That’s the whole truth and nothing but the truth. “Pretty safe to say, and I haven’t been involved since he was born.”
She waves at her stomach. “Same here. As I’m sure you can tell, I’m off the market.”
“You are?”
“Hello? This is like a ‘closed for business’ sign. No one is interested in me now.”
I want to tell her that’s not true. I’m interested. But then again, I can’t throw that out there and be the next guy who disappoints her. I’m interested in kissing her. I’m interested in getting her naked. But I don’t know if I’d be any good at more than that, given that my focus has been man and boy against the world.
And this woman deserves the world.
But maybe we can help each other. I squeeze her shoulder. “Hey, Roxy, since we’re both on the bench, what would you say about keeping this up?”
“The kissing?” she asks, a note of confusion in her voice. Maybe hope too.
“The kissing was pretty amazing.”
“It was incredible,” she seconds.
“But I was thinking maybe we could be each other’s plus-one. If you need a plus-one, call on me. I’ll do the same for you.” I make the offer because I want to see her again. I want to see her as much as possible. But I don’t want to hurt her, and I don’t want to hurt myself either. Or my boy.
“Plus-one, but no more kissing?”
I groan because the kissing is something I’ll miss like I missed my Snoopy lunch box when I lost it in second grade. “We probably shouldn’t, even though it was the best kiss in the history of high school reunions.”
“I was thinking more like in the history of first kisses,” she says, and she’ll get no argument from me.
Especially since I’m dying for history to repeat itself.
15
Miles
When I return home, I replay the kiss, imagining different endings. All of them involve her naked. In some scenarios she’s on her hands and knees, in some she’s bent over my bed, and in some she’s beneath me.
All of them end with me fucking her hard, pleasuring her, making her come relentlessly, and touching her fantastic tits and expanding belly.
Wait.
Do I have a fetish for pregnant women?
Shit. That’d be messed up.
But why the hell am I thinking of getting my hands all over the growing parts of her?
I pace my apartment, needing to test this theory, to figure out if I’ve descended into the dirty pervert rabbit hole. Grabbing my laptop, I flip it open and search for something I’ve never Googled before, and I hope to God that no one will ever know I looked for.
Pregnant woman porn. I narrow my eyes, squinting, half covering the screen with my fingers. But I need to know if I’m the worst kind of horndog.
In less than two seconds, I arrive at an answer.
Whew. I’m not.
I slam the tabs closed, erase my history, and breathe deeply, closing my eyes. Whew. I definitely don’t have a penchant for pregnant women.
But when I open my eyes, I still see Roxy’s lips, her gorgeous face, and her lush, ripe body. And my dick is still inconveniently aroused.
There’s an ache in my groin, and I’m going to need to give in to it, to this heavy, demanding lust. To the memory of the way she felt in my arms.
I don’t need any visual aids. I have the most perfect one locked in my mind as I strip off my clothes, head to the shower, and turn the water to hot. Thinking about that kiss, I grip my erection, shuddering at the relief from the contact.
Remembering her whimpers, I shuttle my fist faster along my aching length.
Replaying her sounds, I grip tighter, stroke harder.
Sensations rattle through me. I grit my teeth as I let that kiss play out to its logical conclusion. To an entirely different experience in the limo. To her riding me, grinding down on me, using me for her pleasure, getting what she needs with my body. I picture her leaning her head back, that red hair falling like a silky curtain, those glorious tits bouncing as she howls my name. Just like that, pleasure barrels down my spine, coiling inside me, and I shudder as I come.
After I finish the shower and wrap a towel around my waist, something is completely clear.
My issue is patently obvious.
It’s not Roxy’s pregnancy that turns me on so much.
It’s that I’m wildly fucking attracted to her, and not even something as monumental as her being knocked up has changed that.
Not one fucking bit.
I click on my e-reader, toggle over to a new sci-fi novel I downloaded, and do my best to get lost in shape-shifters in a parallel dimension.
16
Miles
Miles: So . . . it was the best first kiss ever?
Roxy: Are you fishing for compliments?
Miles: Yes. I have out my rod . . .
Roxy: *rolls eyes so hard*
Miles: Why yes, so hard is indeed an apt description.
Roxy: That OTM is strong in you. Also, I noticed.
Miles: My fishing rod? Who has the OTM now?
Roxy: Guilty as charged. And yes, I noticed both the rod and the tensile strength of it.
Miles: Booyah. This is where I drop the mic and walk away, right?
Roxy: Probably. But to answer your first question for real this time . . . yes, it was. So good I hear the Grammys are expanding this year to include best kisses by rockers because of us :)
Miles: We’d win the Grammy for Best First Kiss.
Roxy: Then we’d win Best First Kiss Cut Short by Kisser’s Complete Misread of the Situation.
Miles: You’re the kisser and I’m the kissee?
Roxy: Well, yeah.
