Текст книги "Wet"
Автор книги: Ruth Clampett
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
Chapter Three
STAND AND DELIVER
“You aren’t going to believe this.”
My hand tightens over my phone. “Elle?”
“My lawn is orgasming again.”
I feel a blow to my pride. “But everything was so tight when I left.”
“No, that backyard issue is fine. My poor old gardener took out two more heads this week in the front. I swear the man is blind.”
“Old or not, that’s messed up. He should replace them.”
“I tried to get him to do it once and it was a disaster. Ask your dad.”
I’m reminded of dinner with the family last week.
“Speaking of my dad, he told me he wants to handle your account from now on.” I feel bad as soon as the words come out of my mouth.
“What? Why? Did I do something wrong?” She sounds more upset than I expected.
“No, of course you didn’t do anything wrong. Remember how I told you he won’t let me see young unmarried clients because of my issues?”
“He thinks you’ll have sex with me?” She sounds hopeful and it breaks my heart a little.
“I’m pretty sure he doesn’t trust me. I mean look at you.”
“You think I’m attractive?”
“How could I not? Even if I were blind, your voice is beautiful.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet. Well, you know how I feel about you.”
I let out a long sigh. “Elle . . .”
“Don’t you want to see me?” she asks with a sad lilt to her voice.
“Of course I do. And you’re making it sound like you still want to have me work on your yard?”
“Yes . . . I do,” she says softly.
“Okay, let me finish up here and then I’ll be on my way.” As I hang up guilt starts crawling up my spine but I do my best to say the hell with it.
When she pulls open the door I sense that something is wrong—something more than our discussion about my dad. Damn, what is it with this woman? I want her to give me her real smile, not this half-baked smile.
I nod toward the yard. “You wanna show me where the old guy messed up my work?”
She sighs. “Thanks for coming.”
“I’m your man.”
She looks up at me and blinks repeatedly.
“Your sprinkler man,” I add, correcting myself.
She blushes and steps out the door until she’s standing next to me on the porch. I notice she’s barefoot and wearing no make-up. She looks prettier that way. I like it.
She walks to the middle of the lawn and points to the areas of destruction.
“Damn. Does your gardener have issues? What does he have against sprinklers?”
She smiles. “I know, right?”
“You should fire him.”
“Actually he’s so old he can barely push the lawnmower anymore. I could never fire him. I’d feel terrible.”
I bend down and pick up one of the broken heads.
“Can you fix it?
I wink at her. “Baby, I can fix anything.”
She turns away and I realize her expression has fallen.
“You okay?”
She nods. “I’m going to get some coffee. You want some?”
“I’m good.”
I watch her walk away and I can’t shake the feeling that something is really wrong.
When I’m done with the work I let myself in the house and pause in the entryway before walking further in. Everything is in hues of grayed blues and cream. The floors are whitewashed wood, and a quiet beach landscape painting hangs over the couch. It’s sophisticated and more serene that I would expect from saucy Elle.
“Elle,” I call out.
She doesn’t answer and I pause wondering what to do.
Hearing a sniffle, I walk past the living room toward the light-filled den. I spot her curled up in the corner of the couch.
I notice her eyes are red as she brushes a tear away.
Damn it all. I feel so fucking awkward. I pick up the box of tissues on the coffee table and thrust it toward her.
She pulls a tissue out and looks away as she dabs her eyes.
I sit on the edge of the couch. “You want to talk about it?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
We sit silently for a minute. I twist my fingers together and look over at her.
She has a glassy stare, her gaze focused out the window.
“You sure, Elle?” I ask. My voice has an edge. I can’t hide my anxiety.
She nods.
I rub my hands over my knees and slowly stand. “Okay then, I think I’ll take off.” I’ve taken several steps toward the door when she clears her throat.
“I don’t think I’m going to do Tinder anymore.”
I stop and turn around. “What?”
She picks at something on the sofa arm and doesn’t look up. “No more Tinder for me.”
As thrilled as I am to hear it, I’m worried about what happened to lead her to that decision. Judging from her demeanor, it must’ve been bad. I sit back down on the sofa. “Seriously? You’re really done with it?”
