Breaking the Seventh

by Allie Gail

  The thought is a dangerous one, and yet it makes me smile.

  I can’t believe he’s still here. That he didn’t leave.

  Myles is the only guy I’ve ever invited to stay over, if you don’t include Soapy, who has crashed on my sofa on more than one occasion but who doesn’t count since he’s never been anything more than a friend. Just one of the gang. Someone to hang out with. He’s bought tampons for me before but never seen where they go, if you get my drift.

  I rub my eyes carefully, trying to limit my movements so I don’t wake him. I need a few minutes to process what happened. To review and analyze last night’s events. Maybe contemplate what I should’ve done differently, and take it from there.

  I wish I could explain what possessed me to act the way I did. I mean, the flirting I get – after all, Closed Until Further Notice has been virtually stamped across my thighs ever since Brad shattered my naïve trust in men. Thanks to him, I’ve been in a sexual drought. Parched. Barren. Thirsting for a big O that isn’t self-induced.

  And Myles is definitely an attractive man. Wait, did I say attractive? No. Scratch that. Calling him attractive is like saying Mount Everest is sort of a steep climb.

  The man is a walking, talking aphrodisiac with fuck-me eyes and a panty-wetting smile.

  Still…I never should’ve let it go so far. For crying out loud, I practically threw myself at him.

  And asking him to stay? Oh my God, what was I thinking?

  Flirting is one thing.

  Sex? That’s not supposed to come – ha, ha, I made a pun – until later. Way later.

  I wince in discomfort as the second sensation hits home. This one just plain sucks. A sore throat, no doubt a contribution from one of my coworkers, Martin, who has been sick with who-the-hell-knows-what and hacking his germs all over the office for the past week. I was hoping to avoid catching it but I guess Lysol and hand sanitizer can only do so much.

  Fuck.

  Ignoring the scratchiness in my throat, I distract myself by concentrating instead on last night’s amazing kiss. Holy smoke…just remembering it makes my heart skip and my toes curl. It’s too early to tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. The one thing I do know is that I am definitely in way over my head now because no one, and I mean no one, has ever brought me to my knees with a mere kiss before.

  Um. Figuratively speaking, of course.

  Although the idea of dropping to my knees is an intriguing one, I must admit.

  I’m smiling to myself, lost in a dirty fantasy involving a can of whipped cream and one naked next-door neighbor, when a husky voice unexpectedly interrupts my reverie.

  “If it’s that good, you really should share.”

  My pulse takes off in a sprint, every muscle in my body stiffening. How long has he been awake?

  “I thought you were asleep,” I mumble.

  Rolling onto his back, he chuckles softly. “Yeah, right. You try sleeping when the person next to you is snoring like a bear with an adenoid problem.”

  Mortified, I sit bolt upright and glare at him indignantly. “I do not snore!” I protest loudly. Do I? Is he joking? Please let him be joking!

  All I get from him is a vague smile. With his rumpled hair, sleepy eyes and the morning shadow darkening his jaw, he manages to exude even more raw sexuality than ever. How is that possible? It’s not fair for him to wake up looking like that! Especially considering what he’s got to be seeing right now. A hot mess, no doubt. I know what I look like first thing in the morning. Picture a sheepdog with a lot of static electricity.

  “Nobody forced you to stay all night.” Self-consciously I run a hand through my bride-of-Frankenstein hair, trying to smooth it out. “Sorry if it was such a horrible experience for you.”

  Linking his fingers behind his head, he watches me lazily. “I didn’t say that.”

  “Yeah, well…nice tent you’re pitching there, scout.” I may be exaggerating a bit, considering it’s pretty well confined in the jeans he’s still wearing, but I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t take the opportunity to point it out. His impressive morning wood was very recently lodged against my rear end.

  “You’re more than welcome to go camping if you feel froggy.”

  I raise an eyebrow while suppressing a smile. “You know what, I think I’ll pass. Last time I went camping I ended up with briars in my butt.”

  The look I get is, understandably, a strange one. “I’m sure I’ll regret asking, but how exactly did you manage that?”

