My throat would feel different, I argue with myself, half relieved and half sad nothing happened.
Doesn’t your throat feel a little sore? The perverse shit is positively gleeful.
From drinking alcohol!
Regardless, I don’t need the old man speculating about my and Nate’s nonexistent sex life. And I need to stop internally debating the never-happened blowjob. And he’s getting closer to that chair!
“Barron, would you like to freshen up?” I say, trying to sound as normal as possible. “The flight must’ve been long, and you know how p
lanes are.”
Barron gives me an odd look. “I don’t know how Nate keeps his, but mine are clean.”
Nate, too, gives me an odd look from behind his great-uncle, probably wondering what the hell I’m doing.
Desperate, I tilt my chin, then waggle my left eyebrow, hoping he gets the hint about the armchair. But he merely frowns in puzzlement, wriggles both his eyebrows wildly, then runs his index fingers over both and shrugs.
Telepathy fail. Shit.
Barron adds, “In any case, it wasn’t that long of a trip. And I showered en route.”
Of course his plane has a shower. Naturally. But he really shouldn’t be moving toward the thong, like the Titanic gliding toward the uncrackable iceberg.
Yeah, except it isn’t Barron who’ll be sinking when he sees the underwear.
Come on, Evie. Think!
I smile harder. My cheeks are going to need Botox at this rate. “Would you like something to drink while we wait for room service?” I gesture at the minibar, hoping he’ll go over to take a look at the options, so I can snatch my underwear from the seat.
“Thank you, dear. It’s very sweet of you, but I’ll be fine with just Earl Grey tea and some sugar cookies.” He waves at me. “Go ahead and freshen up if you like. Don’t mind an old man.”
I think that’s his polite way of saying, “Wash up, stinky!”
Before I can utter a word, he lowers his butt on the thong seat. I bite my lower lip. Is he going to feel it through the hideously expensive silk of his pants?
He sighs and leans back, his legs stretched out. Okay, maybe not.
Still… Is there some way I can make him move his butt and retrieve the underwear without him noticing? My foggy head can’t come up with anything. Left with no choice, and praying he doesn’t feel the thong now or later through his pants, I go to the bedroom. Nate joins me.
“What was that about?” he says quietly. “I thought you wanted to leave him alone so we could strategize.”
“I was trying to tell you—” I abruptly swallow the rest. I’m not discussing the whereabouts of my underwear if he didn’t get my silent message earlier. And I doubt Mr. I Can’t Handle My Liquor can come up with a decent plan to retrieve the thong without alerting Barron.
“Tell me what?”
“Nothing.” My thong is definitely off the agenda now. “You need to be dressed properly before we can face him.”
I go through his things and pull out a dress shirt and a pair of coffee-colored slacks.
“Here you go. I need to shower.” Then, eyeing the closed door, I lower my voice. Just in case. “And please make him leave!”
Nate shrugs helplessly. “I can’t make him do anything. He does what he wants.”
I was afraid of that. “Then don’t let him get up.”
“Why not?”
Closing my eyes, I quickly offer a prayer: Dear God, if you wake me up now, I’ll give you my left ovary and the small toe from my right foot. I pour all my heart in it, squeezing my hands together as hard as I can.