by Tawna Fenske
“Wouldn’t you rather be out honing your skills some more instead of volunteering your services to a sheltered young dirt doctor?” I ask.
He shrugs and glances back at the screen. “I work a lot,” he says. “And I have certain obligations that keep me on a tight leash as far as relationships go.”
My arms prickle at that. “You’re not married, are you?”
“God, no!” He answers like I’ve just asked if he enjoys clubbing baby seals, and it occurs to me I might not be the only one in this bed with an aversion to the whole marriage and family shit-show.
“Definitely not married,” he says. “And no intention of ever getting married. Ever,” he repeats, like I might have missed the emphasis.
I give an unladylike snort. “You don’t have to worry about me trying to pin you down and wrestle a ring onto your finger,” I inform him. “I’m pretty committed to not being committed. And have a stupid list of sexual lies to prove it.”
“Touché,” he says, glancing back at the list. “But I’m also willing to wager you’re a little bit…conservative.”
He gives an idle wave at the screen, and the tip of his finger grazes the words I kissed a girl.
I try the single-eyebrow lift he gave me, but I’m pretty sure it looks like I have a facial tic. “What part of girl-on-girl action makes you think I’m conservative?” I ask.
“The fact that you haven’t already crossed these things off your list,” he says. “The fact that you made a list at all instead of just going out and sowing your wild oats.”
He’s got me there.
“For the record,” he says, “I’m sort of over one-night-stands. And as we’ve already established, I’m not interested in the whole relationship train wreck.”
Interesting. He calls it a train wreck, I call it a shit-show. It’s clear we’re on the same page as far as relationships go. And in other ways.
I feel a smile starting to spread across my face, and he must read exactly what I’m thinking. “We’re compatible in bed,” he says. “So it seems likely we’ll be able to fulfill your list to our mutual satisfaction.”
“You make it sound so sexy.”
He laughs then leans down and plants a kiss on my shoulder. “I’ll also admit I like a good challenge. Some of the things on this list fall into that category.”
“Which ones?”
He flashes me a grin, but doesn’t say anything. I realize he’s been doing most of the talking. I probably owe him something.
“I want to be spanked,” I say. At his mild look of alarm, I hurry to clarify. “Not right this second. I’m answering your question from earlier. About whether I want to do the spanking and hair pulling, or if I want those things done to me. It’s the latter.”
“I was hoping that was the case,” he says. “I think we’re going to get along beautifully. So, what do you say?”
I think about his proposal. I picture myself doing all those things on the Fucket List with him, with Simon, with this stunning example of masculinity sitting here naked in my bed. He smiles, and something in my chest unspools.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s do it.”
Chapter Five
Simon
“Thank you, Simon.” My kid sister beams at me as she holds up the bright purple sweatshirt I’ve just given her, and part of me breaks inside.
She’s so fucking happy over a goddamn sweatshirt. Happy about everything, when three-quarters of the people on this planet would weep at the thought of being in Junie’s shoes.
“You’re welcome,” I tell her. “I know how much you love purple.”
“I do. And I like the kangaroo pocket in the front.”
She pulls the sweatshirt on over her head, and my brain flashes back to Cassie wearing a hoodie like this one. Everything’s making me think of her these days. Piles of dirt, for chrissakes. I’m seeing her later today, and I’m trying to pretend those aren’t goose bumps of anticipation on my arms right now.
“It looks great on you,” I tell Junie as I help her straighten out the shoulders. “You can wear it when we go on our trip in a few weeks.”
“We’re going to the beach.”
I nod, even though it wasn’t a question. I know she’s looking for reassurance. For affirmation that’s she’s remembered this detail correctly. “That’s right,” I tell her. “The Oregon Coast.”
“And we’re visiting the graveyard,” she says. “To see Mom and Dad.”
“Right again.”
Her expression is somber, and I want to punch every single person who ever suggested someone with Down syndrome isn’t capable of retaining information or processing emotion just like everyone else. Fuck those guys.
“It’s going to be a fun trip,” I tell her.
“Is Kaitlyn coming?”
The question hits me like a kick to the solar plexus. I shake my head, buying myself time to find my voice. “No. Kaitlyn and I don’t see each other anymore.”
Junie frowns. I can tell she’s trying to digest this. We’ve had this conversation before, and she hasn’t seen Kaitlyn for two years. Or Paula. Or Britney. Or any of the other girlfriends I introduced to her years ago. Back when I thought happily-ever-after might be a real option for me, and that women I formed relationships with weren’t just after my money.
I was a dumbass.
“We’re going to have a lot of fun at the beach,” I tell Junie instead. “Just the two of us. No girlfriends.”
The idea seems to please her, and she smiles. “We can hunt for agates,” she says.
“And we’ll have clam chowder at Mo’s.”
“Yummy!” She grins. “I have the date written down on my calendar.”
She does, too. I saw it earlier, along with the dates she’s scheduled to work at Hot Swap’s Gresham location this coming week. I’m so fucking proud of my sister sometimes I feel like jumping up on the porch rail and crowing about it.
“Okay, then,” I tell her. “I have to go now. You have a good week. And thanks for the lunch date.”
