I should go make myself comfortable on her couch. It would be the appropriate thing to do, both for the sake of propriety and to preserve my own health. Instead, I get into bed with her. She murmurs an objection, but I ignore her. I stretch out on the bed next to her and look at her, doing my best impression of an obsessive creeper.
“Go away,” she says feebly, trying to scoot away from me.
“Settle down,” I chide her. “Relax and let the Nyquil kick in. I’m here to take care of you.”
She whimpers, “I need my bonnet.”
“Where is it?”
Samantha rolls her eyes miserably and breathes through her mouth.
“Do you know what a bonnet is?” she asks.
“I’ve dated black girls before,” I say, a little offended at how un-woke she must think I am.
“We’re not dating,” she states, throwing cold water on my warm feelings.
“Yet,” I say, looking around for her satin bonnet. “We’re not dating, yet.” I don’t see the bonnet anywhere around, but struck by an inspiration, I stick my hand under one of her bed pillows. And eureka! There it is. I fit it over her bushy mop of hair.
“There,” I say. “Now just relax and sleep.”
“I’m not tired,” she complains.
“Yet,” I say. “You’re not tired, yet. But you will be.”
Because I’d given her enough cold remedies to sedate an ox.
We are quiet for a few minutes, and I listen as her breathing deepens. I plan to stay with her all night. I wait for her to fall asleep. In this position, she’s the little spoon to my big spoon, and even swaddled in her ridiculous SpongeBob blanket with arms, god help me, I’m as hard as stone. But when I think she’s passed out through a combination of cold meds and exhaustion, she speaks, slurring her words.
“Thank you for making me soup and going to Walgreen’s for me,” she mumbles. “You, sir, are a prince among men. A bossy, arrogant prince, but that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate you.”
Ah yes, the drugs are kicking in.
“What are friends for?” I say. When she’d answered the door, it was with a scowl of irritation. She didn’t thank me then.
“We’re not friends, though,” she says in a scolding tone.
“We’re not?” I feel a little offended. “After all I’ve done for you?”
“No, sir, you are not,” she says. She wriggles out of my arms and stands on her bed, the top of her head mere inches from the ceiling fan, which turns lazily on a low setting. She dramatically sheds her blanket and tosses it to the floor. I’m distracted by the sight of her wearing pale pink boy shorts and a tank top, so much so that I do not immediately react to the fact that her puffy hair could be caught in the fan at any moment.
“I’m hot!” she declares. She flops down on the bed again before I have a chance to pull her back to safety.
“I know,” I say, thinking she certainly is, both temperature-wise and in the attractiveness department. “And I’m wounded that I’m not your friend, after all we’ve been through.”
She snuggles back into me, pulls my arm around her middle, and wiggles her sweet ass over my jean-covered groin. She is going to have my crotch going up in flames soon.
“You’re more like...the cute boy all the girls in middle school dream about,” she says. “Therefore, we cannot be friends. You’re too cute to be my friend.”
Well, well.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I say. “Cute people need friends too.”
“Maybe.” She waves a delicate hand expansively. “But I could not be your friend without wanting to jump your bones.”
I sit up, wanting to see her face when she says this. Her eyes droop and flutter, and she breathes through her mouth. I wait for her to go on, but she’s quiet.
“Excuse me?” I say.
“Wanna know what I thought when I first met you?” she whispers.
Yes, I definitely do.
It’s not fair for me to find out what possible sexy things she contemplated when she first met me while she’s drunk on Nyquil. Not fair at all, but I’m going to do it anyway.
“What did you think?” I prod eagerly.
“I thought you looked like Adonis,” she sighs. “So pretty. So very pretty.”
I blink at her, amazed because I remember her looking annoyed with me.
“I thought you were beautiful,” I say.
“Did you look at my butt?” she deadpans. Drunk Samantha sure is fun. And adorable.
I cough to stifle a bark of laughter. I roll my lips into my mouth and take a moment to regain my composure. “I might have,” I concede.
