“Maury.” I should have known it was only a matter of time before he asked. He has no shame.
He lifts his brows. “Girl, you don’t have to tell me. I already know that he is. I could see the outline of it in his jeans last night.”
Oliver’s cock is perfect but I’m not going there with Maury. “I can’t believe you were checking out my date’s peen.”
“Not my fault. He’s the one who popped a chub. Speaking of which. Are you sure that didn’t happen when he got felt up?”
“I’m quite certain.”
Oliver was pissed off. I could see his anger beneath the surface, which was totally fair. He didn’t say a lot about it but he would have had every right. He didn’t. Because of me. And, damn, that makes me like him even more.
“All right. Continue on with the story.”
“So we were having sex.” Doesn’t every great story start out that way?
Maury interrupts me again. “Good sex or bad sex?”
I huff and roll my eyes. “Stop interrupting.”
“I need to know these things.”
“It was great sex. I’d already gotten off once and was working on orgasm number two. It was well on its way and then I looked up at Oliver. He looked all sexy-as-fuck moving over me, pumping away, and I thought to myself ‘You like this guy. You like this guy a lot. You want to be HIS. Make it happen.’”
“Adelyn Maxwell.” Maury is giving me a devilish grin. “Did you do what I think you did?”
“Oh yeah. And it didn’t fly with him. Not. At. All.”
“Ohhh. That’s not great.”
“It was awful, Maury.” I want to cry thinking about it now. “He made me feel like a freak.”
Maury has the hand and neck thing going. “Oh hell no. No one makes my girl feel that way. I’m the only freak around here.”
“He looked at me like I had three heads.” That look of disgust on Oliver’s face—it’s the reason I keep my desires to myself. I fear seeing that same expression on Jill’s and Kristin’s faces if I ever told them what I like in the bedroom. Especially Jill. She walks a tight and narrow rope.
“Want me to kick his gorgeous ass?”
There isn’t a chance in hell that Maurice could whip Oliver. A one-legged man could beat Maury in an ass-kicking contest.
“Nah, I wouldn’t want you to hurt Oliver.”
“I should probably stick to being a lover rather than a fighter. Might mess up my manicure.”
“Oliver wasn’t cruel. He showed genuine concern for my safety. Which makes me like him even more.”
“That’s more than we can say for the last one.”
“Oliver was interested in knowing why I’d want him to do that. I tried to explain but I think my words came out all wrong.” I wasn’t sure how to explain.
No man had ever dominated me sexually until Martin. Sure, I’d had sex with a few boyfriends in college, but it was always normal. Missionary. Average. Mediocre at best.
And then Martin happened.
I loved, loved, loved his domination in the bedroom from the very first time he put his hand around my throat. I craved it. Needed it. Most women would freak out over the things that he did to me, but the control made him so fucking sexy in my eyes. And it made me feel safe. Treasured. Loved.
Until it didn’t.
Control became obsession.
Dominance became abuse.
I thought my need to be dominated in the bedroom had faded away until I looked into Oliver’s eyes. There, I saw strength and passion. I felt safe and my desire was reborn.
“This is new to your man. He could come around after he’s had time to think it over. Absorb it.”
“I don’t think so. You didn’t see the look on his face.” And he isn’t my man.
“Well, fuck him then.”
“The thing is that we’re neighbors and I’m going to see him. I can’t not run into him. It’s inevitable even if I try to steer clear. Plus, Lawrence has hired me to plan his surprise birthday party.”
“When is that again?”
“Three weeks away.”
“Let Michelle take over the project. It’s just a birthday party. She can handle it.”
“I don’t want Lawrence to feel like I’ve flaked on her.”
My business is a professional agency. I don’t get to behave like an amateur because things have become awkward between Oliver and me.
“Whatever you say. You’re the boss.”
“That’s right and boss lady says let’s get to work.” Maybe planning fun events for others will take my mind off my own misery.