“Thanks for the sweatshirt. I love you, Simon!”
“I love you, too.”
It’s the only time you’ll catch me saying those words, to anyone, ever. And when I hug my sister tightly, I feel the love with every fiber of my being.
I can still see her smiling and stroking the arms of the sweatshirt as I slide into my car parked at the curb outside the group home where she lives. Sarah comes out and sits beside Junie, and they both wave at me as I pull away with a big knot in my chest.
I wish things were different. I wish Junie didn’t have to struggle to do so many things other people take for granted. I wish our parents hadn’t died ten years ago. I wish I hadn’t learned the hard way that women only want to date the jet-setting millionaire and not the devoted brother who will always, always put his sister first.
I shake off my own funk as I pull out into traffic and glance at the clock. It’s just after three, and I’m not due at Cassie’s place until four. I could kill an hour getting some work done or stopping at the gym, but instead I pull into the parking lot of the flower shop on the corner of Burnside and buy the biggest bunch of daisies they have.
I know we’re not dating—not even close—but she deserves some damn flowers. Besides, I haven’t seen her since that first night. We’ve texted a lot, coordinating the details of our schedules and our plans for which item to tackle next. But I haven’t laid a hand on her for days, and I’m dizzy knowing I get to touch her again.
I leave my car in the parking garage two blocks away, feeling a small pang of guilt. It’s true I’d prefer it if she didn’t know I’m a guy who can afford a new Mercedes CL65 coupe. A whole fleet of them, for that matter. Arming the women I date with that information has never gone well for me.
You’re not dating, I remind myself. Just fucking.
I like Cassie too much to see this end before it even really begins. There’s plenty of time to explain things later.
I r
ing the bell at Cassie’s place right on the dot at four. She opens the door, and it takes me a second to recognize her.
“You’re not wearing sweatpants,” I say lamely.
She rolls her eyes at me and pushes the door open wider, gesturing for me to come in. “Very observant, Einstein.”
“You’re also not naked,” I point out, studying her from head to toe as I step into her apartment and hand her the flowers.
“Thank you.”
She takes the flowers and strides into her tiny kitchen in a pair of strappy black heels that don’t make her wobble at all. She’s wearing a black skirt that’s tight, but not too tight. Green top made out of some sort of slippery material. Not silk, but I’ll bet it’s soft like that. My mouth starts to water, and I realize I’m gaping at her.
“What?” she says, whirling on her heel. I see a flicker of something in her expression—defensiveness? Self-consciousness?—and it occurs to me she’s a lot more nervous than she wants me to know.
I’m not sure why, but it makes me like her more.
“You look amazing,” I say.
“I do sometimes dress up, you know.” She runs her palm down the skirt, still clutching the flowers in one hand. “When I’m not doing fieldwork, sometimes I have to present my findings at university lectures. I know how to look girly when the occasion calls for it.”
I’m not sure where this bristliness is coming from, but I give her my best reassuring smile and lean against the kitchen counter. “I definitely don’t think you look girly.”
“What?”
“You’re no little girl. You’re all woman, Cassie. And incredibly hot.”
Her cheeks pinken at that, and she looks down at the flowers she’s stuffing into a tall blue vase. “Well,” she says, smiling a little. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you. For inviting me over. For being really fucking sexy. For wearing my favorite color.”
Her smile gets a little bigger, and she looks down at her blouse. “Your favorite color is green?”
“It is now.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s still smiling. “That’s such a line.”
“Maybe, but it’s true. You look amazing. Of course, you turned me on when you were wearing sweatpants, so it must be you and not what you’re wearing.”
She finishes fiddling with the flowers and shrugs. “I just wanted you to know I’m not always in Carhartt coveralls and work boots. Or hoodies and yoga pants. I do clean up pretty well.”
I give her my best sexy grin. “And you know how to get dirty when the occasion calls for it.”
It’s a ballsy move, going right for the reason we’re here instead of playing coy, but the gamble pays off. Her smile breaks into the real deal, sunny and open and warm. She laughs, and the tension between us is smashed into a million bits.
I’ve wanted her from the second I walked through the door, but I want her more now.
“Thank you for the flowers,” she says. “They’re beautiful.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I’m aware there’s no legal obligation to purchase flowers for a woman I’m sleeping with,” I say, making her blush again. “I did it because I wanted to.”
“Thanks.” She gives me a shaky smile. “Sorry, I’m just a little nervous.”
“Not a problem.”
“Want a glass of wine?” she asks.
“Sure. That sounds nice.”
“I hope pinot noir is okay. I opened a bottle last night, so it’s had time to breathe.”
“That’s perfect.”
We’re still acting a little stiff, which is not the sort of stiff I had in mind when I came here. Still, I understand the need for a little verbal foreplay. We’re not just going to jump each other the second I walk through the door.
Cassie hands me my wine, and we sit together on the couch.
This couch, I think, remembering the last time I was here.
“So how was work?” I take a sip from the wineglass.
“It was good. You know, you don’t have to pretend we’re dating. We can just get right down to it.”
I choke on my wine a little, but recover quickly. “It might help with the nervousness if we have a little conversation first.”
