Page 170 of Elite Connections: an LGBTQ Romance Charity Anthology

“Oh.”I blink at Margot as she comes out of my room, wearing an oversized T-shirt I probably stole from my brother and a baggy pair of sweats. The clothes completely swamp her, even though she’s way curvier than me, and it makes my heart speed up to dangerous levels.

“Out of literally all my clothes, you chose those?”

She plucks at the shirt. “This is the only thing I could find that didn’t have a designer label on it.”

I wave a hand, trying to remember how my limbs all work. “Don’t worry about that.”

“Wasn’t the point of changing to not ruin any good clothes?”

Technically, it was not to ruin her good clothes. I don’t give a hoot about my own. This might be one of those social gaps between us again though, so I keep my mouth pressed shut.

“If you’re done grilling me on my choices, should we get started?”

Well, yes, probably. The thing is, though, I can still feel this abrasiveness coming from her. Margot clearly doesn’t want to be here, even though she’s loosened up a little since yesterday, but it’s making me edgy. I want her to like me. To want to be here. And sure, I’m paying her, and I like to give off the impression that nothing gets to me, but I’ve always been really, really bad with women, and sometimes … sometimes it feels like I’m missing out.

All my friends are men. All my relationships are with men. But even though I love them, I’m acutely aware of the differences in relationships. I see strong female friendships on TV, I read about them in books, and I’ve never had that.

Seven is probably my closest friend, but the deepest we get is when we deflect-joke about our trauma. My brother and I bond through our upbringing being force-fed toxic misogyny.

I eye Margot. She doesn’t exactly have a Care Bear persona, but maybe … maybe what she said about practice friends could be a good thing for me. Hell, maybe we could end up being friends after this.

“Do you … want a drink?” I ask, scrambling to think of a way we can connect. All those movies show wine in abundance, and my mom and all her friends constantly have a glass in hand when they get together.

“Nah, I’m good.”

“I have champagne. Real champagne. From France.”

Her lips twitch. “Isn’t all real champagne from France?”

“Ah. Yes. You’re right.” I’m embarrassed to admit I didn’t know if she knew that.

“And don’t people normally drink that shit when they’re celebrating?”

She’s got me again. “I suppose they do,” I answer softly.

Margot shifts her weight, looking ridiculous in those clothes but still effortlessly beautiful in a way I could never pull off her. “Should we paint?”

“Okay.”

We crouch next to each other and pry the lid off the paint cans until all the colors are on display. She’s still not very chatty, and I’m still on edge, wondering what the hell she thinks about me.

“Do you want something to eat?” Bursts from me before I can stop it. “I’ll order something. Dinner. For when we’re done.”

Margot’s deep brown eyes stretch wide. “Seriously, I’m good.”

I hide my disappointment behind a smile and turn back to what I’m doing. This is all perfectly okay. It’s only day one. Friendships take time to build, and I’ve hired Margot for an indeterminate amount of time. I’ll break her down. With Stockholm syndrome, apparently.

I dial down the mental dramatics as I grab the paintbrushes and shift toward the couch.

Margot’s heavy sigh stretches through the space between us. “Can I grab a water?”

My attention snaps back to where she’s still crouching, watching me, and I’m ridiculously excited that she even asked. Dear god, I’m more desperate than I thought.

I hate this pathetic, needy side of me, so I shove it away and try for my usual fake confidence.

“May I have some water?” I say teasingly. And as I get up to cross to the kitchen, I tap her lightly with my foot on the way past. “We’re going to have to My Fair Lady you before you meet my parents.”

Her soft footsteps approach behind me. “I don’t know what any of that means.”

“My Fair Lady? You’ve never seen My Fair Lady?”

“What’s the CliffsNotes?”

“Well, I’ll admit it probably hasn’t dated the best, but it’s one of my comfort movies. Basically, there’s a man who thinks he can teach any woman to be high society, so he finds the most abrasive one he can and trains her.”

“Like a dog?”

“Ah, well … like I said, didn’t age well. Zero points for feminism, but … Mom and I used to watch it. Before I realized how messed up she is too.”

“So, judging by your explanation, you’re the rich knight in shining armor, and I’m the … dumb, abrasive dog who needs training?”