Quickly, I figure out that I’m worthless. Last night keeps replaying in my head, and I can’t even choose the tableware for a simple luncheon.
Maury taps on my office door. “Lawrence Broussard is here.”
Shit. Did Oliver tell her what happened last night? Are they close enough that he would confide in her? Would he betray me so easily?
“Did she say why she’s here?”
“You smokin’ crack, girl? You have a scheduled meeting.”
“Oh, right.” I can’t believe I forgot. We’re working on Oliver’s party today. Bad timing. “Send her back.”
I get up and smooth my pencil skirt and blouse, nervous to see Lawrence. It’s Monday. Not even twelve hours since the incident. There’s a chance she hasn’t even spoken to Oliver about last night.
But my gut tells me otherwise.
I greet her at the door, and she initiates a hug. Not the sign of a sister who’s upset with me over a kinky sex encounter with her brother. “How are you?”
“Good. Good.” Total lie. Nothing about me is good.
“Come around and grab a seat. Let’s talk about this birthday party we have coming up.” I open the file I started for Oliver’s party. “I’ve been in touch with Bridge Street Gallery and Loft. It’s available so we’re good for the venue.”
“That’s fantastic. I just know it’ll be perfect.”
“I agree. Very industrial chic.”
I actually did some brainstorming last week for Oliver’s party. Good thing since my brain is shit today. “I’m thinking stout beer themed? We can incorporate stout in everything. Believe it or not, I found a birthday cake recipe that uses a stout in the cake batter. And it’s topped with a whiskey coffee glaze. How fantastic does that sound?”
“Yes. Ollie will absolutely love that.”
“I believe so too. Do you think we can get friends and family to contribute photos? I’d love to do a balloon chandelier.”
“What is that?”
“Photos are strung to the end of helium balloons. It’s like floating memories over the guests’ heads. A fun way to reminisce.”
“That sounds incredibly cool. I definitely want to do that.”
“Dirty thirty photo booth? Or is that asking for trouble since there will be booze?”
Photo booths tend to go over really well for birthday parties, but they often get out of hand after the alcohol kicks in. Boobs and boners come out for photobombing.
“I like that idea a lot. Sounds fun.”
“What about guests? How many are you thinking of inviting?”
Lawrence hesitates. “Can we put the party planning on pause for a minute?”
“Sure.” Annnd here we go.
“What happened?”
She doesn’t need to elaborate. I know exactly what she’s asking. But how the hell do I answer that question—and not give away too much—when I have no idea what Oliver has told her?
She continues when I don’t reply. “I saw you and Oliver together on Saturday night at the grand opening. He was very into you. And you were into him as well. I saw it. Did something go down?”
Oh no. Something went up. It was shit, and it hit the fan. “Things didn’t go as expected.”
“You’re being as vague as he was.”
So Oliver didn’t betray me to his sister?
“Don’t you like my brother?”
“I like Oliver very much. But—” There aren’t words to explain what happened without giving away too much.
Lawrence finishes my sentence. “Things didn’t go as expected.”
“I’m more comfortable with leaving it at that.” And apparently Oliver is too since he didn’t tell her what happened.
“Got it. I’ll stop being the meddling sister.”
“Thank you for not pushing.” I look at my notes. “Number of guests?”
“Let’s go with two hundred for now. I’ll let you know if that changes.”
I’m certain I appear robotic as I go down the list of questions I’ve asked clients hundreds of times. My head isn’t in this meeting. It’s stuck replaying the scene with Oliver last night.
I’m coming again. That’s the place where I stop the scene in my head and hit rewind. Because everything that happened after that point was unpleasant. Unfortunate. Unbearable.
And I’m afraid that’s how it’s going to continue.
Where did that stick come from?
I squeal at the top of my lungs when that-ain’t-no-fucking-stick skids in a wavy motion across the top of the water in my pool.
