by Lila Monroe
I guess you really can never tell.
“I like Gemma,” she says out of nowhere, and my attention snaps back. She smiles at me sheepishly. “I know it’s not any of my business,” she says. “But she seems nice.”
And here I thought it couldn’t get weirder. I give her a non-committal shrug.
“She has a ways to go with your clothes,” she says, waving toward my outfit. “But it’s a good start. I mean, the beard, your hair … It’s obvious you’re doing well. You finally got with the program, huh.”
I grit my teeth. “The program?”
“What I’ve been telling you for years?” She sighs. “I just sort of wish you’d made the effort while we were married. Don’t get mad,” she adds, patting my arm. “I’m happy for you. Really. I’m glad you’re doing well. You deserve to find someone who … gets you.”
I narrow my eyes. “Thanks,” I mutter.
Growth, I remind myself. Civility.
“Carnitas, extra guac for Zach—order up!” The guy hollers from the food truck window.
Thank God.
“Great talk,” I lie. “Gotta run.”
“Good to see you!” she calls after me as I stride away from her.
I tell myself it was no big deal, running into her. We’ve both moved on. But then I hear her smug voice all over again, talking about how I’ve finally got with the program—even though I’m still the same guy I always was.
Did she ever look at me and not see some kind of work-in-progress? All those years together, I never really noticed how she manipulated me: nudging me to smarten up, join the hot new gym, and ‘whoops!’, losing my favorite beat up sneakers so she could replace them with something newer.
It made me feel like I wasn’t good enough. Like I would never be good enough, until I jumped through all her hoops. And it wasn’t until she finally gave up on me that I realized, she did me a favor. Better to go our separate ways than always feel like someone’s fucking pet project.
Now, at least, I can finally live for me. Know that the changes I’m making are my choices, not because somebody’s yanking my strings.
I’ve lost my appetite. I dump my lunch in the trash and keep walking.
* * *
After I get back to my place, I’m still restless, so I set about finally cleaning the last of my mess. When the furniture guys came, I pretty much just threw everything in a closet, but now, I get everything in its proper place. After all, I’ve been congratulating myself on becoming an adult.
Well, a grown-ass man can fold some laundry.
By the time Gemma texts to say she’s on her way over, the place looks great. I have furniture, clear surfaces, and even all those decorative do-dahs Gemma picked out, like throw pillows, and a potted plant.
Adulting for the win.
She knocks, and I go to answer, but when I open the door, all I can see is a woman bent over at the waist, a tiny black skirt riding up over ruffled panties. My eyes drift to the garters, holding up black stockings with those sexy lines. The lines run down the backs of legs that go on forever.
What the hell?!
“What do you think,” Gemma says, straightening up. She bats her eyelashes and does a little spin, a feather duster in her hand. “I got it at a costume shop—I have a ‘thing’ to go to in a few days where I need to wear something sexy and French.”
I stand there, trying to keep up, which is not easy when all the blood in my body is on its way to my cock. “Mission accomplished.”
She grins at me. “The costume store had a whole section of these things,” she sashays past me into the apartment. “Funny how so many of men’s fantasies revolve around women cooking and cleaning for them.”
I laugh. “Nothing sexier than fabric softener.”
I’m still drooling over that costume as she looks around. She glances back at me, her eyes wide. “Zach! This looks amazing. I’m impressed!”
“Thanks,” I say, my chest filling with pride over my apartment. And that she likes it. Hell, she was a big part of what made it happen.
“You should probably show me the bedroom.” She holds up the duster and winks, “In case of any dust.”
I laugh, and tug her towards the bedroom. She gasps. “What’s this I see? A bedframe? A new mattress? Lamps?!
I snort. “C’mon. It’s just stuff.”
She shakes her head. “It’s your stuff. Doesn’t it feel good to have your own things? New things without a past, that you got to pick?”
She’s right. I’m not just in limbo anymore, reminded of all the shit that Lisa got in the divorce. This is my life I’m building now.
