Two and a half hours later,I’ve swum, showered, and returned to eyeing the clock. I poured myself a glass of wine a few minutes ago, having given up on Cris showing. I’m guessing her date went well. I resisted texting her for a status update.
Barely.
But then her telltale knock comes—three in quick succession. I race to the door trying not to look like I’m racing for the door.
“Hey.” I sound a little out of breath. I check her person for signs she’s been kissed within an inch of her life—or closer—but her curls are un-mussed, her lipstick on, and her black dress pants and flowy red shirt are in pristine condition. There are no wrinkles suggesting the outfit was recently plucked off the floor, which is a big fucking relief. I’m not ready for that discussion. (If ever.)
“Hey,” she says, her tone muted. I love that her tone is muted, and hope it’s because she’s disappointed. I realize this makes me sound a dick. Trust me, I don’t want Cris to have a horrible life. I want her to have an incredible life, complete with her knight in pressed khakis. I just don’t think she’s going to find him on a freaking dating app.
“How’d it go?” I shut the door behind her and rub my hands together, realizing I might’ve assumed too much. She could be disappointed because she had sex with the bastard and it was bad. That…I really don’t like thinking about.
“Well, we made it to dinner.” She lets out a gusty sigh and drops her purse on the sofa. “And then he drove me home.”
I tense.
“He was such a pretentious asshole. I should have run out before dessert, but like an idiot, I let him pick me up so he was my ride.”
“You could have called me,” I growl, my tone harsher than I intend. “You can always call me. Tell me you know that. You’re not at the mercy of some douche-nozzle because he shelled out money for dinner.”
Her cupid’s-bow lips curve into a soft smile at my creative insult. She pats my chest, the warmth of her palm leaving an unexpected imprint on my shirt. “You think he paid for dinner. That’s cute.”
I clench my jaw.
“There’s one thing I didn’t have my fill of tonight. Wine. Rick was a self-professed teetotaler. I followed suit to be polite.”
“I have a lot of opinions,” I let her know. “I won’t start my lecture until after I’ve poured.” I point to my glass. “Red?”
“Is white too much trouble?”
“Not even a little.” Nothing is too much trouble for her.
Her phone rings from her purse and she pulls it out to check the screen. “Vivian,” she informs me. “I’ll be fast.”
“Take your time. I’ll pick out the perfect vintage.”
She heads out to the pool, sliding the patio door shut behind her. I jog downstairs, whistling as I go to the large wine cooler and study the contents. I feel a hell of a lot better knowing she didn’t sleep with the guy, but he better not have done anything untoward or I’ll have him killed.
I’m kidding.
I’ll kill him myself.
Upstairs I uncork the wine and pour a glass. I stick the bottle in the fridge, palming her glass and mine to take them outside. The night is cool and pleasant, and the pool sparkles, lit from below with soft violet bulbs. She’s still on the phone, arm crossed over her middle, eyes on the water. I slide the door aside and open my mouth to ask if she wants me to leave her glass for her when I hear:
“It wasn’t the worst date ever, but close. He expected a kiss good night. Ha!”
I freeze, my interest piqued. I listen in for a second. Just long enough to feel relief that her derelict date didn’t get a kiss good night. Idiot. I pull in a breath to announce myself, but what comes out of her mouth next causes my tongue to stick to the roof of my mouth.
“At this point I’d pay a thousand dollars for an orgasm from someone other than myself.”
Swear to God that’s what she said. I nearly face-plant onto the patio and give myself away. Her sweet, musical laughter draws me in as my mind spirals to the gutter. I don’t know what’s more appealing. The visual of her giving herself an orgasm, her legs spread wide on her bedsheets, her mouth open in a moan or…
Yeah, that’s the best visual. I can’t come up with a single better one.
“Vivian!” she admonishes with another laugh. This one is playful, open, and a touch naughty. Cris is not naughty. At least I haven’t heard her say anything naughty. I lean out the door further, too rapt to turn back now.
“Oh great idea, Viv,” she says, the words heavy with sarcasm. “Should I mosey down to the wine cellar? And then what? Slink up to him—” Her hand goes to her hip and she shimmies, making her black dress pants look a lot sexier than they should.
My eyes move over her pert ass and up to where her curly hair brushes her shoulders. I make no move to go inside or announce my presence. I have to hear what comes next or I’ll explode like a confetti cannon.