“Holy-bat-shit-man.” I go to high-stepping out of the pool, pretty sure I nearly accomplish the impossibility of walking on water. Jesus would be impressed.
I stand on the decking and look over into the shallow end at my swim mate. I hate snakes. Despise them. “Oh no, you don’t. This is my much-needed relaxation after a horrible week, you little son of a bitch. I want to enjoy my pool, and you’re not going to stop me.”
He doesn’t listen. Rude bastard.
This is man shit. Yes, getting snakes out of the pool is man shit. Tommy always did this kind of thing for me.
Maybe I can call Maurice. Nah. He’d jump into my arms and tell me to protect him.
No choice. Gotta man up and get the reptile out myself.
I grab the skimmer and extend the telescopic pole so I have enough distance to haul ass when I skim him up and dump him in the grass. I shudder because what I’m about to do is giving me the heebie-jeebies.
I lower the mesh paddle into the water and scoop it under his body. But he swims off the paddle. Dammit.
I make the same attempt a second, third, and fourth time. “Come on, snake. This is your eviction notice. It’s time for you to go.”
I make a fifth attempt under its slithery body. Finally. Success.
I lift the skimmer from the water and quickly move with it toward the grass. And the wiggling bastard falls off, hits the decking, and slithers back into the water.
“Nooo,” I yell until a fresh coat of rawness covers my throat. “Get out. I don’t want you here.”
I jolt when Oliver bursts into my backyard through the gate—carrying a big wrench—and my face pulsates with heat. “There’s a snake in my pool.”
“You should have called me.”
No way. I’d swim with the snake before I did that.
“Where is it?”
It’s been two weeks since our sexual-encounter-gone-wrong. I was starting to get over what happened and now he’s standing there all sexy-as-fuck, wearing a smile that makes my wet bikini bottom sizzle. That night and the embarrassment it caused comes rushing back.
I wish he’d stayed at his place. I prefer the company of the snake.
“I don’t see it now. I guess it swam into the skimmer basket.”
He goes over and lifts the cover. “Just a little garter snake. Probably more afraid of you than you are of it.”
“I highly doubt that.”
He reaches in, grabs it by the head, and pulls it out of the basket. “Harmless.”
“Oh, please get rid of that thing.” My shoulders have a mind of their own and break into a jerk. I can’t stand looking at it wiggling in his hand.
“What would you have me do with it?”
“I don’t care. Just make sure he’s departing from my property as he slithers.”
I squeal and bolt when Oliver walks toward me. “I’m not going to throw it on you.”
“My brother totally would have. And often did. I think that’s why I’m the way I am about snakes and lizards and stuff like that. It gave him a huge thrill to terrorize me.”
He goes to the fence and lowers the snake into the grass on his property. “All gone.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
“Anytime. Just give me a holler. Or a panicky scream and obviously I’ll come arunnin’.” Oliver hesitates a moment. For a split second, I think he’s going to bring up the incident. Maybe tell me I’m not as vile as he thought.
“Enjoy your swim.”
Or maybe he’s only going to tell me to enjoy my swim.
God, I miss his smile. His laughter. The way I felt when we were together.
I. Miss. Him. Does he miss me?
I’m so tempted to ask him to stay. But I don’t want to hear him tell me no. And I don’t want to see the look in his eyes that confirms how repulsive he finds me. “Yeah. See ya.”
As much as I love the contours of his sexy-as-hell back, I hate watching him go. Again.
I need a distraction. Girl time. Talking with chicks about dicks.
I call Kristin but it goes to voicemail. “Hey, hooker. I’m off today and tomorrow. I think it’s time we have another slumber party. Maybe order way too much takeout from Lazzario’s and drink absolutely too much wine. I’m inviting Jill too so give me a holler and let me know if you can make it.”
A night with my gal pals. That’s what I need to take my mind off Oliver Thorn.
Jill opens the oven door and takes out the homemade breadsticks I made to go with our pasta takeout.
I couldn’t help myself. The baking bug bit.
