HEAL YOU | JENLISA

FORTY-FIVE

LISA

* * *

TODAY, OVER A YEAR AFTER TURNING DOWN LVMH’S OFFER, Michael and I are meeting with their new head of acquisitions. Apparently, several women accused Paul Richard of sexual harassment and the company replaced him.

“I’m so happy to meet you both in person,” Angèlique Ikande says, smiling broadly as she shakes my hand and then Michael’s. With her white pantsuit and statuesque build, she looks like a corporate Wonder Woman.

“Likewise,” I say as I motion for her to join us at the restaurant table.

She folds her tall body into her seat and asks the waitress for a glass of sauvignon blanc before regarding us for a thoughtful moment. “I’d like you to know that I think my predecessor is a complete ass.”

Michael breaks into laughter, and I can’t help grinning as I lift my glass and drink to that statement of hers. I’ve been wondering about the purpose for this meeting, but Michael and I haven’t allowed ourselves to muse about it out loud. Paul Richard left a really bad taste in our mouths, and neither of us is over it. Angèlique, however, is totally different. She’s not stuck-up. Everything about her screams competence and honesty. It’s hard not to like her.

“You might not be aware of this,” she says, “but the MLA deal was my project, and Paul stuck his nose in it at the last minute. On behalf of LVMH, I’d like to sincerely apologize for his actions. But that’s not the only reason why I’m here. The first thing that I want to do as the new head of acquisitions is finish what I started. I’d like nothing better than to bring MLA under the LVMH umbrella—and that means both of you. To let you know how serious I am, I’m upping our original offer by twenty percent.”

Considering what the original offer was, twenty percent is a lot of money. I glance at Michael to gauge his response and smile when I find him doing the same thing to me.

“We’re going to need to discuss this,” I say.

“Of course,” she says.

I half expect her to get up and leave just like Paul Richard did, but she settles in and actually has lunch with us. She asks about our summer product line. She’s been keeping up with our social media accounts and is excited by the publicity we’ve been getting recently. To demonstrate how much she loves Michael’s designs, she shows us pictures of her kids on her phone. I don’t know if she did it on purpose or not, but it looks like her kids wear MLA exclusively and I can tell it pleases Michael. That’s the quickest way to my heart.

When lunch is over, we shake hands and part ways, promising to get in touch soon.

“So?” Michael asks as he drives us back to our building. “What are you thinking?”

“I think she’s prepared to up the offer by twenty-five percent, maybe thirty,” I say in a neutral tone, even though my heart is pounding so hard I feel like it might break through my ribs.

Michael’s wearing his sunglasses so I can’t see his eyes, but I still know what he’s thinking when he looks at me and then returns his attention to the road. “That’s not what I was asking.”

I shrug and try to play it cool, but a grin sneaks onto my mouth.

He must see it because he shoves my shoulder hard. “Asshole, you had me going there. You want to do it, right? It’ll really happen this time. If we want it to.”

“Okay, yeah. I want to do it. She gets us. Plus, she might be our number one customer.” I take my phone out to compulsively check my email, adding, “Still, I need to see this written out before …”

At the top of my inbox is a new email from Ikande, A. There’s a file attached. When I open it, I see it’s the contract that we worked on with Paul Richard, except now it clearly specifies PER THIS CONTRACT, LISA MANOBAN WILL STAY ON AS CHIEF EXECUTIVE OFFICER OF MICHAEL LARSEN APPAREL & CO., SUBSIDIARY OF LVMH MOËT HENNESSY LOUIS VUITTON.

“What?” Michael asks.

“She just sent us the contract,” I say. “It’s exactly as she said.”

“Shit. This is really going to happen now.” Michael swallows, and his face turns greenish as he grips the steering wheel like he might faint.

“Deep breaths. Pull over and let me drive. Jennie will kill me if I get in a car accident.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he says, shaking it off and getting control of himself. “You sure you want to do this? We don’t have to. But we should consider it serious—”

“Yes, I want to. I’m not going to let a grudge hold us back. We’re ready. We’re going to kick ass.” I feel the rightness of this in my bones, and I know we’re going to see this through. We’re going to dress a whole shitload of kids in super-cute clothes, and we’re going to have the time of our lives doing it.

Michael grins so hard he looks a little scary, but I figure I look the same way.

When I arrive at our apartment a few hours later, I can’t wait to tell Jennie the news. But I don’t get the usual attack hug from her. As far as I can tell, she’s not even home, which instantly makes me worry.

I take my shoes off and venture into our apartment, and there, on the kitchen table, is a homemade cake covered with burning candles.

“Happy birthday.” Jennie jumps out from the kitchen, lifts her violin to her chin, and plays in front of me for the first time ever, a huge smile on her face.

It takes me a few seconds, but even as tone-deaf as I am, I recognize it’s “Happy Birthday to You”—probably the most elaborate rendition of it ever played. So much happened today that I forgot it was my birthday. But Jennie didn’t.

The significance of what she’s doing, the fact that this is the first time she’s playing for me, hits me. If I wasn’t already in love with her, I’d fall now.

When the song ends, she puts her violin away and smiles at me self-consciously, and I crush her to me with a tight hug and kiss her over and over. “Best fucking birthday ever. You played that whole thing. So proud of you. Love you, love you, love you.”

She wipes the moisture away from my face with her thumbs and kisses me slower and deeper. “Love you.”

Her hands slide down my chest to the waist of my pants, and my fly comes undone.

“Are you sure?” I ask, even though I’m praying for her to say yes. I want her so bad I could climb the walls. “We don’t—”

“Birthday sex,” she says, pulling her dress over her head and tugging me toward the bedroom.

It’s been so long for both of us that birthday sex only lasts five minutes, but you can bet your ass those five minutes are downright epic. I tell her about LVMH afterward, and she squeals with excitement. Then we have cake for dinner. It makes us feel sick, and we eat leftovers to settle our stomachs, laughing with each bite.

Truly, the best birthday ever.