I stopped at the store on my way home from work.
The steaks are marinating and ready to pop on the grill, charcoal is warming, wine is chilling in the refrigerator with salads, and there are potatoes in the oven. The small table on my balcony is set with two place settings, and there is even a candle in a jar.
It’s as I stand half in my apartment and half on the balcony that I realize the pansy I've become.
A candle.
I have a fucking candle on the table.
It wasn’t planned. I just saw it. The grocery store had candles on an endcap thing. And the moment I saw it, it seemed like a good idea. That was then.
Now the stupid candle doesn't seem like a good idea.
Now it screams desperate.
Hell, I’m no better than tiny-dick and his roses.
Is Sami allergic to candles?
Fuck!
As I run my hand through my hair, I glance down at my button-down shirt, the way I have the sleeves rolled, and my jeans hanging loosely from my hips.
How and why am I nervous?
When have I ever been nervous about a woman?
This is Sami, my Sami. We've had dinner together thousands of times.
Shaking my head, I decide I should change into shorts and a t-shirt when a knock on the front door stops me.
I don't even look through the peephole. I know who I want to have on the other side. And damn it, I'm Marshal Michaels. I need to get my shit together. If I want this thing with Sami to be more than what we have with our new agreement, if I want Sami to see me as more than a friend, then I need to act like the man who's been sweeping women off their feet for over ten years.
Not like some lovesick schoolboy.
I take a deep breath and open the door, flashing my biggest and brightest smile. "Sami..."
My lips slam shut. It's not Sami. It's Miss Tits and Ass.
"W-what are you doing here?" I ask.
She takes a step forward, her perfume engulfing me as she shakes her tits, barely encased in some tight, stretchy top. I fight to breathe through the overwhelming stench of sweetness while noticing how the skinny straps of her top dig into her shoulders. Poor things. No little bit of material should be expected to support such huge—and fake—tits.
“It’s a matter of survival. I have to repay your kindness or my luck will change. And well, Marshal, if the mountain won't come to Muhammad” —she sticks out her mountain of tits— “then Muhammad must go to the mountain.”
"I thought I made it clear at the gym."
One more step and her hands are on my chest. "You said you werekind ofseeing someone. I'm here now and I see you." Her eyebrows rise. "You can see me." She splays her fingers over my chest. "I want to see more of you."
"No."
Miss Tits and Ass takes a step back. Her expression is that of a wounded puppy, but instantly she's back, her plump lip extended in a pout. "Come on, Marshal. I want you to fuck me. I'm not asking for anything more..."
Just then the door at the bottom of the stairs opens, the one that accesses all the apartments in this unit. The gush of fresh air thankfully whisks away the cloud of perfume.
"Damn, that smells..." Sami's words fade and her feet stop as she approaches the stairs. "Did I have the wrong night?"
Miss Tits and Ass stands taller and scans Sami from head to toe.