She nods. “D-o-n-e, done. Maybe I need a hobby or something instead,” she says with a forlorn expression.
“Hobbies are good,” I agree, my tone encouraging. “I know it’s not really a hobby but I work out a lot and it’s a great stress release.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of something brain numbing like Sudoku or needlepoint.”
“Sorry, but I can’t picture either of those satisfying you. How about tennis? Do you play? I used to, and there are great courts you can pay for by the hour down on Whitsett. Why don’t you come with me and we can just knock the ball around . . . how does that sound?”
She looks so deep in thought that she doesn’t appear to be listening to me. “Maybe I should join your no-sex club.” She nods her head. “ASU or whatever you called it. Would you take me with you?”
“ASU is a university in Arizona, it’s AUL, and I’ll take you if it’s what you really want but you’ve got to tell me first what happened.”
Her expression gets dark. “He called me a slut,” she whispers.
My head jerks toward her. “What?”
“Scott, that guy from Tinder, called me a slut and a whore.”
There’s an explosion in my chest. It’s fury weighted with the gut-kick that I didn’t protect her from the very thing I feared.
“When did he call you that?” My fingers curl into fists.
“During the sex.” She looks at me wide-eyed and in that moment she looks like a little girl. “He pulled my hair hard, and told me I was a dirty whore . . . that he couldn’t believe he was fucking such a nasty slut.”
I have to focus on breathing so I don’t explode. “What did you do?”
“I just laid there stunned. And when it was over he couldn’t stop talking about how friggin’ great it was.”
“Damn,” I say shaking my head.
She curls up tighter. “I just wanted to feel sexy and independent. Like those girls on those racy cable shows.”
I inch over closer to her and when she doesn’t flinch I slide my arm over her shoulder. When she leans into me I pull her closer.
“Oh, Elle. Those girls are fictional characters and that guy is a fucker. You know he didn’t mean that, right? That’s what gets him off . . . it’s not you.”
She leans into me but remains silent.
“When did you have sex with him?”
“A couple of nights ago, and still I can’t get over what he called me . . . all of those awful things. I’m just so angry with myself for not following my instincts when we first hooked up. Yes, I want hot sex but being told I’m a trashy whore feels abusive, not sexy.”
“Have you talked to him since then?”
She shakes her head. “No. He’s left me a few messages to hook up again but I haven’t responded.”
“You want me to tell him to fuck off?”
Her eyes widen. “You’d do that?”
“Sure I’ll do it. He won’t bug you again.” I crack my knuckles as I think of pounding his face in, even though I won’t have the chance to do more than threaten him on the phone.
She drops her head against my shoulder. “You’re really something Paul. Thank you for offering but I’m going to have to do it. I need to stand up for myself, but it means a lot that you want to help.”
“Okay. Well, you know where to find me if you change your mind.”
She wipes her tears away again and sits up straight.
“You know I never thought being a modern woman who embraces her sexuality would be so difficult. Why can’t I enjoy this side of me without being made to feel bad about it?”
“You shouldn’t feel bad about being true to yourself,” I agree.
“Before I got married I used to underplay that side of myself because I wanted to be noted for my intelligence and abilities but look where that got me. It feels like finding a man who embraces my sexual side while still respecting me may be impossible.”
I rub my palms over my knees. “When it comes to sex, men think with their cocks. And we all know cocks are defiant assholes and have minds of their own.”
“Is your cock like that?”
“Well he sure as hell used to be. It’s taken two years of meetings for him to understand that I’m the boss now.”
“What if I never find a man that wants what I want?”
“You will, Elle. You just haven’t looked in the right place yet.”
She smiles at me. “Hey, I forgot to tell you. Your mom called and invited me to dinner.”
I scowl inwardly. “Yeah, she mentioned she might.”
“She was talking up your brother, Paddy. What’s that all about?”
“She has a second career, my mom.”
“Which would be . . .”
“Matchmaker.”
“Ooo. She’s setting me up with your brother? Is he hot like you?”
I have to choke back a laugh. “Well, we’re pretty different. He’s an accountant and he’s four years older than me.”