I lay down again and pull her into my arms. Her breathing deepens, and I think she’s finally gone to sleep. That is, until she speaks again.
“There was something between us,” she says dreamily. “Like that feeling you read about in books. That sizzle of attraction. And it never went away, you know.”
I sit up again and peer at her face. Her features are so relaxed, and she’s beautiful even unwashed, sweaty, and with a puffy satin beret on her head.
“I know,” I say, so tempted now to kiss her, germs and all.
“And there are other feelings, too. Feelings I wasn’t expecting,” she yawns.
I lay down again, cuddle her to me, and wait to hear more, my heart swelling in anticipation. When she says nothing, I fill in the blanks myself, speaking into the darkness.
“You fill spaces in me I didn’t realize I had,” I tell her. “In fact, that’s why I came over here. To tell you how I feel. To persuade you to give us a chance.”
“Can you hear me?” I ask.
“Mm-hmm,” she responds. She wiggles that ass of hers again, like she’s trying to get comfortable. My dick, which had begun to deflate, goes steel pipe hard again.
I focus, because I want to say these words to her, I want to tell her my truth, because maybe—just maybe—she feels the same way.
“Samantha, baby, I’m pretty sure...I mean, I know I’m falling for you,” I say on a loud exhale. My heart swells with the admission. I’m a little giddy with excitement. I have never spoken those words to another woman before. I may never do so again.
There is silence.
“Samantha?” I ask.
But the only sounds she makes are the soft snores of a hard-earned sleep.
Chapter Nineteen: Lincoln
"Ten bucks says she won't go through with it," I say after pausing the program to wait for Samantha's response.
It is Sunday evening, and we are watching the finale of a dating show on Samantha's streaming service. This show ostensibly ends with the couples at the altar, pledging to love, honor, and cherish one another. So far, two of the five couples have broken up at the altar. Samantha has correctly guessed which couples break up before going through with the nuptials. This next couple, a model and a sales manager, have had a fiery relationship for the duration of the show. Personally, I think the woman is a little bit nuts, and I doubt she will go through with it.
For the finale, the woman wears a hippie-ish, long, white gown, is barefoot, and wears a crown of white flowers. The man wears a traditional wedding tux. The couple has invited numerous wedding guests, and the camera pans the crowd to capture their reactions.
Samantha looks at me from her place on the sofa. Her hair is disheveled, her face bare of makeup, and she's wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants. Also, she is absolutely beautiful. She gives me a speculative look, her large hazel eyes wide and innocent looking. I can see the smattering of tiny freckles across her nose, and I want to kiss each and every one of them.
She looks from the flatscreen, to me, then back to the flatscreen.
"I think Gigi is going to go through with it," she says matter-of-factly. "I think Darren will be the one to say no."
I scoff. "Oh, please," I say. "That girl is flakier than a croissant. She'll say no, and he'll say yes."
Samantha shrugs, turning her attention back to the scre
en. "I think it's going to be the other way around, so I'll take that bet," she says, looking smug. "Only, if I win, you'll have to pick up my dry cleaning for a month, and not the other way around."
"I think laundry duty is worth more than ten bucks," I say. "Therefore, I'm going to have to raise the stakes for this little bet of ours."
She gives me a noncommittal shrug. "Fine by me," she says, looking supremely confident. "What did you have in mind, Mr. Cooper?"
"If you win, I pick up your dry cleaning this week," I say. "If I win, you go out on a date with me."
She purses her lips thoughtfully. "We've already been on a date," she tells me. "I even put on a dress and everything."
"The benefit doesn't count," I say. "That was mostly work-related."
She pauses to consider this. "What did you have in mind?"
"Dinner. Me, you, and no one else. No work talk, just you and me, baby."
She makes a show of considering my proposal. She purses her lips, taps her mouth with her forefinger, and rolls her eyes as if deep in thought. Finally, she says, "Gigi will say yes, then Darren is going to dump her. So, I'll take that bet."
