assume she apologized?”
“That’s a dangerous assumption to make,” she says, laughing a little, “but sort of. She said she was sorry my feelings were hurt, which … isn’t really an apology, but it’s about as good as I’ll get, and things are fine now.”
She keeps her face forward, and I try to read her expression. Is she nervous? Angry? Or is this type of situation—where Melly blows her lid at Carey and everything moves on as usual the next day—totally normal? Unfortunately, I’m guessing it’s the latter. How completely toxic.
For better or for worse, my desire to keep from saying this aloud means I end up addressing the other elephant in the room: “It was fun hanging out in the pool last night.” I falter a little, adding, “Despite the circumstances.”
Carey turns in my direction, and warmth bleeds inside me at the way her eyes light up before her smile appears. “It was. Thanks for getting me out of a bad mood.”
Is that all it was? Gentle sarcasm is my instinct: “It’s my go-to move whenever a female coworker is having a rough day. Get them in the pool for some kissing, I guess?”
To my relief, Carey bursts out laughing. “Well, whatever it was, it worked.” She looks genuinely grateful. “I know it sucks, but I’m so glad you’re here on this crazy trip, Jimbo.”
My grin feels too big for the moment … where I’m pretty sure we’re tacitly agreeing last night was just a way to blow off some steam and nothing more. “I definitely wouldn’t want you to have to do this alone.”
The quiet returns, but my thoughts are rolling at a wild clip. The kiss didn’t feel like it was only about escaping a bad day. But maybe it did to Carey.
We stare out our respective windows, watching the city pass in fits and starts as we wind our way through traffic. There’s a small coffee shop, a little hole-in-the-wall bagel place, a bakery. At every one, I want to turn to Carey and suggest that we have time to grab a bite, go sit somewhere anonymous together and pretend we don’t have a job to do, don’t have to be the young unmarried people propping up one of the country’s most beloved marriages.
But I don’t. By the time we reach the Embarcadero, I’m amazed how gloomy the sky over the water looks; the city wears the foggy haze like a summertime cloak.
Boulevard is a San Francisco institution, and when we step inside, even I admit the style looks familiar. I watch Carey take it in—the rich wood décor, the whimsical vintage European prints, the warm, muted lighting. In Home Sweet Home parlance, the place has “a distinct point of view,” and as I follow Carey around the room, looking at the wine storage, the table settings, the open kitchen, the lamp-shades and art, I know without having to ask that Carey chose this location herself.
“It’s beautiful in here,” I say.
Carey turns to beam at me. “It’s amazing, right? I know minimalism is such a huge thing these days—with midcentury modern, clean lines, simplicity being the trend—but I sometimes wish we could go back to something like this: simple, but ornate.” She points overhead. “The ceiling is brick, but with the lighting, the entire space feels warmer. Cozier. We have a lake cabin we’re renovating in season two, and something like this would be amazing for it.”
I’m supposed to be looking at the ceiling, but I love watching her when she’s talking like this. It’s fascinating. She’s completely in her element right now, and I hope it’s a sign of her comfort with me that she’s sharing aloud.
I tip my head back and study the way the bricks are arranged in an arc that expands from the corners toward the center. From an engineering standpoint, securing such a heavy material to the ceiling would be fairly straightforward, but from an artisan standpoint, the possibilities for intricate construction are pretty cool.
Carey points to a framed print on the wall. “Like this: The frame is so intricate, but the print isn’t. Usually it’s the other way around, where the print is the vibrant focus, but here, the frame is the art. I like that.” She tilts her head again, studying it before writing something down in a small notebook.
Everything appears to be ready for the lunch—the menu is finalized, the private room has been arranged for our party. There really isn’t much for us to do. Or, more accurately, there isn’t much for me to do. I shuffle around uselessly while Carey confirms that Robyn and Ted have each been picked up at the airport, that the contact at Variety is still set to post the announcement at the right time, that we have a gluten-free option for one of the executives, a vegan option for another, and a wheelchair-accessible spot at the table for one of the journalists. Carey ticks things off in her notebook, and when she reaches the bottom, she blows her bangs out of her eyes and then looks up at me with a smile that is so easy and unburdened that I’m suddenly unable to remember why I’m not supposed to be fascinated by her. I know she doesn’t need me here to help, but in her expression I see that she likes that I’m with her right now, and it makes me feel godlike.
“You do everything,” I say, trying to wrap my head around it.
“I do not.” She flushes and makes a screwball that’s preposterous face.
“You do.” A strand of hair is stuck to her cheek, and I pull it free. “Don’t lie.”
Carey bites back a smile. “Well. Thanks.”