  “It’s not what you’re thinking. I was trying to pee without getting it all over myself and I fell backwards into a bush.”

  He shakes his head, murmuring, “Only you.”

  “What? It could happen to anyone.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Took Willow half an hour to pick them all out,” I muse, remembering. It was a hilarious, if rather painful experience. Also a valuable lesson in how not to tinkle in the woods.

  Myles stares at me incredulously, his eyes sparkling with barely contained laughter. “Okay, wait a second. Let me get this straight. You had your friend Willow pick briars out of your ass? Are you serious right now?”

  “Well, somebody had to do it! It’s not like I can see back there, you know.”

  “Leah...”

  “And it hurt. I couldn’t sit down.”

  “Leah.” He shakes his head again.

  “What?”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way or anything. But I get the feeling most of your bad luck can be chalked up to the fact that…well, you may be a little on the accident-prone side.”

  Pursing my lips, I give him a dirty look.

  He pulls one hand out from under his head and runs a finger down the bridge of my nose. “Aww. Don’t pout. If it makes you feel any better, you’re the cutest little walking disaster I ever did see.”

  “Oh, whatever.” Making a face, I throw the covers back and pad into the bathroom without looking back. “I have to get ready for work.” I may be playing it nonchalant, but inwardly I’m dancing the Nae Nae and singing at the top of my lungs.

  He thinks I’m cute!

  I figure by the time I’ve had a shower, brushed my teeth and blow-dried my hair, he’ll probably be long gone.

  He isn’t.

  Instead he’s standing by my dresser, holding a framed photograph in one hand and inspecting it closely.

  “Is this your mom?” he wants to know.

  I barely glance at the picture before plucking it from his grasp and setting it back on the dresser. “Yeah.”

  His eyes are still locked on it. “Interesting.”

  “What’s interesting about it?”

  “The story it tells.”

  Story? “What do you mean?”

  “I’m assuming this is you.” He gestures to the child in the photograph.

  “Blech. Yes.” A six-year-old version of me, awkwardly decked out in ruffles and lace and little white Mary Janes with bows on them. I remember that day clearly. I remember wishing I could have been back at home climbing trees with my friend Carly Beth, instead of prancing around onstage with people judging me like I was a show dog.

  “And you’re all dressed up, with your hair curled and fixed up fancy, holding a trophy that says ‘second runner-up’ on it. So I’m guessing this was some sort of competition or beauty pageant?”

  “It was the Little Miss Starshine pageant.” I roll my eyes with an embarrassed grin.

  “But your mother isn’t smiling. Why is that?”

  “I dunno. Probably because I only got second runner-up.”

  Myles looks up from the picture, but it’s hard to decipher what he’s thinking. His expression is a blank slate.

  “Anything less than perfect was unacceptable,” I try to explain. As a matter of fact, the song Perfect pretty much sums up that short-lived relationship. I used to believe that Alanis Morissette must have composed it just for me.

  “And your father?”

  “What
about him?”

  “What were his expectations?”

  I fidget with the belt of my bathrobe, wondering what the third degree is all about. “My dad’s only concern was for my happiness. He never pushed me to be anything other than what I was.”

  “But he was willing to sit back and allow your mother to do it?”

  “No. He never…it’s not like he realized…” Stumbling over my words, I hesitate long enough to gather my thoughts. “I guess he never knew because I never really told him. What I mean is, I tried not to complain too much. Because my mom hated that. She always said that nobody likes a crybaby. I was just supposed to smile, only show my best, always be bright and cheerful and perky no matter what.”

  His eyes stray once again to the photograph. “Too bad she didn’t take her own advice.”

  “You don’t understand.” I laugh dryly. “It was my idea to enter that stupid pageant.”

  His gaze meets mine, and understanding begins to dawn. “Because you thought it would make her happy.”

  “Exactly. And she was – she was thrilled. Up until the moment that I didn’t win.”

  He appraises me curiously. “So basically your mother is no longer in your life, and yet you keep this picture around so you can constantly be reminded of her?”