I'm astonished she's agreed so readily, especially since she has been adamant about not continuing our personal relationship. "That was a little too easy," I say, eyeing her suspiciously.
"Take it or leave it, buddy. I don't intend to lose this bet, and if you're that confident about their relationship, it should be an issue for you to agree."
Feeling pleased with myself, I press play on the remote. The wedding officiant drones on with the wedding vows. He addresses Gigi, asking her to repeat after him. Gigi says, "I do."
Samantha gives me a satisfied smirk.
"So, I like my shirts with medium starch," she says. "I hate it when they starch them so much that it feels like I'm putting on a cardboard shirt."
"Not so fast, woman," I say, flabbergasted that Gigi will go through with it. "You said Darren would say 'no', so let's see how this all plays out. You don't win unless Darren says 'no'."
"Okay," she shrugs. She crosses her arms over her chest and gives me a Mona Lisa smile
The officiant repeats the vows for Darren. A hush falls over the assembled wedding guests. Darren stares at Gigi with longing, and I am sure it is because he himself cannot believe she has said yes.
I leaned forward on the couch, watching with rapt attention. Samantha leans back on the couch, wearing the blanket with sleeves, and looking too laid back. Smug, even.
"Do you, Darren, take this woman, Gigi..." the officiant drones on from the flatscreen. Tears come to Darren's eyes. Tears come to Gigi's eyes. I am on the verge of tears myself, until it comes time for Darren to give his answer.
"I don't," says Darren, crying openly now. The wanker has shattered my plans to take Samantha on a romantic dinner date, and hopefully afterwards, fuck her.
I turned my head slowly to see Samantha openly gloating at me. I press the pause button once again.
"How did you know?" I ask, deeply annoyed. Darren had professed his love of Gigi consistently throughout every episode since they'd gotten engaged on the show. Gigi was the fickle one. The flighty one. How could Samantha have known how this would turn out?
"I knew he was lying," she says simply. She gets off the couch and heads for the kitchen, the SpongeBob blanket wrapped around her. I was starting to hate that thing, and if permitted to, would gladly add it to a bonfire. The ugliest robe/blanket I had ever seen. 100% not sexy.
I hear Samantha puttering around the kitchen, so I follow her. After a day of helping her through her 24-hour virus, she feels much, much better than she did the day before.
She'd been a compliant sick person, which surprised me a bit since I see her as the type of person who prefers to take care of others. After an initial round of objections at my presence, as well as a vain insistence that she was able to take care of herself, she relented and let me look after her. She never protested when I took her temperature, fed her soup, or poured Theraflu and Nyquil into her. Samantha is originally from Houston, where her parents still live, and she didn't want to bother them with what she thought was a minor illness. Hannah had a weekend of activities with her two children, and Samantha didn't want to get in the way of that.
When I'd set off to pay her a visit, I hadn't expected to be plying her with cold remedies all weekend, but I decided to use the time for the opportunity it was. I wanted to show Samantha that my interest in her is not just about how gorgeous and sexy she is. She has far more substance than I'd realized when I met her. She is a passionate woman, great at what she does, and I can relate to her entrepreneurial spirit. She's the sort of woman one takes home to meet the parents.
So, I've been happy to sleep in her guest room for the weekend.
In the kitchen, she unloads the dishwasher, putting away cutlery, plates, and bowls from the sandwiches I'd prepared for dinner. I want to walk up behind her, remove the ugly blanket, and wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her into my body. I can almost feel her butt cheeks pressing against my cock. Just thinking about it makes me horny, so I slide onto one of the chair/stool hybrids she has parked at the breakfast bar, using the wall to conceal my turgid state.
"How'd you know he was a liar?" I ask. I must be astoundingly imperceptive, since in no way did I believe Darren was capable of dumping poor Gigi at the altar.
Samantha looks over her shoulder at me and shoots me one of her speculative glances.