Miles: Are you forgetting how I spun you around, pinned you to the wall, and kissed you senseless? I believe that makes me the kisser.
Roxy: If we’re expanding categories, can we add in Best Ass Grab?
Miles: Absolutely, since your ass is fucking perfection. I know we’re friends and all, but damn, woman. I could watch you walk in front of me all day long.
Roxy: Now this—this is where you drop the mic, Miles.
Five minutes later…
Miles: Sorry, what did you say? My hand was busy.
Roxy: You’re a very dirty pervert.
Miles: Like I said, that was a great kiss.
Roxy: You’re still a dirty pervert.
Miles: You’re still texting a dirty pervert.
Roxy: I’m still thinking about that kiss, even though it was clearly only part of the bodyguard duties.
Miles: Clearly. We were committed to your bodyguard work. And you’ve already told me there’s no kissing with plus-one work, so I’m clear on that too.
Roxy: None. Ever. Never ever. Also, Miles?
Miles: Yes?
Roxy: Last night was great. Thank you for being so understanding about everything.
Miles: No, thank you.
Miles: P.S. I meant it. You can walk in front of me anytime.
17
Miles
On the plus side, I didn’t cross the line when I texted her. That was all friendly flirting. That’s a thing, right? Friendly flirting? If not, it should be, and I’m going to update Urban Dictionary. I even have the definition:
Friendly flirting
When two friends exchange playful, teasing, slightly naughty, perhaps racy words, texts, or whispers to each other that will never lead to anything more, so of course they’re safe to say and send, especially when one of the recipients is the sibling of your buddy.
See? It’s all good. No harm ever comes from friendly flirting.
On the minus side, I did unholy things to Roxy in my fantasies. More than once. Fine, maybe it was three times. Fuck, that’s a lie. It was . . .
Hell if I know. I lost track.
Yep, that’s how it’s been going with my handiwork since the reunion.
But I have to put all that manual labor out of my mind as I play basketball with Wi
lliam a few days later. Best not to think about Roxy’s tits while I’m with her brother, so I focus my energies on sinking this next basket.
I send the ball soaring into the net with a whoosh, and Ben rushes from the sidelines to high-five me. Miller’s here too, working on paper airplanes with Ben on the edge of the court.
“Dad, you can try out for the NBA now.”
I smack his little palm. “Next week. Open tryouts for the Knicks. You coming with me, little man?”
He nods. “Yes. Can I get a hot dog when we’re there?”
I scoff, shaking my head. “Hot dogs are gross.”
Miller pipes in as he folds an elegant wing. “Do you even want to know what they’re made of?”
Ben swivels around, meeting Miller’s gaze. “I don’t know, Uncle Miller. Do I want to know what hot dogs are made of?”
Miller shakes his head. “It will scar you for life, little dude.”
Ben’s eyes widen. “I don’t like scars.”
“Scars are cool,” William says, chiming in. “But the having of them, not the getting of them.”
Ben furrows his brow. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
William shakes his head. “Never mind. Better to just not get wounded. And also, don’t get hot dogs. Get nachos. The nachos at Madison Square Garden are way better.”
“I love nachos.” Ben looks to me with eager blue eyes. “Can we get some after you kick William’s butt?” Then he turns to my one-on-one opponent. “Daddy said he would kick your butt today.”
My friend parks his hands on his hips and shoots me a dirty look. “You told your kid you were going to kick my butt this morning?”
I sigh dramatically. “You don’t want me to lie to him, do you?”
“Oh, no, of course not.” William dribbles with gusto, punctuating each word. “You do know I’m going to have to destroy you now.”
“Miracles can happen.”
“I’m praying for a miracle. William, you can do it,” Miller calls out, dropping down to his knees and clasping his hands in prayer. “Please destroy my little brother.”
William grabs the ball and rushes down the court, as Ben and Miller return to the paper airplane project. My buddy is determined, shooting and aiming to school me in the sport. He’s this close to beating me, and for a fraction of a second, I consider letting him. Maybe because of this seed of guilt that’s threatening to sprout up. The seed that reminds me I haven’t been the best of friends lately.
After all, I kissed his sister. And I groped his sister’s fabulous ass.
And then I fantasized about his sister.
And if she marched up to me right now and launched a second kiss attack, I know I’d surrender to her lips because they taste so fucking good.
But I haven’t crossed the line again. Surely friendly flirting doesn’t count.
I power to the basket, execute a perfect jump shot, and win the game.
Thrusting my arms in the air, I declare victory. “Told you I would kick your butt.”
Panting, William clasps his hands on his thighs, bending at the waist. “I hate you.”
I laugh and clap his back. “I hate you too.”
“Seriously. You’re rich, talented, you play a mean guitar, and you shoot hoops.”
“He’s handsome too,” Ben calls out as he launches what looks to be a four-winged airplane. “Like me!”