“I don’t mean this as bad as it’s going to sound”—I quickly take a glance around to make sure we’re alone—“but what does Melissa actually contribute?”
Carey squints at me, her smile flattening. “She’s the head designer,” she says. “The lead on the redesigns.”
Laughing, I say, “Okay, Carey—”
But she shakes her head. “It’s not really as bad as it sounded last night. I was just frustrated.”
I give myself a second to identify the best response to this. Who knows what Carey needs to tell herself to do this job? There has to be a certain level of self-deception on her end, and I’m not sure I want to dig too deep there.
“Well, I’m glad,” I finally say.
“Melly said she had a surprise for me today.” Carey shrugs. “So that’s nice, I guess?”
I echo her hopeful smile. Guests begin to arrive at the restaurant, and so far it seems like everyone is pretty thrilled for the show—though it’s hard to gauge what the external reaction is, since literally everyone in the lunch party already knew about the upcoming announcement, with many of them standing to make a lot of money if the show does well. Still, Melissa and Rusty seem to be in good shape, and it feels like one more situation where things could have gone so much worse.
Neither Carey nor I get a chance to sit, let alone eat, but the lunch goes by fast. She’d probably murder me if she knew how protective I feel. I try to keep an open eye, watching to see if she seems tired or needs anything. But like always, she’s got it under control and makes it look effortless, even though I know now that it isn’t. Carey ensures meals get to the right people, that drinks are always filled, that a dropped napkin is replaced, that everyone knows where the bathroom is and where to exit the restaurant if they need to make a call. She is moving a mile a minute, but smiling the entire time even when I think she might be screaming inside. I try to keep up, to make myself useful to her however I can. Funny that I resent being Rusty’s assistant but am relishing helping Carey.
During her extensive toast, Melissa takes the time to thank everyone in the room and an additional twenty people for all the blessings in her life, and lucky for us she remembers to thank Rusty just after God.
“Last, but not least …” She lifts her glass and looks with melting adoration at Carey, and the room goes quiet again.
Carey straightens and stills, so achingly vigilant, and I realize this must be the moment of Melissa’s surprise.
“Of course I would be a scatterbrained mess without my amazing assistant, Carey,” she says. “This girl has been with me since the beginning, back when all I had was my marriage, my kids, and a little furniture store in Jackson. She keeps my calendar sane! Carey, here’s to another ten years.”
The room fills with a few awwwws and congratulatory Hear, hears. Glasses clink, but somehow a hush falls in the space around me. To anyone else, this appears to be an amazing honor Melissa Tripp just bestowed on her nobody assistant, but I know the truth. And regardless of what she just told me, so does Carey. I look over at her. Her hair has come out of its bun; her face is flushed from running around nonstop for the past two hours. She even has a smudge of powdered sugar on her cheek. Her left hand is tucked beneath her right arm—a sign that she’s tired and struggling with cramping. I watch her hold on to her gracious smile as long as she can, but the moment Melissa turns away, it falters.
I turn to her, nudging her shoulder with mine when she remains as still as a statue. “That was sweet, yeah?”
She stares straight ahead. “I think that was Melly’s surprise.”
My smile falls. “Carey—”
“I’ve given her my whole life, and she just thanked me for keeping her calendar organized.”
What a punch in the gut. I don’t know what to say, so without thinking, I reach down and slide her hand into mine. Although her fingers remain rigid, I hear her breathing ease.
“You know how you can hear someone say a lie so many times that it starts to feel true?” She waits for me to nod and then continues. “I think that’s what happened with me and Melly. She calls me her light bulb switch, like I’m just a button she pushes to get ideas. Does she really think that’s how this works?”
I open my mouth to answer but don’t want to speak without something helpful to say, and right now, nothing helpful is materializing.
“To her I’ll always be the teenage girl in cutoffs who wandered into her showroom, probably because that’s how I still see myself,” she says. “Are we in some sort of sick symbiotic relationship?”
I pause, considering how honest I want to be. “It seems more parasitic to me,” I admit. Okay, so pretty honest, then.
Carey looks up at me, and I realize she’s about to freak out. Her inhales are coming in fast and shallow; her face has gone a clammy gray.
A quick glance around the room tells me the lunch is winding down. I assume we’re expected to stay to settle everything up and make sure every executive gets a cab back to the airport, but Carey isn’t going to be very good at her job right now. She’s done enough.
Very gently, I tug on her hand in mine.
I expect her to stop once we’re out on the sidewalk, maybe take a deep, fortifying breath. But she holds up the hand that’s not currently wrapped around my fingers and hails a cab.