"Let's just say, I've been around the block," she says, cocking an eyebrow at me. She reaches into her freezer and extracts two pints of ice cream. The two I'd purchased during one of my trips to the grocery store. Ben and Jerry's Netflix and Chilled, as well as Cherry Garcia. She holds them up for me.
"Which one?" she asks.
"I'm easy," I tell her.
Her lips twist at my words, stifling a smile. She sets the pints of ice cream on the white marble breakfast bar.
"No pun intended," I add belatedly. She gives me the side eye.
Then she pulls a couple of small white bowls out of her white kitchen cabinet, put spoons in the bowls, and comes to the other side of the breakfast bar to sit next to me. I turn my legs slightly away from her to conceal the party going on in my crotch. I am wearing a t-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts, along with a pair of flip flops—things I kept in my vehicle for basketball games with Brad. A super casual look suited to mopping fevered brows, and not so good for concealing inconveniently timed erections.
We eat in companionable silence after dishing up our ice cream. I have a little of each flavor and Samantha has the same.
"How could you tell Darren was lying?" I ask, still mulling over the question.
She gives me a knowing glance and smiles.
"It's a secret," is her mysterious response. I purse my lips and squint at her. She pops a spoonful of the peanut butter ice cream into her mouth and looks at me. She looks sly. "It's a girl code kind of thing. If I tell you, you'll be able to use the lie detector to trick other women."
I take this in while eating a bit of Cherry Garcia. "So, you think I want to know your theory on the demise of Gigi and Darren to use that knowledge for evil?"
"When you put it like that, it sounds completely irrational," she says.
She looks thoughtful. Her words, which seem to indicate I make a regular practice of lying to women, are what finally make my dick deflate. I do not want this woman to think I'd lie to a woman, and by extension, her.
I want to date Samantha and not just fuck her. I want to date her and see what develops, because I’m fucking crazy about the woman. It's what I've been after all along, I realize.
"Why did you come by on Friday, anyway?" she asks, changing the subject. "I never did ask you before."
She smiles, revealing her pearly white teeth. A small dab of melted ice cream on her lips compels me to lean in and have a lick. It is unconscionable that she looks so good, so sexy, after a weekend of sweaty illness, with no makeu
p and wearing an ugly-ass robe thingy. The sudden re-direction of the conversation has me out of sorts. Nevertheless, I sense an opening to talk about our relationship, and that's more important than my ruffled feathers.
"I wanted to talk to you about us," I say.
Her skin flushes, darkening her lovely bronze complexion. She smells like her body wash, coconuts, and her own feminine scent. My eyes land on her mouth as she nibbles her bee stung bottom lip.
"Us?" she asks, giving me a nervous little smile. "I thought we went over this already."
She looks away, shifts in her seat, and I can tell she's a heartbeat away from sliding off the stool and walking away. I put my hand on hers to stop her.
"You went over it," I say.
She sighs. "I don’t want to have another Howard Becker situation on my hands."
"Do I come across like that too? I ask. She flinches, and her open expression shutters. She draws her hand away. I want to ask if there was still anything going on with him, or rather, whether she still had feelings for him. I didn't think so, but I also didn't want to make any assumptions.
I realize that I am the tool now and immediately regret my words. I run a hand through my hair in frustration. Samantha looks away.
"If I was only interested in using you, would I have spent any time at all taking care of you this weekend?"
She gives me a considering look, purses her lips again, and sighs. She collects the now-empty bowls and spoons, then walks to the kitchen sink. With her back to me, she rinses the bowls and spoons and places them in the dishwasher.
When she turns around to look at me, the expression in her eyes is guarded.
"I met Howard at my last job," she says. "We were coworkers, and we started seeing each other. We decided — or at least, it felt that way at the time — that we would keep our relationship quiet. There were no rules against dating coworkers at Johnson and Mathers, but I didn't want the perception that I was there for anything other than work."
Tough Customer: A Hero Club Novel Page 14