“Hiiiii, girls!” Isla ignores their looks of repulsion with a happy finger wiggle, but Su can’t let it go.
“What in holy—”
“Argh!” I throw my hands up and immediately regret my choice of annoyed sound.
Su squints and zooms much closer to the screen. “Eye didn’t tell us you were practicin’ for a play.”
After I tell the same damn story for the second damn time in fifteen minutes, I’m thankful our first round of mimosas has arrived, and I down mine with fervor.
“Have to wear the glasses too, huh?” is all Dee says, and I admonish her with a scowl.
“I hate contacts!”
She snatches the phone from Su, and it’s just her onyx tendrils, the perfect curve to her eyebrows, in extreme close-up. “Ailment aside, I’m so glad we’re all brunching together.” Hand to chest. Her tone drips with honey and convinces me she’s got something she perceives as Big to share.
“How’s the weather down there?” I ask.
Sue Ellen and her delectable drawl in the background: “It’s hotter than a witch’s tit on Sunday!”
We all lose it, even though the expression’s wrong—way wrong. I don’t want to be the one to tell her because I’m always the one.
That, and, the more I think about it and the more mimosas I drink, the more it starts to make sense her way anyway.
“When are you two coming back for a visit?” she asks, and something yanks behind my stomach.
A hankering for Mississippi. A hankering for home.
I haven’t been back since my parents split up. And, really, it’s because, to go back would mean to drain the water from the snow globe that exists in my memory.
And I’m not interested in how all the figures within it look now. I’m good remembering things how they were.
I quell the tightness in my throat with a sip of water, and Isla answers for me:
“Just as soon as I can convince this one to take some time off!”
Dee tosses a manicured hand at the screen. “Such a city girl.”
“You know,” I say, straightening up in my chair, “I’m right here.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter that you’re never coming to visit us because we are coming to visit you in a couple weeks! We just talked it over. Can you put us up, Eye?”
Isla clasps her hands together up by her face, and I can already see the ideas streaming behind her stare. “Of course! The girls will love bunking together, and I was planning to have a big dinner party coming up anyway—now you two can come!”
Isla and I screech like college and this elicits some dirty looks from the other patrons, but it’s been so long since we’ve all been together that there’s no containing this excitement.
“That’s not all!” Dina’s eyes shine a deep amber as she trills at the screen. “I wanted y’all to be the first to know—”
I glance over at Isla like Here it comes, but Dee must not notice because she keeps talking without a hitch.
“Second and third anyway, since I just told Su, but—”
She takes the most pregnant of pauses and I wonder why she’s not the host of some reality show somewhere, squeezing every ounce of suspense she can out of letting us know which one has been voted off the island this week.
“I met someone!” She coos, and her face takes on a half-melted look. Like her skin can no longer hold the ooey-gooey filling that is her insides and Love is about to ooze out of every pore.
But her gushing is catching, really.
I can’t help but giggle right along with her, because she’s adorable and her excitement is not unlike the time she gathered us in the common room to announce she’d met Lacrosse Player Bradley.
We all remember how that turned out.
But I bite my lip and let her chatter on. Save my cynicism for another day.
She details her courtship with this new guy, this Jeff, and when the question of how she met him comes up, the answer is on a dating app and I’m suddenly in the hot seat as to why I’m not trying this online dating thing.
Su has tried it, albeit briefly; Dina has tried it; I’m not going to be able to escape this conversation.
“Maybe I will,” I offer with a mouthful of alcohol-soaked strawberry.
If they only freaking knew.
I allow an inward grin, and Rule Number 8 flashes in my brain like a neon sign: Give the people what they want.
Once we’ve wrapped up our phone date, gotten our inner Woo-girls out of our systems, and our respective orders have come, I’m feeling pleasantly toasty.
Toasty as a witch’s tit on Sunday.
“You’re in a good mood.” Isla eyes me over her mimosa, the translucent tangerine color glowing in the late morning sun.