We climb in and fall silent once she’s given the name of our hotel. Instead of sliding across the seat, she stays close, holding on to my hand.
Carey lets me pay for the cab without argument and follows me out onto the sidewalk, but once there, she turns determined again, taking long strides into the hotel and directly to the elevators.
She turns to me. “Which floor are you on?”
My insides go tight; are we just going to go back to our rooms? It’s only three o’clock in the afternoon. I want to help her figure this out, not go sit alone for the rest of the day. “Ninth. Where are you?”
“Seventh.”
Inside the elevator, she presses the button for the ninth floor, but doesn’t then hit the button for the seventh. Confusion starts to set in, and I open my mouth to respond, but she steps forward with a determination that makes my mind go blank. Instinct brings my hands to her waist.
Her hands twist in my shirt, pulling me down to her, and then her mouth is on mine, hungry and soft. She stretches higher, one hand in my hair, sliding her tongue over me, licking me like candy. It’s sweet and gentle until she bites my lip with a quiet growl.
When she pulls back, I suck in a breath like I haven’t had oxygen in a week. “Carey?”
She makes a fist in the back of my hair and stares at my mouth.
“Not to interrupt your momentum here,” I say, licking my lips. They taste like her lip gloss. “But what’s happening?”
When Carey turns her eyes up to mine, she looks a little wild. Her gaze is bright, oddly hyperfocused. She’s only a few inches shorter than I am, and I can feel the heat of her breath on my chin. My pulse is going so hard and fast it echoes in my ears.
“I was picking up where we left off last night.”
“And I like that idea. Very much.” I sweep a strand of her hair away from her cheek. “But I don’t want to do this just because you’re upset.”
“That isn’t what this is. This is me doing what I want for once.”
“Oh. So the plan … ?”
“The plan,” she says in a gentle, husky voice, “is we are going to go to your room. I’ll probably have a drink from the minibar.”
“Okay,” I say, smiling down at her. Not that she specifically needs a drink, but I don’t think it would hurt for her to unwind a little. “That sounds like a brilliant idea.”
The elevator doors open and she pulls me with her so we both stumble against a wall. I bend, sliding my mouth over hers again, and she guides one of my hands up her waist, over her ribs, stopping just beneath her breast.
“And then,” she says, and she stares up at me with wide blue-green eyes that seem just south of completely sane at the moment, “you are going to bend me over your bed and fuck me until I forget my name.”
Words fall away. My knees turn rubbery and my mouth immediately dries. I am completely in awe of Demanding Carey, and right now there are few things I want more than exactly what she’s just described.
Finally I manage a simple “I can do that.”
“I think that will help.” She lifts a shaking hand, twists her fingers in my hair again. “I’m working on being more assertive. Does that plan sound good to you, too?”
I bend, dragging my teeth along her jaw. “Yes, it does.”
She drops her hand. “If I tell you that it’s been a solid two years since I’ve had sex, does that sound pathetic?”
“No.”
“It sounds pathetic to me.” She takes a step back and throws her arms out wide and yells at the ceiling. “I’m twenty-six! Good sex should be the foundation of every weekend at my age, but is it?”
“Apparently not?”
She looks back at me and presses a hand to my stomach. “And you have a great body and fucking fantastic teeth.”
I laugh, delighted by this radiant, emphatic woman.
But then a shadow of doubt crosses over her expression. “Am I being too forward?”
Coming slowly back to my senses, I’m aware that her confidence is new. She may be emphatic, but she’s never been given space to be this commanding before. “Absolutely not.” I lean in, kissing her once, and staying close even when I pull away. “You’re the one who left the pool last night, not me.”
This earns me a smile. “I would have totally had sex with you, just so you know. Those stupid kids interrupted us and I freaked out realizing that Melly could have been out on her balcony, too. But right now I don’t care who sees us.”
I kiss a path from her collarbone to her jaw. “Good.”
“So we’re going to do it now.” Her voice vibrates against my lips. “And I think you’re going to blow my mind.” I straighten, and her eyes search mine. “Right, James?”
Compassion for her agitation makes me earnest: “I promise to do my best.”
“One drink,” she says. She slides her hand into mine, but doesn’t move from where she leans against the wall.
“One drink sounds perfect,” I agree. I’m not going to rush her. We could stand in this hallway talking about it for hours if she wants.
“And then you’re going to … ?” Her eyebrows rise to prompt me.
I grin and heat fills my chest when she stares hungrily at my mouth. “Rumor has it I’m going to bend you over the bed.”
“Correct.” Carey smiles, tugs my hand, and leads me down the hall.