She scrunches up her nose. “An accountant? That’s not nearly as sexy as a landscape architect.”
“And sprinkler man,” I tease.
She pushes me on my shoulder. “Is he addicted to sex too?”
Embarrassed I look down. “Ah no, . . . He doesn’t share my affliction apparently.”
“Okay . . . so he isn’t as hot as you, he’s an accountant, and he isn’t hot for sex. So why do I want to date him?”
“To make my parents happy.”
“Ha! Your parents! Do you want me to come? I’ll come if you want me to.”
“Don’t do me any favors. Besides, you’ll have to deal with my sister, Trisha. She’s a mouthy firefighter married to a florist. It’s like a bad sitcom.”
“Will her husband be there?”
“He usually doesn’t come. He uses the excuse that he’s working but I think he’s scared of my dad who’s convinced he’s gay.”
“Just because he’s a florist?”
“My dad’s really old school. I’m hoping he’ll ease up if they ever have kids.”
She breaks her first smile since I found her on the couch. “Oh, I’ve got to come now. I’m so curious.”
I’m picturing Elle in her high-heel sandals and bare legs for miles. When my mom gets one look at her it’ll be the last invite for our family dinner. Ma is looking for breeders for her boys, not hot babes.
“Okay then. Just remember that I warned you.” I give her shoulder a squeeze and then scoot to the edge of the couch. “I better go.”
“If you must,” she says.
I glance down at the coffee table and something catches my eye. There’s a short stack of books and the top one’s cover intrigues me. Its title is in bold red letters: Broken, and the picture is of a pissed off guy with tattoos and no shirt on.
I pick it up to examine it more closely.
“What’s this?” I ask.
She tucks her face into her folded arm and groans before mumbling something.
“What was that?”
“It’s a book I just read.”
“What kind of book is this?” I wonder aloud as I study it.
“A romance.” Her cheeks are pink and she looks away.
“What the hell kind of romance is this? This dude looks like he’s going to beat the shit out of someone. Is it a gangbanger romance?”
She giggles softly. “No. It’s an erotic romance.”
“Well seriously? What’s romantic about this? Shouldn’t there be a girl in a low cut pirate dress about to kiss this guy? I remember my mom having some of those in the house.”
She grins. “Pirate dress?”
“You know what I mean. The kind that’s low cut with laces and her tits busting out. If she were on the cover I bet this dude would be a lot less pissed off.”
I reach for the next book in the pile. This one has a guy in a suit with his head cropped off and it’s called, Deal or Die. “Is this a romance, too?” I ask, not hiding the disbelief in my voice.
“It is indeed.”
I flip through the pages. “Is there a lot of sex in these books?”
“Does the sun shine?”
“Is it hot?”
“I thought it was.” She pulls Deal or Die out of my hands. “I burned out two sets of batteries on this book, but I doubt that will happen again.”
Oh damn, picturing Elle burning out batteries with a vibrator between her legs will require a long shower for me tonight. “Why’s that?”
“He talks dirty to her a lot.” She glances down to where she’s twisting her fingers together.
“What kind of dirty?”
“He calls her a slut and a whore.”
“I see. And when you read that you thought it was hot?”
“I did . . .”
“But it’s a lot different when you’re the one being called a slut?”
She nods and her eyes tear up again.
I slide back against the cushion of the couch so that our shoulders are touching.
“We’ve talked a lot in my group about watching porn vs. reality. It’s easy to get desensitized as to what is good for you and the woman you’re with and what isn’t.”
She sighs. “Sex can be confusing.”
“Mind-blowing and amazing, but yes, confusing too.” I flip through the rest of the pile. “Hey can I read one of these?”
“Why would you want to?”
“Maybe to understand what makes the female fantasy psyche work.”
“Are you sure?” She sounds nervous.
They must really be dirty. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
She grabs the pile and sorts through it. “Here, read this one.”
“Torched?”
“It’s so hot.”
“Seriously? I mean with the flames in this picture it looks like his head’s on fire so I guess that’s hot.”
“Well, I think the story is hot.” She gives me a demure smile.