  He may have a point, but his logic is beginning to get on my nerves. “I like the frame.” Snatching open a drawer, I rummage around for some underwear and a bra. Sure, I know it was a lame excuse, but what business is it of his anyway? I don’t know why I keep the damn thing.

  Scanning the other photographs, he brushes his fingers across the greenery that tops the Chia zombie’s head. “No hangover this morning?”

  I head over to my closet to snatch a clean blouse off a hanger. “I told you last night I wasn’t drunk. Not even close.”

  “You weren’t sober.”

  Throwing the clothes on the bed, I turn to smile at him sweetly. “If you’re hanging around waiting for me to feed you breakfast, I think it only fair to warn you that your options are limited to toast or some granola bars that are way past their expiration date. I don’t usually eat in the mornings.”

  Leaning against the dresser, he crosses his arms and gazes at me in amusement. “No? Why is that?”

  “Most of the time I’m in a hurry. I like to sleep in as late as possible.”

  “What about your internal clock?”

  “My internal clock has a snooze button. Sometimes it gets stuck.”

  “And dinner? Do you ever have anything besides McDonald’s?”

  “I don’t eat there all the time,” I protest. No, there’s always Taco Bell and KFC. Cooking isn’t exactly my forte. It just seems like a waste of time if I can get somebody else to do it for me. Drive-thru restaurants – best invention ever, right? And hey, I’m doing my part to keep the local fast food chains in business. Win-win. “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m grilling some chicken tonight, if you’re interested.”

  “You’re inviting me to dinner?” That’s…well, I would say surprising but when you think about it, he probably has more on his agenda than food. So, not so surprising.

  “If it keeps you from clogging your arteries with that crap, then yes.”

  I don’t answer right away. In the cold, rational light of day, I’m starting to question whether any of this is a good idea right now. Shouldn’t I at least wait until after my birthday, when the universe isn’t conspiring to rip me a new one?

  “Umm…”

  “Tell you what. You’ll know it’s ready when you smell the smoke. If you get hungry and decide to come over, fine. If not, that’s cool too.”

  I nod, relieved that I don’t have to decide on the spot. “Okay. Well…I’ll let you know one way or the other.”

  From downstairs in the kitchen, I hear the clang of Charlie’s stainless steel doggie dish as it clatters against the tile floor. He likes to tip it with his paw. It’s his way of reminding me that even if I don’t want breakfast, he most certainly does.

  “I think someone wants to be fed,” Myles points out with a laugh.

  “He does that every morning. Usually after walking around on my spleen first, to make sure I’m awake. Subtle, isn’t he?”

  “He’s pretty smart. Well-behaved, too. He slept at the foot of the bed and barely moved all night, until about five or so. And even then he was very quiet.”

  “Yeah, he likes to get up early and watch the farm report,” I joke.

  “Really?”

  “No. Not really.” Did he think I was serious? I’ve never heard of a dog that could work a remote control, but I guess anything’s possible. “Well, I better get dressed or I’m gonna be late.” Loosening the belt of my bathrobe, I raise an eyebrow when he doesn’t make a move to leave. “Uh…were you planning on watching?”

  “Is that an option?” The blue eyes twinkle naughtily.

  Smirking, I shake my head.

  “In that case, I better leave before Charlie starts rioting. Sounds like he’s getting serious down there.” Uncrossing his arms, Myles gives me a wink before strolling away. “Have a good day. I’ll see you later.”

  “Hey, Myles?”

  He pauses in the doorway to look back at me. “Hm?”

  I hesitate, wondering what I’m supposed to say here. These aren’t the most typical of circumstances, but I feel I should let him know that I do appreciate him staying. Not to mention refraining from taking advantage of the situation. After all, how many guys would have done the same?

  In the end, I figure that two words are all that is necessary.

  “Thank you,” I tell him softly.

  As usual, his expression is impossible to translate. His reply, however, is unmistakably clear.

  “No problem, blondie. Just remember that next time, I might not be quite as willing to play the gentleman.”

  “You look like shit.”