I don’t want to get all mushy, not when she’s driving me to distraction in that sexy maid’s outfit, so I don’t reply, I just pull her in for a kiss. It feels too intimate to thank her out loud for what she’s done for me but I can sure as hell show her.
The duster falls to the floor.
“Do you like my new sheets?” I ask.
She kisses me, looking flushed, and sexy as hell. “Later,” she says breathlessly.
“Or you could check them out now …” I turn her around so she’s facing the bed and I’m behind her.
Right behind her. “Oh,” she says as I press my cock into her ruffles. “Those are nice … patterns.”
“I thought you’d like them,” I say casually, even as grinding against her feels anything but casual.
“I do. Maybe I should see them up close.” She bends over at the waist, getting up close and personal with my new bedspread as her ass presses into me. “Oh yes,” she says. “These blue circles are …” she pants. “… perfect.”
I reach around and slide my palm over her pussy. Gemma bucks against me.
This girl, holy shit. She groans and somehow even that sounds French. “Don’t move,” I order her, giving her ass a gentle smack. I reach over to the brand-new nightstand, where I already stashed a box of condoms.
How’s that for prepared?
I roll one on, then, one hand on her back, I push inside her from behind. She moans, pushing back against me, taking me even deeper inside.
Fuck.
It’s too perfect. Then I’m moving, holding her hips in place as I drive into her from behind. Her skirt gets in the way and I flip it up, watching as I slide in and out of her, driving me crazy.
“Fuck, Gemma,” I have to close my eyes because it’s too much to feel her and see her at the same time. She feels incredible, and fuck, I’m not going to last like this.
“Yes,” Gemma moans. “Don’t stop.”
No fucking way. I lose myself in her, over and over, and the only thing I can think is, I don’t want this to end.
19
Gemma
- Day 9 -
As much as the bet has taken over my life, I still find time to dash back to the shelter for my usual ‘style clinic’ this morning. Today, a couple of the women are getting ready for job interviews, so I put together the perfect power-dressing outfits for them.
But June, an older woman, assesses her reflection nervously. “I don’t know about the jacket,” she says, frowning at herself in the mirror. “The patterns is, wow, really out there.”
It’s a muted pinstripe print, but I’ve only ever seen June in black, so I can see why she’s a bit hesitant. “It brings out the blue in your eyes,” I reassure her, “but if you don’t love it a thousand percent, we’ll find you something else.”
She looks anxious. “You don’t mind? I don’t want to be picky. I mean, all this stuff is free.”
I smile back at her. “Of course not. You need to be confident and that requires the perfect outfit that you love.”
She exhales in relief. “Thanks.” I pull a black jacket from the rack of clothes. “How about this? A bit more understated.”
Her eyes light up and she makes grabby hands at me. “Oh, I like that.”
She takes the hanger from me and pulls it on. My phone buzzes, and I can’t resist checking. Sure enough, it’s a m
essage from Zach.
‘How’s my cream puff today?’
‘Cream puff?’ I snort.
‘I was going to say croissant but not sure how to spell it.’
‘Just like that,’ I send, smiling.
‘Thanks to automobile.’
Huh?
‘Fucking autoccrat!’
I giggle as I watch the three dots.
‘Seriously aristocrat?’
I laugh out loud. Do you mean autocorrect?
He sends a thumbs up.
‘What are you up to?’
‘This and that. Laundry. Missing you.’
Oh. Well. My heart sure likes that last part. I can’t stop the smile spreading on my face.
He misses me!
“That’s a good smile,” June says, noticing. I flush. “What’s his name?”
“Hmm?”
She smirks knowingly. “The guy you were obviously just texting.”
“Oh!” I laugh, my face heating up. “He’s … just a friend.”
“A handsome friend?”
“Very,” I say with a grin. “He’s one of the good ones.”
She nods and reaches out to pat my shoulder. “You deserve it. You work too much; you need a little fun.”