“Okay. That’s good enough for me.” I turn the book over in my hands a few times. “I better get going.”
“Hey, Paul Junior?”
“Yes, Ms. Jacoby?”
“If you ever decide to be a man-whore again will you have sex with me?”
I kiss the top of her head. “You’ll be first on my list.”
This time, as I lift off the couch and say good-bye, her smile is genuine.
That night I climb into bed and crack open Torched. I’m not even to the end of the first chapter when the main dude, Luke, is fucking this Lucia chick in the back of his parent’s tasting room at their vineyard.
I shudder at the dialogue and descriptions—throbbing clits, massive cocks and all the wetness. It all starts with the guy ripping her panties off. Have you ever tried to rip off a pair of panties? It’s not like they just pull apart. Those things are sewn to stay together, and I gave a girl a skin burn once trying to yank off that lacey shit.
But the best are the orgasms on command. “Come!” he commands. And she does.
I roll my eyes. Right. If only . . .
I close my eyes and imagine I’m hearing the buzz of Elle’s vibrator as she reads, dropping the book on her bed to circle her nipples while the vibrator gets her off. Now that’s my kind of erotica. I sigh as I grip my hard cock. It’s going to be a really long night.
The next evening the phone rings just as I’m finishing off my second scotch and watching the game.
I glance at the screen. Damn.
It’s her. Elle, with a capital E.
The girl that kept me up late last night jerking off. I’ve got a little buzz going from my couple of drinks and talking to her right now is risky.
I clear my throat and try to push my dirty thoughts aside. “What’s up, Elle?”
“Hi, Paul,” she says in that breathy voice.
I’m already getting hard again. Damn.
“I just wanted to let you know that thanks to you I’m feeling so much better today.”
“That’s great,” I say, impressed with how much better she sounds. “And what brought that on?”
“I was thinking about what we talked about . . .”
I can’t resist the impulse to fill in all the blanks of what she wants to tell me . . . and the dirty book I gave you to read . . .
“And it occurred to me,” she says earnestly.
. . . how much I want you, Paul . . .
But when she finishes her thoughts it’s nothing like what I thought she would say.
“Why should I let one bad apple spoil the whole bunch?”
I sit straight up. What the hell? Can we hit rewind?
When I reply my voice is louder than intended. “Did you really just say that one bad apple shit? My mother used to tell me that. Have you ever considered that the whole bunch on Tinder could be bad apples?”
“You’re so funny!”
“I’m not joking,” I say.
“Seriously Paul, I’ve decided to throw myself back into the game.”
“But Tinder’s not really a game, Elle . . . it’s more like the mosh pit. What if you get head butted again?”
“I’ve realized the mistake I made. This time I’m going to spell it out to the dude before we get to the sexing.”
“Spell it out, huh?”
“Yeah, no weird stuff like latex or furry suits. No demeaning talk or behavior. No bondage. No threesomes.”
“Or foursomes?” I ask.
“Ewww, no!” she says.
“Are you trying to make me feel bad?”
“What? No, why?”
“I told you about my foursome.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot about that. That was when you were a man-whore.”
“Yes, thanks, although I prefer the term ‘sex fiend’.”
“Well . . . that’s still what you told me.”
“I did. So see, I’m the very guy you wouldn’t want to sleep with.”
“Ummm.”
“Yet, you pretty much asked me to screw you when we met. Do you see how complicated this is?”
“Can I ask you something, Paul?”
“Sure, why not? You know so much about me already.”
“Did you do men too back during your sex fiend days?”
I almost drop the phone. “Sex with dudes? No! Why would you ask that?”
“So your orgy was really just you and a bunch of women. Did you have a harem or something?”
“I could have.”
She huffs into the phone. “Oh really? A harem? What if you’re making all this stuff up? Why should I believe you and all your big talk?”
“If you don’t believe me, I don’t care. It doesn’t change anything.”
“What if you made up all those sexy stories . . . like that you were addicted to sex. What if you’re really more like your accountant brother?”
I feel the vein pop out on my forehead. Why is she screwing with me?
“I know what this is about,” I whisper in a dark voice.