  Lifting my head from the desk where I’ve had it resting on a stack of file folders, I shoot Martin a death glare. “Thanks. That’s awesome. Just what every girl wants to hear.”

  “You caught my funk, didn’t you?” he deduces cheerfully. Sure, he can afford to be chipper – he’s fully recovered while I now have apparently contracted his bubonic plague. It’s only two o’clock and already the mild sore throat has developed into what amounts to broken glass shredding my larynx with every swallow.

  “I hate you,” I grumble.

  “You might want to see a doctor,” he advises. “I tried to get over it on my own but it didn’t even begin to get better until I finally broke down and got some antibiotics in my system.”

  “Did I mention I hate you?”

  Laughing, he pats my shoulder sympathetically. “I’m sorry. I know it sucks. Look, why don’t you go home and get some rest?”

  I slouch down into my chair with a sigh. “I’m already taking all next week off. I don’t need to miss any more time.”

  “You know Richard wouldn’t mind.”

  “I know, but my paycheck will.”

  “All right then, just sit there and stubborn yourself to death.” Puffing up his cheeks, he makes the face that never fails to send me into hysterics. He looks just like a three hundred and fifty pound blowfish when he does that, and he knows it. It’s the funniest thing I ever saw.

  “Stop it!” I complain through a hoarse giggle. “It hurts to laugh.”

  “Well, you know what they say. Laughter’s the best medicine.”

  “Laughter, my ass. Give me a bottle of NyQuil any day.”

  “Antibiotics,” he instructs knowingly. “Trust me. Call and make an appointment. You’ll thank me for it later.”

  “Crap. I guess I’ll have to.” I’m thinking of the email I got from my stepmom Louise this morning. She and my dad are driving up to Tennessee this weekend to see Shane and Melanie, and they want me to come along. If I want to get over this Petri dish of yuck by then, I better go ahead and do something about it now. Melanie is eight months pregnant, a
nd I am not about to take a chance on infecting her with this.

  “There’s the phone.” Martin points to it, grinning good-naturedly.

  “In case I haven’t told you this lately–”

  “I know, I know. You hate me. Shut up and dial.”

  Thankfully I’m able to schedule an appointment for first thing in the morning, so I won’t have to suffer indefinitely. But as the afternoon winds down at a snail’s pace, I’m starting to wish they could have worked me in right away. I feel like poop squished on the bottom of a shoe. How did I get so sick, so fast?

  The last half hour seems to drag on forever. By the time I make it home, I’m aching all over and all I want is to take a hot bath and curl up in bed. Charlie greets me at the door with his usual excited enthusiasm, and I guiltily reach down to scratch his head. I know the poor guy wants to go outside and play, but today I can only allow him enough time to do his business before bringing him back in.

  I don’t see Myles anywhere outside, so as soon as I’ve fed the dog I text him. Sorry, can’t make it tonight. Sick. Maybe some other time?

  His reply comes a couple of minutes later, while I’m sitting on the edge of the tub filling it with steaming water and lavender bubble bath.

  Sorry to hear that. Need anything?

  Just sleep. Thanks anyway. I follow it with a smiley face emoticon, hoping he won’t think I’m blowing him off. That isn’t the case at all. I was really looking forward to seeing him again.

  OK. Hope you feel better.

  “You and me both,” I mutter, laying the phone on the back of the toilet. Standing, I shed my clothes and then step into the tub, slowly lowering my shivering body into the foamy bubbles. I hurt all over, but the hot water feels heavenly. In spite of the fact that June will very soon be fading into July, I can’t seem to get warm.

  While I’m soaking, my mind wanders inevitably to Myles. The possibilities there are intriguing, to say the least. He’s gorgeous, smart, funny, and can actually be a nice person when he wants to be. Not to mention the most incredible kisser ever…

  The downside is that he’s impossible to figure out. On the one hand, he says he has no interest in dating. On the other hand, he is a very aggressive flirt. Which would indicate that he’s something of a player, wouldn’t it? Then again, I have also been shamelessly flirting with him and I wouldn’t exactly call myself a player.