Free Brazen by Cara McKenna

Chapter One
     
    He was
trouble the moment Will hired him.
    Now to his
credit, Will never once batted an eye in the four years he’s been my assistant.
And that includes the day I said, “Will, I need you to screen men for me. For a harem.”
    “A
harem? Where are we
going to fit a harem?” he asked, as if we were discussing the logistics of a
dinner party.
    “Right here
in the brownstone,” I said. “It’s getting lonely around here.”
    That was a
couple years ago and two years after my divorce. One year after I suspected I
should be ready to start dating again but found the idea left me nauseous. And
now this old house, for many months too empty to contemplate without risking
self-pity, has come alive again, with the smells and the energy of eager young
men. Not the sounds, however—silence is one of the requirements of the job.
    Over coffee
that morning I explained to Will—who enthusiastically shares my love of eager
young men, in case you were curious—what exactly I envisioned. It was one of
those idyllic, Boston spring days. I believe it was Easter, actually. A day for vibrant rebirth, for the resurrection of my sexuality.
    “So,” he
said, tapping his pencil eraser on the tile of the breakfast bar. “We need a
bunch of young men. Give me details. Give me specs.” I should mention that Will
is also my interior designer.
    “Not too young,” I said. “How about…twenty to twenty-eight. Tall, five-ten to six-two or thereabouts. Gorgeous, muscular
but not too beefy—”
    “What’s too
beefy? Is Hugh Jackman too beefy?”
    “I wouldn’t
kick him out of bed,” I said. “But that’s as beefy as I’d prefer.”
    “Who’s your
ideal body then?” Will’s manicured hand hovered, poised to record my every
whim. Bless him.
    “Ideally,” I
said, thinking. “David Beckham?”
    Will jotted
this down. “So trim but built.”
    “Precisely. But not too
slender. I’m thinking surfer-type bodies. Swimmers. Dancers but masculine, obviously. No wrestlers or
linebackers.” I had given myself permission to be choosy. If my husband taught
me nothing else in our twelve mutually miserable years of marriage, he did
drive home the importance of only paying for the best.
    “Beckham
body,” Will said , making notes. “Whose
face, Madam Photographer?”
    “I’m actually
not too picky there,” I said, picturing poor Will holding a photo of Jakob Dylan up beside each of the candidates before shaking
his head and turning them away. “If the vision’s too ideal we’ll never
find anyone. Just nice-looking men. Dark hair is
best.”
    “Right. So, Caroline…” Will trailed off,
eyes rolling thoughtfully up to stare at the ceiling.
    “Yes?”
    His gaze fell
to mine. “What about…you know. Downstairs?”
    “Sizeable,” I
said.
    “Cut?”
    “I won’t
discriminate,” I said, feeling gracious. “But they’ll all need clean bills of
health from within a week of the day they start, and they should be able to
perform on command. This is a fantasy after all.”
    “Any
shaving requirements?” Will asked studiously, scribbling.
    “Down
below? No. Just not messy. And no elaborate topiaries. And no one
completely shaved,” I added. “That’s creepy. Ditto
piercings.”
    “What about
tattoos?”
    “Use your
discretion. Chest hair’s fine, either way, but no back hair please. Facial
hair’s probably okay. Sideburns are a plus,” I added. “Take headshots of
everyone for me to approve.”
    “Good
thinking,” Will said . “Now how many, do you think?” He
offered me the face he makes when we’re both torn between the same two fabric
swatches.
    “I don’t
think I want more than four or five in the house at a time,” I said. “And not twenty-four/seven, obviously. This is a hobby, not
a lifestyle. I’ll make up a calendar and we can fill it in each week. You’re
great with schedules, darling. I’m sure you can work it out.”
    “Right.” He scanned his notes. “And what
will they have to