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“You’re provoking me, trying to get me to come over there and fuck you and break my oath. Well, it’s not going to happen.”
“Good!”
“Yup, good.”
“Because you know what, mister? You don’t fit into my profile anyway.”
“Oh that’s rich. You must have one hell of a profile.”
“Well look at you. You’re searching for a little complacent wifey who will roast your chicken and birth you a bevy of babies.”
“Roast my chicken? What’s that a metaphor for?”
“It’s not a metaphor, it’s dinner.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re pretty weird, you know.”
“And you don’t want to fuck anymore and nothing’s weirder than that . . . so who’s calling the kettle black?”
“Who says I don’t want to fuck? I never said that. I want it.”
“Really?”
“Sure.” I want it bad. So bad it hurts, but I don’t tell her that.
“So it’s that you just don’t want to fuck me?”
“Oh, I want to fuck you. Right now I want to throw you on the bed and ride you so hard you won’t be able to walk the next day.”
There’s a long silent pause. Maybe that was too much.
“Ms. Jacoby, are you still there?”
“I’m here, Paul Junior. I’m just distracted thinking about you throwing me on the bed.”
“And mounting you?”
“Yes.”
I hear a soft moan.
“And fucking you hard?”
“God, yes.”
“So you really want that, do you?”
“You’re cruel. Are you going to make me beg for it?”
“Maybe.”
“Please . . . Paul, are you touching yourself? Because I am.”
I pause.
“Maybe.”
“Mmm.”
I feel myself unraveling from this conundrum of a woman with her dirty mouth. I’ve never known a female I couldn’t figure out at all until I met her. When I hear her moan again my mind goes to a visual of her with legs spread and her hand in her panties. I swallow hard.
“Elle, what are you thinking about when you ride your vibrator?”
“That I’d rather it was you.”
Damn. “Yeah?”
“Or more specifically, your anaconda.”
“I bet you’d like that.” My fingers tighten over the phone, my other hand tightens over my cock.
“You can teach me to be bad. Is that big-boy hard?”
I tighten my grasp. “Does the sun shine?”
“You’re killing me here, Paul. Please come fuck me.”
Oh for God’s sake why am I being tested like this?
My heart is pounding as I hear that little bastard speak up—the annoying voice that lives in my head.
You fuck her Paul, and then what? How will you feel in the morning?
My mouth is dry as I respond to her plea with unbearable regret.
“No. I just can’t.”
It’s another tortured night and it’s becoming apparent I’m on a slippery slope and losing more self-control by the day. No more drunken late night phone calls with Ms. Jacoby. That’s for sure. I can’t even believe the stuff I said to her. Ride your vibrator? What the hell am I doing?
I go in late to work the next morning so I can go straight to a meeting. Jim studies me as I approach him.
“Rough night?”
“Yeah, and rough morning too.”
He nods with a sympathetic gaze. “Well you came to the right place.”
That afternoon at work I finish going over the plans for tomorrow’s meeting at the Taylor project when a thought occurs to me. I call my old hook-up buddy Gabriel. Thank God I’m so much calmer than I was earlier.
“Hey, Gabe, you free after work to catch a beer?”
“I’m free now. My day’s over already. You still at work?”
I glance at my watch. It’s not that early before the time I usually take off. “I could head over there now.”
“Brennigans?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there in about twenty.”
Gabe’s already parked at the bar with a beer and watching the game when I walk past the studio techs and grips that are gathered around the pool tables. The wood paneling on the walls makes everything darker through the haze of smoke wafting in from the patio. I buy a beer and then nod to him for us to move to a booth. He’s changed out of his working gear. I almost didn’t recognize him all cleaned up.
I still can’t believe that Gabe stayed in L.A. after high school to work for my dad while I went off to college.
“What’s up, Paul? We haven’t done this in a while. You still watching your partying?”
“Yeah . . . among other things.”
“He gives me a knowing look. Well, your dad says you’re doing great, but if you don’t mind my saying so it doesn’t sound like you’re having much fun.”
I hate admitting to myself that I miss when we used to go out looking to score.