A little? I’ve been having more fun with Zach than any guy in, well, ever. I can’t wait for the bet to be over—not because I’ll find out about the promotion, but because I can tell Zach everything, laugh about it, and move on with whatever it is we’re doing here.
This could be something real.
‘Missing you too,’ I text. ‘Looking forward to seeing you tonight.’
When I get his response, I laugh: googly eyes, tacos, eggplant, peach, avocado.
I return the avocado with a question mark.
I just really like avocado, he responds.
I really like you, I think but don’t type.
I clear my throat, thrown by the thoughts suddenly swirling in my head. Serious, sentimental thoughts, about dating, and anniversaries, and waking up with him every morning …
Woah, girl!
“Here, let’s try another look,” I tell June, quickly changing the subject. “This dress has ‘hire me’ written all over it!”
Later that day, Eve calls, asking me if I’m up for some puppy therapy. “Do you even need to ask?” I joke, meeting her at the animal shelter where she volunteers. Someone just brought in a litter of five black and white Border Collie puppies that are just about ready for adoption.
They are literally the cutest things I’ve ever seen.
“Come on,” Eve grins, handing me a couple of leashes. We head outside, and start walking, the puppies scampering around our ankles. “I want to hear all the dirty details about Zach and the bet.”
Those are two separate subjects, so I tackle the good one first. “Zach’s…he’s great,” I say on a sigh.
She looks at me sideways. “But?”
“When do you know?” I ask, knowing Eve will understand. Zoey is down-to-earth when it comes to dating. She doesn’t expect anything from guys, so she’s never disappointed. She’d hate how quickly I’m falling for Zach. But as our resident romantic, Eve won’t judge.
Sure enough, she stops in her tracks, her eyes wide. “Oh my god, You’re in love with him?”
“No!” I exclaim quickly. “No way. Not yet. But … ” I bite my lip, blushing. “I’m really falling for him.”
Falling in an oh-my-god, I hope I don’t hit the ground kind of way.
Eve squeals. “I knew it!”
“I’m glad you knew,” I laugh. “We just click, you know? I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way about anyone before. But, how do I know I’m not just getting caught up in all the endorphins and hormones and amazing sex?”
“How amazing?” Eve demands.
I look over at her and let out a wistful sigh. “Evie, It is so amazing that ‘amazing’ doesn’t do it justice. It’s fun and hot and he’s so … skilled. And did I mention hot?”
Her grin widens. “I love it,” she says. “Look at you all confident and uninhibited. You two obviously have a ton of fun together.”
“We do,” I agree, unable to stop smiling. “But it’s more than that. I feel like we’ve really opened up to each other.”
“So, have you told him about the bet?” she asks.
I sigh. “No, because that would be against the rules. Am I crazy?” I ask. “Keeping it from him? It didn’t seem like a big deal when we started, but I don’t know … it feels weird now.”
“It’ll be over tomorrow,” Eve points out. “Day Ten, right? Then it won’t even matter.”
“You’re right,” I say with relief. “He’ll probably think the whole thing is hilarious, right?”
"Totally," Eve agrees. “I mean, you asked him to be a client, and he said ‘yes’. You only did for him what you do for everyone. He knew what he was signing up for.”
“True,” I agree, feeling a little better. “I just know, he hated his ex trying to change him …”
“This is totally different,” Eve says decisively. “He wanted to do it! I promise, it’s not even a thing. I mean, you guys are perfect together.”
“How would you know?” I tease. “You’ve only glimpsed him in the hallway.”
“Good point,” she grins. “You need to bring him around so we can check him out properly. Honorary member of the Chick Flick Club. Pink fluffy slippers optional.”
I laugh. “I’ll see what I can do. Now, what about you?” I ask, not wanting to be one of those bad friends who only talks about myself. “What’s going on? Any hot dates?”