Miller squeezes Ben’s shoulder. “Like all the Hart men. We can’t help it. We were born afflicted by extraordinary good looks, and there’s no cure for it.”
William glances at me, shaking his head in amusement. “At least I’ll take solace in the fact that you haven’t yet nabbed some gorgeous, brilliant woman to make you the complete envy of every other guy, like I have with my lovely wife.”
A dart of tension shoots through me, then I let it go. “You’re right. I haven’t nabbed someone like her.”
And the one I want is your sister.
Like the bastard can read my mind, he grabs a towel, wipes his neck, and says, “The reunion went well, I hear?”
I straighten my shoulders, answering in a professional voice. “Roxy had fun.”
He laughs. “I meant your set. But glad to know you had a good time with my sister too.”
“The set rocked,” I say, trying to cover up my snafu. “Everyone loved us. So, uh, how’s business?” I ask, segueing as far away from his sister as I can.
“Fantastic. I’m this close to landing a few new clients. You know I give you a hard time, but I appreciate you taking a chance on me when I started out.”
“Glad I did,” I say, and it’s another warning. We have a friendship and a business relationship. I don’t want to cross the line and put him in a difficult position.
Cross it further.
“Hey,” Miller calls out, patting his stomach. “Ben and I are starving. We need nachos and ice cream sundaes, stat.”
Ben’s smile turns gleeful. “Please, Daddy?”
“You need to eat some lunch first. Like a kale salad.”
“Are you punishing him?” Miller asks, indignant.
“Just kidding. Let’s go get some food.”
“I need to take off for the office,” William says. “You cats have fun living the life.”
And we do, heading off to grab some midday grub, and when the turkey sandwich with a pickle on the side arrives, it gives me an idea.
A friendly idea, of course.
18
Roxy
“Short but not too short. Do you know what I mean?” the bespectacled woman with the Hermès scarf asks, moving her thumb and forefinger back and forth, back and forth, as if to indicate the moving target of her grooming request for her border collie mix.
Thus begins my Friday morning, six days post fantastic kiss.
“I have the gist of it, but if you could be a tad more specific, that would help. When you say short but not too short, tell me what short means to you,” I say with a smile as I check-in Lucy the collie.
“Two inches or maybe three, but one might be best.”
The debate lasts five more minutes, until I get out a ruler and we settle on the ideal length for Lucy.
A little later, a nanny brings a snarling Pomeranian in and swears that Freda’s owner says she won’t bite, even though Freda’s favorite activity seems to be baring her teeth.
Fortunately, we’re used to these jaw-baring pups, and the key isn’t putting them in a chokehold during a bath. It’s soothing their nerves beforehand. “Funnily enough, aromatherapy works well for panicky pooches,” I tell the nanny, and a half hour later, Freda is chilling out to some Bach and a little vanilla essence in a bubble bath.
When a man dressed in a suit, like a chauffeur, arrives with a pair of pussycats in pink rhinestone-studded carrying crates, he informs me the owner has requested the Bird TV grooming room for their brushing and sends his assurances that Betsy and Daisy won’t scratch.
The owner’s not entirely truthful, and my cat stylist, Lizzie, shows me the claw marks on her jacket that afternoon. But when she ushers me back to the Bird TV room, she’s smiling proudly as she shows me a pair of long-haired Siamese who are stunning with their new blowouts.
“Don’t they look perfect?” Lizzie asks excitedly, caring more about the end result than a few nicks on her jacket.
“You did good work, heading into battle with the girls.”
Once the day mercifully ends, I’m grateful to head home. Along the way, I check my emails, finding one from Genevieve. I brace myself for bad news, but when I click it open, I nearly squeal.
Everything is ticking along. Expect an update soon. Also, thank you for taking such good care of Betsy and Daisy. I changed to your salon after hearing of your impeccable escape-free record.
I unleash an excited hoot as I strut down Park Avenue. “It pays to be nice to pussycats,” I say to no one at all, and since it’s New York City, no one cares that I’m talking to myself in the crowds.
When I
reach my building, the doorman informs me a food delivery’s waiting for me. He hands me a fancy white box that’s chilled on the outside, which means it must have some sort of ice pack inside. Who would send me a food delivery? Could it be a tuna company has discovered my home address and is trying to gain stocking rights in the salon by wooing me with meals for Alan and Gloria?
They’d be pretty damn pleased with a tuna sponsorship, I suspect.
I thank him, go upstairs, and say hello to Alan and Gloria when I unlock the door. Alan’s tail twitches back and forth as he meows plaintively, then rubs his head against my leg.
“Yes, you’re hungry, I know.”
He gives me a look that would convince anyone that he’s saying I love you, but I know means he loves kibble. I scoop out some food and set it on the floor, and he serenades me with a purr as he eats. When he’s done, he’ll let Gloria have the leftovers, so I don’t even bother to feed her till he’s finished. He’s such a strange alpha-hole.
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