“And then I’ll soften my voice like this—” Her voice slips into a seductive husk I’ve never heard before. Her red shirt is cut in a V, revealing her bare back—no bra strap. All I can think about is how silky her skin would feel under my fingertips and how good her blond curls would smell if I buried my nose in them.
My brain goes offline when she purrs, “Excuse me, Benji…” But her eyes are still on the pool, her purring only for Vivian. I’m riveted, mouth agape, frozen with one foot on the patio outside, my palms strangling a pair of wineglasses. I take a shallow breath and another, anticipating what might come after hearing her say my name so sensually.
She doesn’t disappoint.
“How about you slide one of those talented hands into my pants…”
Beads of sweat form on my forehead while I hang on to the word “pants” with both hands. I find myself wishing this was a choose-your-own-adventure story. I lapse into a fantasy about sliding my hands into her pants, which is probably why I didn’t notice she turned around.
Her voice trailed off some time ago. Now she’s staring at me, phone to her ear, her mouth gently agape—ironically not unlike the Cris in my debauched fantasy. And here I am, in limbo at the open patio door, statue still. It’s painfully obvious I’m eavesdropping.
Well. Painful for her. I’m so intrigued I can hardly think straight.
“I have to go,” she says to Vivian. Then in a harsh whisper adds, “Call you later.”
She ends the call and slides the phone into the pocket of her pants. The same pants she suggested I slide one of my “talented hands” into.
Her smile brightens as if by force. “Hey! Change of plans. I’m going to head home after all. I am beat. Sorry to make you go through the hoops for the wine.” She laughs, but it’s not the sinful, playful trill from before. No, no. This laugh is bordering maniacal.
“What a night!” she says. Loudly. She steps around me, careful not to bump the wineglasses or brush against so much as my arm.
Surely she’s not going to pretend she didn’t say what we both know she said—what she has to know I overheard.
I follow her brisk steps into the kitchen.
“Sorry again about the wine,” she calls, moving away from me as I set down our glasses on the bar. She shoulders her purse and walks away. I jog to catch up.
“Oh, hell no.” I press my hand against the front door as she attempts to pull it open. “You’re not going anywhere. Not until you explain what just happened.”