“Am I?” I shrug and take a bite of bacon. “Maybe it’s this.” I brandish the rest of the strip and then scarf it down.
“It’s something else.”
She waits in pointed silence.
Then: “Henry told me he ran into you…”
I snort. “Actually, I ran into him. I was literally on a run. When did he tell you that?” I lean over my half-eaten egg soufflé a little too enthusiastically, and I realize I need to rein it in.
She laughs. “This morning when he and Graham were on their way to make their tee time. And he told me that too, about the running. But anyway, I think that ship has sailed because he was pretty chipper this morning as well…and I got the impression it was because of a girl.”
Between the alcohol and my handiwork totally working apparently, I can’t suppress my smile now.
Henry hasn’t messaged Ansley yet today, but my thoughts drift back to last night, and then I think of my clumsy friend. Maybe I can use this unique situation to my advantage and do some reconnaissance with Isla to give Ansley some kind of comfortable advantage.
“Did he say anything else?”
Her mouth pops open. “Why the sudden interest? I thought he was the enemy.”
I give another painful half eye-roll. “I’m happy for him is all…”
She narrows her gaze, and so I start down a different path to throw her off the trail.
“Some guy left me his number at the store. I’m thinking about texting him.” I lie.
“You should! Life is too short! I mean, what did you actually do last night? What do you do any night?”
“Hey!” I curl a lip, but amusement skates beneath my skin. I’m too bubbly from the bubbly. “I do…stuff. I caught up on my laundry.” Fake a yawn.
“Laundry.” She huffs, and we’re quiet as she judges my life.
She reaches for her glass again, this time with a shaky hand, and I watch as some of her drink dribbles down the champagne flute and into her lap. The flush to her cheeks grows a bit darker than it was a second ago, and the pained expression she wears—the pinch to her features—breaks my heart.
“Excuse me.” I flag down a server boy. “Could we get an extra—”
“It’s fine,” Isla snaps, her gaze fire in my direction.
And just as quickly, she takes a breath of composure and reassures the poor confused kid.
“We’re fine over here.” She puts on a smile. “Oh, and could you bring me a mojito when you get a chance?”
She blinks up at him and the tips of his ears are stained pink. His wide stare ping-pongs between the two of us, and I just throw my hands up like Guess I was wrong.
When he’s gone, Isla’s cool as the cucumber in her next drink. She dabs absently at her dress and her eyes brighten like she wasn’t just miffed at me for calling attention to her needing help. “So tell me about this guy!”
I know when to let well enough alone, so I just lean back and humor her. Give her the nondetails for a few mimosa-filled minutes.
“In conclusion, I really don’t know much.” I snort.
She crosses her legs. “Well, maybe you don’t need to. Everybody needs a little…I mean, no one’s saying you need to find The One right this second, but don’t y
ou get lonely?”
I just sigh. “Of course I do. Maybe I’ll give this Mister Right Now a call.” I pretend like I’m going for my phone.
She does a bunch of little claps, and I’m not sure if it’s in celebration of this or the new drink the server brings. Probably both.
“Oh, but keep next weekend open,” she adds. “Graham and I haven’t had alone time in forever, and we were thinking of taking the train into New York for a getaway. Can you watch the girls?”
“That’s so great! Of course!”
My phone buzzes.
She narrows her gaze at me again, an amused smile sliding across her face. “Is that your laundry now?”
* * *
When Gordon comes home, I’m stretched out on the couch, and I’ve been switching between messaging with Henry and messaging with Kevin.
I’ve compiled a whole list of conversation topics for Ansley to bring up on her date with Kevin tomorrow, including baseball, traveling abroad, and music festivals. These are the things he mentions on his Spark profile and we’ve touched on them in our limited convos already, so I figure they’re not bad places to start.
In terms of Henry, I’ve been methodical in my responses to him today—more standoffish than last night, but only really in my response times and not so much as to lose him completely.