“How about you?”
“No complaints. I’ve got season tickets for the Clippers and I have plenty of other fun too.”
“Got a girlfriend yet?”
“Hell no. Who needs the headache? I’m still playing the field . . . sampling all the flavors. Why settle for one, when there’s so many to choose from?”
He holds up his beer in a toast and we clink bottles.
I lean in toward him. “While we’re on the subject there’s something I want to ask you about.”
“Yeah?”
“Tinder.”
He chuckles. “So you’re telling me you’re ready to have fun. Are you going to start clubbing with me again?”
“No, I’m helping a friend.”
“Sure you are. That’s as good a bogus reason as any, my man.”
I glance around our booth and make sure no one I know is nearby. “Can you show me how it works?”
“Yeah, no problem. It’s a really easy way to get laid. I use it all the time.”
He pulls out his phone and opens the app, flipping through the most recent women interested in connecting with him. He swipes the screen to the right when he’s interested, to the left when he isn’t.
“So what happens to those girls?” I ask.
“Poof. They’re gone.”
“Whoa. Really?”
“Yeah, see how easy it is. And only the ones you keep can contact you. That’s how you arrange the hook up.”
“Can I see who you’ve kept?”
He hands me his phone. “Be my guest.”
I’m stunned as I scan through all of the women he’s saved. All of them are do– able, some actually hot. How out of control would I have been if I’d had this when I was on the prowl? “And all of these women live in close range?”
“Close enough. I’ll drive farther if they really turn me on.”
With the next sweep of my finger across the screen I freeze. Elle. She’s wearing a low cut shirt and posed provocatively. She looks like a girl who’d like a little trouble. My heart is pounding.
I hold the phone out to Gabe. “Who’s this one?”
He sighs. “Hot, right?”
I nod. My mouth’s suddenly dry.
He shrugs. “I can’t get her to respond to me. She hasn’t accepted me yet. According to her start date she’s pretty new to Tinder, so who knows what’s up with her. But believe me, the minute she does respond to me I’m going to nail her.”
I let out the breath I’ve been holding. I’m surprised how relieved I am that she hasn’t accepted him. That feeling is followed by feeling like I’m going to have to kick his ass if he ever nails her.
“So what can you do?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Nothing. I can’t send her a message or do anything unless she accepts me. Hey why don’t you get on? Maybe she’ll accept you.”
I glance back down at her picture and become anxious, like I don’t want her on this site . . . other men looking at her, wanting her like I do right now.
He shows me how to check out her other pictures and her statement. I almost knock my beer over as I read it.
I’m a caged bird finally set free.
I want to live big and try things I’ve never done.
I’ve got an open mind, and a free spirit . . . are you ready for me?
Let’s connect . . .
The flush moves up my chest so fast I get dizzy. What the hell, Elle? Does she not understand that men are animals and she’s just asked to be fucked, drawn, and quartered?
Gabe’s expression becomes suspicious. “What?”
I rub my hand over my face before studying her pictures again. “Damn, Elle.”
“Dude. Do you know this girl?”
I nod.
“Can you introduce me? She’s off the flipping charts.”
I shake my head.
“Oh I see how it is,” he grumbles. “I’m your hook-up pimp. Well screw you.”
I throw a tip down on the table and grin. “Screw you too, buddy. I’ve gotta go.”
When I get to her house, her car is parked in the driveway and the porch light is on. I have to ring her doorbell twice, and when she answers she has one sandal on, and the other one in her hand. Her eyes grow wide when she sees me.
“Hey, Paul. What’s up?”
She’s got that lipstick on again.
I realize I didn’t think this out very well. I shouldn’t have just shown up impulsively.
“Do you have a minute?”
“Well, I’m on my way out . . . but I guess I’ve got a sec. Come on in, I’ve got to get my other shoe on.”
I follow her into the living room where she sits on the edge of a chair and straps on a sandal that’s even higher-heeled than the last pair I saw on her.
“What’s up?” she asks as finishes the buckle and runs her hand up her calf. I’m disappointed when she stops at her knees.
