The Chemistry of Love(50)

I decided that it would probably be best to text him. I sent him a quick note that said:

Thanks so much for the mixer. I absolutely love it.

I saw the three dots at the bottom of the screen indicating that he was writing me back, and then suddenly my phone rang and I dropped it out of shock.

It was Marco calling me.

I picked it up and said, “Hello?” as if I didn’t have his contact information in my phone and didn’t know exactly who was on the other end.

He didn’t even bother saying who it was and quickly asked, “So you like it?”

“I kind of want to marry it. And I know this is probably the part where I’m supposed to tell you it’s too much and I can’t take it, but I’m not going to do that because I really, really want to keep it.”

He laughed at that. “It’s fun to give a gift to someone who appreciates it.”

“It’s fun to get a gift that you’ve been dying to have. Thank you so much. Seriously.”

“Now you can go out and upend the entire makeup industry. I can’t wait to see what you come up with.”

I opened my mouth, wanting to tell him about my formulation. How I might even have a prototype this evening, if things went according to plan.

“There are a couple of things I wanted to ask you,” he said. “First, if we go to a fancy party, are you okay for like, hair, makeup, clothes, that kind of thing?”

“I have all that stuff.”

He made an annoyed sound. “You know what I meant.”

“Okay, then, what I have is probably not up to snuff.”

“I only ask because you said you just had the one dress, and I don’t think an Arwen outfit is going to win Craig over. It takes a certain kind of man to respond to that.”

“Yeah,” I scoffed. “The kind with good taste.” Not liking Lord of the Rings was definitely a detraction in my book.

“Why do you like those movies so much?” he asked, genuinely curious.

A strange lump appeared in my throat. That was the hardest thing about grief—you thought you were dealing well with things, going about your life, then you would hear a sound or smell a scent or someone would say something that brought you right back to that sadness. “They were my dad’s favorite movies. We used to watch them together all the time. Rom-coms with my mom, sci-fi and fantasy with my dad.”

There was a long pause. “I’m glad you have those things to hold on to. A way to keep your parents a part of your life. I wish I knew what my mother’s favorite movie was.”

I wished he did, too. “Can’t you ask your dad?”

“I doubt he’d know.” He cleared his throat. “I was actually calling to ask what your plans are for this weekend.”

“My plans?” I squeaked the word out. There was no way I was telling the man who looked like he should be crowned Handsomest Man Alive that my plans involved cookie dough and binge-watching all nine Star Wars movies. “It’s too bad you didn’t call me earlier. My other fake boyfriend and I are going out on Friday. He’s flying me to the Riviera.”

Marco laughed and then said, “It sounds like I need to up my game.”

“You do,” I agreed.

“How about you blow that guy off and come over to my place Friday evening around five o’clock?”

His place? That sounded . . . dangerous. At least here, we had avian chaperones and two senior citizens to watch over us. He probably lived alone. In some sexy bachelor apartment where I’d be even more powerless to resist him than usual. He’d lean against doorframes and show off his forearms, and I’d collapse into a heap on the floor.

I couldn’t tell him any of that, though.

Then I had a moment of panic that he was inviting me over to tell me that our experiment had failed, that it was too hard to pretend to date me and this farce was finished. In a resigned way, I said, “Yeah, okay.”

“Great. I’ll text you the address. See you then!”

When he hung up, I realized that it bugged me how he let my imagination run wild instead of just telling me what was going on. It was a testament to his charm that I didn’t demand answers from him. Rationally, I told myself that the meeting was probably to go over our next steps, but some tiny part of me was secretly hoping that there might be another reason.

Like he wanted to see me again just as much as I wanted to see him.



Late Friday afternoon, the mood lipstick was giving me trouble. There were a lot of factors I had to take into account that I didn’t normally deal with, and the texture and general adhesion were off. I made a mental note to add more of my solidifying agent to the next batch.

This stage was always difficult—coming up with the perfect formulation. One of my last projects at Minx had been a night cream. I would create it and send it off to marketing for review. They’d told me it was too tacky, too sticky, too thick, too thin, it needed more glide and slip, they didn’t like the scent, it needed to be tinted pink . . . I’d made hundreds of variations over a year and a half, and the product still hadn’t been ready when I left. I wondered which one of my former colleagues had been stuck with it.

That timeline and constant rejection were pretty standard when it came to the cosmetic industry. The good thing with this project—doing it by myself and calling all the shots. No marketing department to make happy. The bad thing? Doing it by myself and calling all the shots. No marketing department to give me feedback.