Frosting Her Christmas Cookies - Alina Jacobs Page 0,74

to convince young female artists to go all out, throw caution to the wind! You have to bare your soul, and sometimes other things, but the end product is always fantastic. You have the gift.”

I beamed at her.

She motioned for me to sit and made me another drink. Then she pulled out a piece of paper. “The Getty Museum gave me this list of questions I’m supposed to ask you.” She trailed her finger down the page. “Blah blah tell me your history: you’re a go-getter who’s been hustling her whole life, check. Blah blah what’s your inspiration? Men and sex, check. Blah blah, more questions about your influences.”

“You, honestly,” I said bluntly.

She beamed. “Like I said.” She tapped her head. “Sex always sells. Commit and follow through! Make sure to seal the deal with the big finish. Sex positivity! Multiple orgasms! Be in touch with yourself and experiment in art in life and with your partner. Hell!” she said, balling up the papers. “Who knows? You might get a two-for-one deal out of this. Jonathan could turn out to be your boyfriend!”

I choked on my drink. “I don’t think that’s going to happen,” I said, coughing. Eventually, Jonathan was going to find out about the project. Then he would see what a complete weirdo I was and want nothing to do with me.

“Men love sex,” Dorothy assured me. “They’re used to women who don’t, and when they find a woman in touch with her sexuality, it’s like catnip for them. Trust me.”

“I don’t know if I’m that in touch,” I admitted.

Dorothy peered at me. “That’s no good. We need you to win that scholarship. Get up,” she commanded. “Now strip. We’re doing some sensual yoga.”

40

Jonathan

“You seal the deal yet?” Carl’s voice asked on the phone.

“Dude, you just talked to me last night.”

“Man, Greg is on my case,” he said. “He went on a major rant last night. He’s obsessed with winning this project. Apparently the Harringtons are ramping up their development portfolio, and he wants to land this property before they do.”

“I’ll be in the office a little later,” I told him.

“Good. ThinkX wants to have that meeting about your logistics just to check in. You’re moving a mad amount of product. We might even sell out by Christmas!”

After the call with Carl, I played with Cindy Lou. Even though I had a variety of expensive toys, the cat was obsessed with going out onto the balcony. I was afraid she was going to jump off.

“You know what,” I finally said to her, pulling out the leash I had bought. “Apparently, I am going to stoop to a new low point in my life and be that weirdo who walks a cat.”

Cindy Lou, however, did not want to be walked. She made it across the street before she flattened herself to the ground. I picked her up. “We will get there eventually,” I told her, perching her on my shoulder. “The important thing is that I have an excuse to casually check in on Dorothy.”

Upbeat Christmas music played as I approached the converted shipping container the old artist lived in.

“Keep your pelvic floor muscles clenched!” Dorothy yelled over the music as I rounded a corner past a partially caved-in brick wall. “And gyrate!”

“Getting your morning workout—” I began then froze. “Holy shit!” I clapped my hands over my face.

“Now don’t go acting like you haven’t seen a naked woman before,” Dorothy boomed. “You were with Morticia here just last night.”

I peeked through my fingers and saw Morticia, shivering in the cold, wearing a lacy bra and panties, cheeks flushed. Dorothy, however, was proudly wearing nothing but holding a glass filled with amber liquid.

“We’re doing sensual yoga,” Dorothy informed me, prodding Morticia with a long stick. “Get your legs spread farther! Let your hips breathe!”

“This is insane,” Morticia muttered.

“You need to put this on your Instagram channel,” Dorothy insisted.

“I don’t think they’d allow it,” Morticia said faintly.

“Oh, come on. It’s just like I was telling you earlier, Morticia, about the best type of art—”

“Right!” Morticia said loudly, running to grab her phone. “Yes, we are so going to put you on Instagram!”

“We are?” I asked her, carefully looking up at the sky, the brick walls, anywhere other than at the naked older woman—and also anywhere other than at the almost-naked Morticia, because I had doubts that I was going to be able to control myself.

“Yep,” she said, shoving me out of her shot. “We can’t pass up an opportunity to