“Right. You’re right, of course. Sorry. This is still kinda new to me.”
I smile to let her know I’m not upset, and I take another sip of wine. “So how long have you lived in Portland?”
“All my life. Well, except for college. I went to Oregon State all the way through school—undergrad, grad school, my doctorate. How about you?”
“Stanford,” I say, then regret it.
She cocks her head and looks at me oddly. “And you work in a computer repair shop?”
“Yeah.” Crap. The last thing I need is for her to figure out I don’t actually work there, but I own the whole damn chain.
“I lived in LA for a little while, but I’ve been in Portland for eight years,” I tell her, diverting her from the subject of my career path. “I like it here. The weather’s nice and mild, and the skiing’s good in the wintertime.”
“You ski?”
“Yes. Do you?”
She shakes her head. “No. I’ve wanted to try it, but I’ve never gotten around to it.”
“I can teach you sometime.”
That was a dumb thing to say. We’ve agreed this a temporary thing. Just a chance to satisfy some sexual urges for us both. The odds of us even knowing each other by the time the next ski season rolls around are the same as my odds of becoming an opera singer. Did I mention I’m tone deaf?
I wait to see if Cassie will say anything about my verbal blunder, but she takes a sip of wine and toys with her hair. She has it down instead of in a topknot this evening, and I think about how it will feel to wrap my fingers up in it and tug.
“So…you swear you’re not married?”
I sputter into my wineglass at the abruptness of the question. I shake my head and set down the glass. “Cross my heart and hope to die, I’m not married. Never have been.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“No girlfriend, either. Or fiancée. Or regular fuck buddy, in case you’re wondering.”
I watch her brows lift in surprise, and I can tell she wants to ask more. I consider telling her right then and there about my abysmal track record with women. About how one girlfriend after another chose to cut and run when she realized life with me wasn’t all luxury spa getaways and shopping trips to Paris.
It’s picnics in the park with Junie. It’s battling the system to make sure she has every opportunity she can get. It’s about letting my kid sister know I have her back, no matter what.
But sharing that much detail with Cassie would open the door to questions I’m not ready to answer.
Instead, I settle for a half-truth. “Serious relationships aren’t really my thing,” I tell her. “I’m just not cut out for it.”
She nods and sips her wine, and I’m glad to see no trace of disappointment on her face. In fact, she looks relieved.
“Good,” she says. “They’re not my thing, either.”
“You’ve never been married?”
“Nope. Not planning on it, either. I’m not really wired to be a good little wifey, planning dinner parties and playing tennis at the country club.”
“And that’s a requirement of marriage?”
“It is in my family.”
“I see.”
“My sisters are—”
She stops herself there, and I wonder what she was about to say. Her expression is soft, almost wistful. When she speaks again, her voice is lower. “I love them dearly. Lisa taught me to ride a bike, and Missy once slapped a boy on the playground after he made fun of me for having dirty fingernails.”
“But?”
I’m not sure how I know there’s a “but,” but I can tell from her expression there is.
“But,” she acknowledges, “we d
on’t have a lot in common. They like designer clothes and Pinterest boards of hydrangeas and expensive jewelry. And even though I’m glad they’ve both found the things that make them happy, they’re not the same things that make me happy.”
I sense I’ve stumbled into touchy territory, and I feel relieved I’ve told her nothing about my career. If her family’s hell-bent on seeing Cassie married off to a guy whose finances give her the luxury of spending afternoons polishing her toenails on a yacht, it’s wise for me not to let on that I’m that guy. On paper, anyway. Certainly not in real life.
Full disclosure: I don’t own a yacht.
I can see Cassie squirming beside me on the sofa, and I wonder if it’s best to just stop the chitchat and get on with what we’ve decided to do. What we both want most from each other. She senses my eyes on her and looks up. When those green eyes lock with mine, I feel a jolt of heat arc through me. From her sharp intake of breath, I can tell she feels it, too. Something primal. Something carnal. Something that has nothing at all to do with money or relationships or anything of the sort.
“Okay, then.” I clear my throat. “We’re going for item number two this evening, correct?”
“That’s correct.” Her cheeks turn a few hues rosier, and I’m not sure if it’s the ridiculousness of our formality, or the thought of what item number two is that’s making her blush.
“Hair pulling,” I say, deciding to put it out there. “And spanking with a kitchen implement of some sort, if I’m not mistaken. Any particular reason?”
I don’t know why I ask, since she doesn’t need a reason for wanting her ass smacked. It makes no difference to me, and I’m happy to oblige either way. I’m almost surprised when she answers.
“Yeah.” She takes a small swallow of wine and seems to choose her words carefully. “I told that particular fib last year when my sisters were giving me a hard time about being a terrible cook. I am, by the way. It’s never really bothered me before, but that day—”
She shrugs in a way that says a lot more than it would have if she’d completed the sentence. I nod, hoping she’ll continue.
“Anyway,” she says, “Lisa made a crack about me not knowing where my own kitchen was, and I fired back that I knew exactly where it was because some hot guy bent me over the counter the week before and yanked my hair while he smacked my ass with a spatula.”