It’s a game, yes. And I hate that I have to play it.
Normally I don’t hate it—normally I don’t really care.
But the more we get to talking, the more—
“You’re flushed,” Gordon says upon entry, and I leap from my lounging position, heart threatening to burst right out of my throat.
“You’re going to give me a damn heart attack one of these days!” I say, closing everything up like a college kid whose mom has just walked in on him looking at porn on the Internet.
“I can’t help that you’re so jumpy!” He doesn’t have to say anything else—the grimace is enough—and a certain shame creeps its way into my bloodstream.
Maybe Gordon’s right. Maybe Isla’s right. Maybe everyone’s right.
Maybe I do need a good roll in the hay to get this out of my system.
I decide right then and there. Stand with a flourish.
He just watches me pace the length of the Persian rug, fringe to fringe, as I attempt to convince myself.
“Maybe I do need a little something-something.”
“Oh honey, you can’t pull off saying that.”
“Whatever!” A wave of the arms. A pivot.
I reach for my purse.
“I’m going to the shop,” I say, riffling around for my keys.
“If you say so…” A curl to his upper lip.
“I’ll give that little Justin Trudeau a jingle,” I say, my choker chain feeling like it’s doing just that.
Gordon’s mouth hangs open, but I smile at the fact that I’ve silenced him as I shut the door behind me.
The entire walk there, I’m chain smoking. My phone buzzes and buzzes. I know it’s probably Henry—Kevin last said he was going to see the Nationals play tonight with a couple of guy friends—but I’ve got to get my mind detangled from all this. Got to get Ansley out with both of them so it’s less interaction with them and me—with Henry and me—and more focusing on developing things between them. I think I’m misplacing this flirtation, and I have to get a handle on it.
Now.
I toss quick hellos to Damon and Renée, who are running the joint today—completely ignore their quizzical stares at my stupid eyesore (pun not intended but impossible to be avoided).
Make my way to the back desk and shut the door. Snatch Trudeau’s—Cliff’s—number from the corkboard and stare down at my phone—my actual phone—when a panic sets in.
I take a few cleansing breaths.
See the rules printed on the backs of my eyelids.
Scroll through them and focus on the two in particular that can act as salve to this burn in my gut.
Rule Number 3: Never care.
Rule Number 4: Set your sights low.
And then I open my eyes a new woman. Smile at my brilliance.
The Ansley phone buzzes again. I take it out of my pocket, but set it facedown on the desktop without looking. Silence the ringer.
After another deep breath, I hover my fingers over the screen of my phone.
Lean back—
And bite the fricking bullet.
Chapter 10
Cliff’s fingers wind around my waist, my body small in his giant hands. They swallow my midsection as he slides them down. Curls his fingertips beneath the lace of my shirt.
My breath catches. His fingers cold, his breath hot on my skin.
My eyes roll back, and I have to dig my teeth into my lip to keep from bursting out: This is exactly what I needed.
At first I’d felt bad when Cliff wanted to meet so soon. His texts were quick. He seemed so eager. Innocent. Full of sincerity.
How long it must have been for him! He wasn’t fazed by my ridiculous ailment at all. He said he liked the Lisa Left-Eye Lopes look (#RIP).
I’d had to Google who she was when he went to the bathroom because ol’ Cliffy boy is thirty-six, but he didn’t make me feel dumb for the eye patch or for my lack of ’90s pop culture reference knowledge, and that’s all I needed in that moment.
Nope, he just ordered us another round of Moscow mules and kept on smiling.
I watched his lips as he spoke—two perfect cushions I wanted pressed against the slope of my neck. I felt a tingling there, a longing, an itch, as he relayed his stories about growing up in Connecticut. Living in Yonkers. Working as a lobbyist. Being in town only a short time.
The way they curved perfectly as he gave half a smile. The things I imagined he could do with them. How I could get him to stop talking. Where I wanted him to press them first.