“No, I didn’t mean …” I groan and bury my face in my hands. “Oh, no. I’m one of them.”

“One of who?”

“The type of people I hate. My parents. Their friends. The girls I grew up with. I’ve fought so hard to break away from all that, and I’ve become one of them anyway.” Am I really that obtuse? All this time, I thought I was sticking it to them. Shaving my head and getting piercings and tattoos, refusing to date the men they wanted me to date. I’ve embraced my sex-positive nature and gotten a fucking law degree, for fuck’s sake. Literally everything that’s the opposite of who they are, I’ve become. Was it really just a superficial smoke screen to hide behind?

“Hey …” Margot’s hand drifts over my back, and her touch derails my breakdown.

I glance up, finding her shockingly close.

“You seem pretty self-aware to me. So you made a dumb joke without thinking—we all do. Humans fuck up. It’s part of our charm. You’re owning it, though, and feeling genuinely pretty shitty about it. I know I don’t actually know you, but if … these people are as bad as you say, I don’t think you need to worry about being one of them.”

“Maybe I already am one of them?” I say softly.

“Or maybe you’re still learning. Still breaking down all the, you know, unconscious bias or whatever.”

Surprisingly, that actually makes me feel better. “You might be right.”

“I’m a pretty fucking smart high school graduate.”

“I completely agree.”

“So … that water?”

I scramble to get it, still feeling down over my realization, but it doesn’t entirely match the warmth growing in my chest. It’s something deep and hopeful that I’m clutching at with both hands.

Margot takes a tiny sip of the water and lets out an exaggerated “ah.”

I laugh. “You weren’t really thirsty, were you?”

“Nah, but I couldn’t stand seeing you all fake happy for the rest of the day. It was really irritating.”

“Noted.” I grab her wrist before she can move away. “And I really am sorry. For implying … I don’t think that about you.”

“Yeah, but you actually probably do. That’s the thing about unconscious bias—it’s not a conscious thought.” She looks like the next words are involuntary. “I think you’ll get there though.”

“I certainly bloody well hope so.”

That gets me a cute little laugh. One she smothers quickly. “Right. Can we please get on with this manual labor you’ve roped me into now?”

“You seem awfully excited about painting.”

“Basically the opposite. I want to get it over with. But also, how often do you get to explode a rainbow in someone’s apartment? If anything, it’ll be an experience.”

“Well, I’m happy to provide it.”

We get set up, and while I don’t actually know what I’m doing, the few YouTube clips I watched have helped. Margot seems to be competent-ish and has at least laid a canvas out over the floor as she pours paint into the tray.

Those clothes really do look hilarious on her. Like a kid playing dress-up. But then she sweeps her thick black hair to the side, showing off her long slender neck, the incredible jawline, a hint of full lips, and deep envy trickles into me. She’s so pretty. Looks like a proper grown-up who has her life together instead of the chaotic mess I constantly feel inside.

She shifts her hair again before tucking a chunk of it into the back of the shirt.

“You okay over there?”

“Fine.”

I bite down on my lip to stop from laughing. Maybe she’s got her life together, but one thing Margot doesn’t seem good at is asking for help.

I jump up and rummage through a junk bowl on my counter and pull out a random hair tie I remember seeing in there. Then I join Margot on the other side of the room and hold it up in front of her.

“Need something?”

She eyes it before finally shaking her head. “I’m good.”

“You’re going to get paint all through your pretty hair. Here …” I reach for her, slowly in case she jerks away like she did earlier. But Margot just stares at me with an unreadable expression while I step around her and pull her hair out from under the collar.

It’s softer than I expected. Light. I drag my fingers through it as I scoop it up and pull it into the tie. Margot hasn’t moved an inch, but when my fingers find her neck to collect the random chunk stuck there, something ripples through her shoulders.

She turns her head enough to meet my eyes.

There’s a question in her expression I can’t read, and after a moment, she murmurs, “I think you’re done.”

A sudden inhale restarts my lungs, and I jerk my hands away. “You’re welcome, by the way,” I say, quickly returning to my side of the room.

“I didn’t say thank you.”

“I know. We’ll work on that.”