“You mean with two-legged creatures, not four?” Eve snorts. “Nope. But I don’t mind,” she adds, pausing to give the pups some belly scratches. “My guy is out there somewhere, I’ll get around to finding him eventually.”
“Just the one?” I tease.
She grins. “You know I’ve always been bad at multi-tasking.”
I laugh, just as my phone buzzes with a text. Eve’s does too, which can mean only one thing.
“Zoey,” we say in unison, and check the message. It’s a 911 emergency. Her freezer broke down, and all her bulk supplies are defrosted.
I call. “What can we do to help?”
“I don’t know!” Zoey wails. “I have like, a week’s worth of food here, and it’s all going to waste.”
“We should have a cookout,” I suggest. “Bring everything to my building. We’ll set up in the parking lot, invite everyone we know. If we all chip in some cash, that’ll cover your costs, right?”
“You’re a genius!” Zoey cries. “Anything to keep this stuff from going to waste.”
“Won’t your landlord mind?” Eve asks.
“I’m not too worried.” I grin. “Turns out I’m sleeping with him. I’ll get him to invite his friends, too.”
Eve is about to give me a high five when she notices the bag of dog poop in my hand. “Let’s finish up with these rascals and go help her get set up.”
* * *
We meet Zoey at the back of my building, in the parking lot and start setting up for our cookout. Eve unpacks the coolers, and Zoey fires up the stoves on her truck. She’s frazzled, doing all the cooking on her own when Zach arrives with Martin, Julie, and Brody in tow.
Julie sees Zoey’s freaking out and all alone. “What can I do to help?” she says, literally rolling up her sleeves. “I grew up in restaurants.”
Zoey sighs in relief. “You are my new best friend, get on up here!”
Martin and Brody go fetch folding tables and chairs, while Zach tugs me aside for a ‘hello’ kiss.
And a ‘how you doing?’ kiss.
And a ‘mmm, want to ditch this and just go to bed?’ kiss, also.
I want to drag him upstairs for a pre-cookout appetizer, but then Brody’s voice interrupts.
“Get a room!”
“Easy there, smoothie king,” Zach says as he pulls away from me.
“Smoothie k
ing?” I ask.
Zach smirks. “Brody’s in love with the smoothie girl.”
Brody protests. “Am not!”
“Really,” Zach arches an eyebrow. “How many smoothies have you had in the last seven days?”
Brody crosses his arms. “A reasonable number.”
“If that number is over seven, it’s not reasonable.” I add, teasing.
Brody’s face says it all.
I laugh. “Definitely over seven.”
“He’s probably pissing green,” Zach smirks.
“I am not!” Brody protests, but maybe too much.
As someone who drank a lot of smoothies when Zoey first bought her truck and was toying with the juice bar idea, I am very familiar with the effects of overdoing it on healthy liquids.
“What color?” I ask knowingly.
“Pink,” he sighs. “Beets.”
We all laugh, including Brody, which makes me like him more.
“Grub’s up!” Zoey calls, and we all head over to fill our plates with delicious waffles, pancakes, and plenty of steak and bacon.
* * *
We have an amazing afternoon, eating, joking around, playing some impromptu parking-lot basketball, my friends getting to know his. It feels very comfortable and I love how well everyone gets along.
Especially when he suggests we pack up the ton of leftover produce and drop it by the shelter.
Later, when Zoey has driven her truck away and everyone else has gone home, we head up to his apartment, and I show Zach exactly how I’m feeling. We drift off in each other’s arms, and I realize, tomorrow is the big day.
The gala.
Aka, when Serena settles this crazy bet once and for all.
And I can start fresh with Zach. No secrets this time.
“Hey,” I whisper, turning to face him. “I have a big work thing tomorrow night. Would you do me a favor and be my date?”
“Is it the French Maid thing?” he asks, his voice soft, sleepy.
I laugh. “Well, it’s not like a French Maid convention or anything. But it’s a Moulin Rouge-themed gala. A big deal in the fashion industry—they do fundraising for the institute. A good cause.”