“I want to talk to you about Tinder.” I jam my hands in the pocket of my jeans. She looks up at me with narrow eyes.
“What about Tinder?”
“I saw your profile.”
She arches her brow. “You have to join Tinder to see my profile.”
I shake my head. “My friend was showing me how it works and you were one of the girls in his line-up.”
“Oh really?” Rising, she puts her hands on her hips. “What’s his name?”
“Gabriel.”
She nods. “I remember him. That guy is a friend of yours?”
“Yes, we used to be really good friends. He also works for my dad.”
“I wasn’t interested.”
“So your instincts aren’t all bad. He’s one to stay away from for sure.”
“Hmmm. Maybe I’ll check him out again. Gabriel you say?” She picks up a sparkly bracelet off the table and snaps it on.
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
“To a Tinder hook-up?”
“Nosy aren’t you?”
“Show me.”
“Show you what?”
“On your phone. I want to see who you’re meeting.”
“Why do you want to see who I’m meeting? Jealous?”
My stomach churns. What if she’s right? “No, I’m not jealous. I’m going to screen him for you.”
“Oh really?” She steps out of the living room and returns with her phone. She sits next to me on the couch, close enough that I can smell her perfume. Damn, she smells good—like a rose that’s just opened in the garden.
I watch her bring up the app.
“His name is Stephan. He’s an architect.”
“Impressive,” I say.
“He designs buildings.”
“So much better than a sprinkler guy.” I point to her phone. “Let me see Stephan the builder.” I study the screen and chuckle. “Look at that. His hairline is receding. He’ll be bald in five years.”
She grabs the phone out my hand. “What are you talking about?”
Leaning closer to her, I point to the screen. “This isn’t just a high forehead.”
She purses her lips. “I don’t mind. Some bald guys are sexy.”
“As long as you don’t mind hair all over their backs.”
“Excuse me?”
I shrug. “It’s a phenomenon. Their hair falls off their heads right when it starts to grow on their shoulders and down their back.”
“Ewww! No hair on the back!”
She pinches a part of my shirt near the back and starts to pull upward. “I want to see. Do you have hair on your back?”
I brush her hand away. “Of course not. I’m Irish. We have sleek backs and great heads of hair.”
“Oh really?”
I lean my head toward her. “Care to see for yourself?”
She pushes her fingers through my hair then grabs a bunch and tugs. “Wow, you’ve got a lot of hair.”
I groan. I love having my hair tugged at. “Do that again.”
She pulls harder and I groan louder. “Keep that up and the balding guy is going to be very disappointed when you don’t show up.”
“Oh yeah?” she asks as she rakes her fingers into my hair and then tugs so hard it brings tears to my eyes.
“Hell, yeah.” I reach up and wrap my fingers tightly around her wrist and then regretfully pull it away from me.
Before I know what’s happening she eases me forward and then yanks my T– shirt upward.
“What the hell . . .”
“Shhh. I’ve got to know.”
She bunches my T-shirt up near my shoulders, then lightly rakes her fingernails over the surface of my back. She sighs.
“What?”
“No back hair.”
“I told you.”
“Mmm, and you’ve got a really nice back, too.”
“You think?”
Her fingers slowly run diagonally from my shoulder to my waist. “Who has muscles in their back like that? Do you lift weights or something?” I can hear the admiration in her voice.
“Something like that.” I wish it were okay for her to keep touching me. I’ve missed being touched and now I’m kind of aching for it. But if she keeps it up, I’ll be more than touching her.
I point to her phone. “You know Stephan has beady eyes.”
She stops stroking me and pulls my shirt back down.
“No he doesn’t. His eyes are seductive, not beady.”
I shake my head. “What if he’s another asshole?”
“He isn’t. I asked him all the questions and his answers were spot on. He likes to worship a woman.”
I roll my eyes. “He did not say that.”
“Indeed he did.” She grins.
“Let me guess . . . and his bed’s an altar.”
Her eyes widen. “He said that too!”
“And you believed that crap?”
She stands up and straightens her skirt. “Okay, you’ve made your point. Geez, you’re like the big brother I never had. This has been fun, but I don’t want to be late.”