“Are you even listening to me at all?”
His bright gaze reflected the deep amber of the bourbon in his glass, and my own lips parted. He’d found me out. And I couldn’t suppress the hint of a smile.
“I’m—” was all I could muster before he closed the space between us, tongues silencing each other as Billy Joel crooned softly in the background of the little Italian place.
Now, the rain beats down outside, a gentle soundtrack of rainfall, drops like the tink tink tink of piano keys tapping upon the metal surface of Cliff’s rental car.
He makes his descent, those lips of his sending a flutter through my body, and I barely remember how we got here. I barely care. Desperately crumpled in the backseat. The flicker of his tongue on my neck wipes my memory as he makes a thin line from nape to just below the curve of my collarbone. Teases with a slow exhale. A gentle billow of warm breath that unfurls as it skis down the delicate slope, a cool flame tracing a line of gunpowder.
I can’t control a tremble—a thrilling shiver—as I stretch as far back as I can. My head tender as it presses against the window, unforgiving in its hardness. Cold to the touch.
His fingertips tickle as they find the soft skin beneath the stiff underwire of my bra.
He sucks in the air as his skin grazes the undersides of my breasts. My pulse beating. Drumming. Pushing me along to beg him further. Pleading for those hands to continue their search.
I feel myself throb beneath his stalwart grip.
When it becomes too much for the both of us, his kisses getting rougher, reckless, he glides my top up and off and wastes no time in unhooking my bra to get at me. He skims the contours of my breasts, the stir of anticipation building. At last, he claims one with his mouth, his palm claims the other, and my breath catches.
My want frantic as it edges lower.
He repositions his hard body, the fingers of his free hand, intense and exploring. Skating over the peak of each rib. A strong grip when he finds my knee—the pressure sending sparks between my legs.
It’s then that I feel him, rigid against my thigh. His pants, taut. Warm. Undeniable proof that I’m driving
him just as crazy as he’s driving me. A mere touch of my skin, and he’s steel inside his jeans.
It sets me on fire.
I reach out. Find him through the thick fabric. Flank him with my fingers. His pulse pounding. His breath catching. Quickening as I drift up, then down. Feeling him swell. Struggling to contain himself against my influence.
I pause and let him writhe.
“Should I stop?” I taunt. A husk has worked its way into my voice.
He lets out a low laugh. “Should I?” His voice is just above a whisper, a coarse murmur that pulls at my inner strings.
I can’t.
I yank his mouth to mine. Give a desperate attempt to control my touch, but my thoughts have taken off at a frenzy. What it will be like to get on the other side of this fabric. This obstacle. This scrap of nothing keeping me from feeling his smooth skin.
I recognize his own restraint in the way he breathes. With how cruelly slow his fingers make their way up the inside of my thigh. Crawl. It’s beautiful torture. When he reaches his destination, a deep massage at the inside of my hip.
I let out a low whimper I can’t suppress and take charge once again. Make my way over his form and delight as he struggles to quickly undo his belt.
Slap.
The buckle strikes against the sensitive inside of my open thigh as he repositions, and I tense at the delectable sting.
“Oh God—I’m sorry.” He pulls back, his light eyes at once going from sharklike to full of concern.
My skin buzzes all around where it hit me, and I smile and release my hand from him. Direct his fingers to where he’s stopped. Just under my skirt.
Inches away from where I need them to be.
The full of his weight as he bears down on me. He crushes me in a kiss, deep. The drip drip drip at the window urging us on. The patter setting the rhythm as we move desperately against each other in the dark.
He runs his fingertips over my boyshorts. Kneads against the soaked cotton. A deep breath as he feels it. The throb becoming too much for me.
He grinds harder against my hand as he slips his fingers beneath the surface, kisses me deeper, rougher, like he’s trying to meld his existence with mine; the air now thick, the windows now fogged over.
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