“I know,” I say. “And it won’t.”
“HER NAME IS BRUNHILDA?” I ask my brother as he straightens his tie before his dresser mirror Friday night. It’s so weird seeing him in a tie. My whole life it’s either been jeans and a t-shirt or scrubs.
There’s almost this time warp, déjà vu thing going on. This is just like old times, when I was a gap-toothed kid watching my big brother get ready to paint the town on a Friday night with his high school friends or his girl of the week or whoever.
“Yes, but she goes by Hillie. And you don’t understand,” he says, meeting my gaze in the reflection. “She’s a radiologist. Whip smart. Hot as hell. And Aerin … that accent.”
I roll my eyes. “Do you realize how superficial you sound right now? Like, is she a nice person? Would she rescue a litter of kittens if she had to? Does she read books? For fun?”
“Not sure, Aer. I’ll ask her tonight and get back to you on that.” He moves for his cologne next. “Anyway, what do you have going on tonight? Any hot dates?”
I drag my legs against my chest, repositioning myself at the foot of his bed. “I’m only here four more weeks.”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t have fun. Don’t you date back home?”
“I’m too busy to have fun.”
“Do you realize how lame you sound right now?” He gives me a wink.
“Touché.”
“Seriously though,” he says, “Do I need to dare you to have fun in order to get you to have fun?”
“Stop.” I throw a pillow at him and miss. He hasn’t dared me to do anything since I was a kid, terrified of the dark, spiders, and generally anything scary and unfamiliar. I’ve always been a bit of a fraidy-cat, but a fraidy-cat who loves a challenge. It’s my Achilles heel and Rush knows it.
My brother leaves his room, and I follow him down the hall where he grabs a pair of shoes off a rack by the front door.
“This look all right?” he asks, pointing.
I give him a once over and nod. My brother has never had a problem attracting the attention of the finer sex. He could probably wear a paper sack and girls would still throw their panties at him. It’s only gotten worse since he added that “MD” after his name.
“Why don’t you download one of those apps or something? Swiper or whatever? Find someone to Netflix-and-chill with.”
“Tinder?” I pretend to stick my finger down my throat. “And no one says Netflix-and-chill anymore. God, you sound so old. Get out of here. You’re going to be late for Broomhilda.”
“Brunhilda,” he corrects me, sliding his wallet and keys into his pockets. “Hillie.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I walk him a few short steps to the door and see him out. After locking the door behind him, I head back to my room to finally peel out of these work clothes and treat myself to some Chinese takeout and season three of Gilmore Girls—anything to take my mind off the fact that I had sex with my boss in a bar bathroom last night.
I went to the office in full cringe-ready mode this morning, prepared for that awkward first-time-after-screwing encounter. With a head held high and red power lipstick carefully painting my mouth, I waited patiently at my desk all morning for Calder to check in or stop by or drop some work off.
Nothing.
Not even an email … all day.
I caught up on summarizing the reports he’d sent me yesterday, emailed them off to him, and asked Marta if she needed help with anything.
Three times I saw Calder pass by my office.
Three times he never so much as glanced in my direction.
Freaking pig.
But I can’t even be mad at him.
I let him kiss me. I wanted it. I offered myself to him on a sterling silver platter with a flashing neon “all you can eat” sign, and he did exactly what men like him do.
And in the end … I had the strongest, longest, most intense orgasm I’ve had in my entire adult life.
Honestly, I probably could’ve come again if that man outside hadn’t kept pounding on the door.
Who knew hate sex was my hot button?
Tugging a jersey-soft pajama top over my head and slipping into the matching bottoms, I grab a bottle of Essie’s Babes in the Booth polish from my bathroom, a copy of this month’s Elle, and my phone before heading back to my brother’s living room.
Five minutes later, I’ve cued an episode of Gilmore Girls and I’ve placed an online order for cashew chicken and egg drop soup from a place on the corner my brother raves about every chance he gets.
I hit play on the remote and unscrew the cap on my polish, resting one foot on the edge of my brother’s reclaimed wood coffee table.