“Lazzario would beg you to come to work for him if he knew you baked breadsticks like these.”
“Baking wouldn’t be a bit of fun if I did it for a living.” They have no idea the only reason I do it is to keep my sanity.
Jill and Kris would flip out if they knew the whole story about Martin and me. The dominance-turned-abuse. The attempt to kill me. They believe it was a mutual decision to part ways and then I was attacked by some random person who intended to rob me.
Jill turns the baking sheet sideways and slides the breadsticks onto a serving platter. “Speaking of a living. How did you manage to score today and tomorrow off from work? I hear your boss is a real hard ass.”
“Last-minute wedding cancellation. It was so sad. My bride for this weekend came into the office earlier this week. Poor thing was in tears, completely wrecked, after her fiancé called off the wedding because he couldn’t go through with it.”
“You’re the boss of Bash Agency. You shouldn’t spend every weekend working.”
“I totally agree with Kris. Being the owner of a business should have perks.”
“I hear what you’re saying, and I don’t disagree.”
“Sweetie.” Jill’s voice takes on her counselor tone but I’m not one of her patients. “Agreeing and putting it into action are two totally different things.”
“I know.”
I’ve allowed the agency to take over my life. It’s become my everything. Family. Friends. Love interest. And it’s a one-sided relationship. It doesn’t return my affection. It brings a certain type of satisfaction, but I’ve noticed lately that it’s not enough.
“How long has it been since the three of us got together?”
I’m surprised Kristin asks instead of taking out her phone to check her calendar. She’s so left-brained.
“Sometime late spring.”
It was the last time I had a cancellation. Sheez, my job even dictates how often my friends and I see one another.
“I’m sorry. We’re best friends and we shouldn’t be seeing each other quarterly because I get an opening in my work schedule. I promise I’m going to do better.”
Jill points at me with a breadstick. “I’m holding you to that.”
�
��Me too.”
Kristin takes a portion of chicken tetrazzini and passes the container to me. “We haven’t caught up in a while. Anything new going on in your life?”
“I’ve decided I want to date again.” Seems like the best way to introduce the Oliver topic.
“About damn time.”
That’s the exact reaction I expected from Kristin since she’s the one who has hounded me the hardest.
Jill’s reaction is different. Softer. She almost looks as though she’s going to cry. “Aww, that’s great, Addie. Tommy would be really happy about that. A bad breakup shouldn’t dictate the rest of your life.”
And Tommy’s death shouldn’t dictate the rest of Jill’s life. It’s been two years since my brother died, and Jill hasn’t even considered dating. She still wears the engagement ring he gave her three months before he was killed. But how does one tell a certified counselor she isn’t grieving appropriately? And what is the appropriate way to grieve anyway? It’s likely I’d feel the same, even after two years, if I were in love with a man who was stolen from me because of someone’s selfish stupidity.
Kristin looks away from Jill and shakes her head. “Do you have someone special in mind, Addie?”
There’s no going back with these two once I tell them but I’m going for it. “I’ve sort of, but not really, been seeing someone.”
Kristin slams her palm on the dining room table. “Tell us everything.”
I finish off the last of my pinot grigio and reach for the bottle. An empty bottle. “Well, we put that one away in record time.”
“Grab another one.” Kristin gets up and moves toward the wine chiller. “Better yet, let me grab it, and you start talking.”
“I have a new neighbor. And he’s all that plus some. We’ve been hanging out.”
Jill pats her hands together like a clapping toddler. “Oh. You obviously like this guy if he makes you consider dating again.”
“I do. A lot. But we had sort of a weird argument. Or maybe it was more like a misunderstanding.”
“What kind of misunderstanding are we talking about?” Jill asks.
These are my two dearest friends besides Maury, and neither have a clue about the things I like when I’m with a man behind closed doors. This could get a little tricky.
Neighbor Girl (Southern Girl Series Book 2) Page 10
