“Yeah, yeah. Less talking, more drink making,” she says, waving a hand to rush me.
I look over and there are four tickets. She’s nowhere near in the weeds. This woman could run this whole damn place singlehandedly if need be. But she does like giving me a hard time.
Glancing at her, I find her forcing a ridiculously fake, sad frown. “I was really hoping you’d get on the bar. Really hoping.”
I flick the water on my fingers at her and finish the drinks for the second ticket, already catching up. She laughs and runs them out to table eight while I do tickets three and four. In minutes, I’m back to prep work with zero tickets in my queue, and Olivia is waiting for food orders to be ready from Ilene.
“How was your weekend?” she asks, aiming for nonchalant and missing by a country mile.
“Great. Yours?” I smile warmly, as though I haven’t clued in to what she’s really asking.
She growls. “Ugh, spill it, girl! I have people here for lunch solely because they know that you and Bobby Tannen had your first official date on Monday when we were closed. I didn’t tell them Hank gave you Sunday off yet. I’m holding that ace up my sleeve. But you’d best spill it. Enquiring minds want to know. Was he as good as I dream he is?” She pelvic thrusts the air, apparently auditioning for the Coyote Ugly option herself.
I blink the vision away, laughing. “Does Hannah know you’re dreaming about sleeping with Bobby Tannen? Seems like she might have a problem with that.” Truthfully, I don’t know. I have yet to meet the elusive Hannah, though Olivia talks about her as though she’s right here in the room at all times. Mostly because they spend all day texting each other back and forth when they’re not busy at work.
“Hannah says he’s dreamy too. We’re secure like that. Fantasies are just that—pretend. Just because the thought of some pretty, growly cowboy taking me rough is sexy, doesn’t mean I want to actually do it. People have all sorts of images in their head that get them off, but even given the chance, they’d never do it for realsies. That don’t mean I don’t want to hear every vivid, messy detail.”
She props her chin up on her palms, eyes wide and focused on me like I’m about to give a speech on demand.
Welcome to my TED talk. Today’s topic will be ‘Sex with Bobby Tannen’ with helpful illustrated handouts.
Nope, not a chance in hell that’s happening. But I trust Olivia’s judgement, even if she is a bit crazy, so I give her one detail.
“We said I love you.” I nearly squeal it, but my excitement has made me breathless and it comes out more like a whisper-scream.
“What?” she yells at full volume again.
Thanks for that, Olivia! Not!
I nod, not willing to repeat the words lest I jinx the whole thing.
“Oh, my God!” She claps right in front of her heart as though it needs more than a racing beat to show her happiness for me. But then her brows jump together. “Wait. Was this mid-boink? That doesn’t count.”
“Yes, it does,” I counter.
Her happiness melts, going sad as she offers a pitying smile. “Oh, honey, that doesn’t count. Guys say stuff like that when all their blood is in their dick. It’s science.”
Any other time, her doubt would make me question myself. No, not any other time . . . any other guy. But I know Bobby meant exactly what he said.
“He meant it. I meant it. For real. And what do you know about dick science?” I whisper ‘dick’ so customers don’t hear me, even though they most certainly heard Olivia.
Olivia leans across the bar, getting in my face and whispering, “You love Bobby? And he loves you? Like dum-dum-dee-dum?” She sings out the notes of the wedding march song.
“I don’t know about that last part, but the rest . . . yeah.”
I can feel my face flush, my heart pounding as I remember how good it felt to be with Bobby. I picture the look in his eyes as he gritted out his love. I feel his cum on my skin, his gentle and comforting touch as I cried on his chest, and his marks all over my body, claiming me as his.
I have zero doubt, not about Bobby, and not about my own feelings.
Blinking, I come back to the moment at the bar with Olivia, who is fanning her face. “Whoo, child. Wherever you just went, whatever you were thinking about . . . con-grat-u-fuckin-lations. Because that seems like some Grade-A, heart racing, pussy pulsing, good stuff. I approve.”
She slaps the bar and hops up to make her rounds, but as she scurries off, I can hear her singing under breath . . .