Frisky Business: Chick Flick Club #3

by Monroe, Lila

  He nods. “I get that.” He lifts up his beer to his lips, realizing it’s empty. As he stands, he points at my drink. “Another?”

  I shake my head. Add more booze to this emotional confess-a-thon? “No thanks. Maybe a soda.”

  I sneak a look at him as he goes over to the fridge to get our drinks. I catch myself checking out his fine ass and can’t help but think of Marge and Frank and their long marriage based on a sweet butt.

  But Noah’s more than a nice ass. And biceps. And, who am I kidding, that smile that could melt panties right off a girl. He’s nice. And smart. And is really good at business.

  And damn.

  It occurs to me that, under different circumstances, we’d basically be on a date, like a fifth date, where you’re comfortable and chilling on the couch after a day of work with food and a movie. Though without that detail of having seen each other naked.

  If it was a date, it wouldn’t be the worst one I’ve been on. Not by a long shot.

  As I’m watching Noah while thinking this, my phone sounds. I pick it up. One of the guys that Zoey swiped earlier has messaged me. He wants to meet for drinks.

  “Oh,” I say as I stare at the message.

  “What’s wrong?” Noah asks, putting a can down in front of me.

  “Nothing.” I smile up at him. “Just a guy . . . he . . . he wants to go for drinks.” I put down my phone.

  “You’re not going to go?” Noah asks casually.

  I look up at him. “No, it’s been a long day,” I say. Not adding that I’m actually having a nice time with him.

  “You should go,” he says, reaching for another slice.

  “You trying to get rid of me?” It occurs to me for the first time that maybe he has a booty call coming over. Ugh. I really don’t want to be here for that.

  “Nope,” he says, taking a bite, chewing as he adds, “Just saying you should go if you want to.”

  Do I want to? I pick up the phone and look at the guy. Cute in a studious nerd kind of way. Clean-shaven, which is a plus. He wants to meet at a gallery for an opening reception. Sounds sophisticated. I’m suddenly really torn.

  “Go, Eve,” Noah says. “Have a good time. I’ll work on the website. I won’t even wait up.”

  It’s awkward, especially as I was musing about us being on a sort-of date, but his encouragement tells me all I need to know: that this isn’t a date.

  Because I already know, I’m not Noah’s booty-call type.

  So what am I waiting around here for, when my perfect match might be waiting somewhere out there?

  “You’re right,” I decide, getting to my feet. “See you later!”

  He smirks. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  I pause.

  “Unless you’re going to a pajama party,” he adds.

  Oh! I look down at my outfit. Not exactly first-date material.

  “Clothes first, then date,” I agree. “Enjoy the rest of your night!”

  11

  Eve

  It’s official: I’m cursed. I am never going to find love, destined to live a spinster life. Alone. Though instead of being surrounded by cats, it will be dogs. Until I die and they eat my face.

  Which would be preferable to this date.

  I shiver and down my third glass of cheap champagne, which is seriously the only thing that’s gotten me through this gallery reception so far.

  Because Calvin, the sophisticated nerd? He’s the ex-boyfriend of the artist, Delia DeYoung. And ah-yup, I’m here to make her jealous. Not that it’s working.

  Because her artwork? A feminist study in visual orgasms. I’m not even kidding. Each piece is an abstract painting of how each orgasm made her feel. The canvases are named for the man (or device) that delivered the orgasm.

  On one hand, it’s hilarious, and I take as many secret pictures as I can to show my friends, because they will never believe this. On the other hand, it’s . . . really, really awkward.

  Especially when we get to the canvas entitled “Calvin.” And it’s blank. Like, I mean Delia took the plastic wrapper off the brand-new canvas and then hung it on the wall. Calvin withers beside me when he clues in. I feel really bad for him. But at the same time, I have to press my lips together to keep from laughing.

  It doesn’t bode well, that’s for sure.

  “Do you, uh, want to get a drink?” poor Calvin asks, turning away from his bad review.

  “Umm, maybe not,” I hedge. “The, umm, estrogen in the gallery is bringing on some raging PMS, so I’d better not.”

  “Oh. OK.”

  He mumbles something as I make my escape into an Uber, spending the money because I just need to get away. Now.

  And to think I could have stayed home, saved my money and not been exposed to someone else’s multiple orgasms.

  In the back of the car, I wonder what Noah’s painting would have looked like. Not a blank canvas, I’m sure. Probably like the giant centerpiece of the art exhibit—titled “Todd”—that had looked like a spikey sound wave with a lot of peaks. Moaning and screaming must have been involved, and I’d bet money Delia is still with Todd. For very good, toe-curling reasons.

  Yeah, Noah would probably be well represented on an orgasm canvas.

  Maybe it’s the champagne, but I’m eager to get home and back to our easy non-date on the couch. Looking back, I should have stayed in, but hopefully we can get back to where we were when I’d gotten that message.

  When I get out of the car, I finger-comb my hair and straighten my clothes before I go inside. Leia and Hans greet me at the door with excited snuffles and dancing, but as I cock my head, I don’t hear the TV.

  Oh. My disappointment grows when I find the living room dark and empty. My gaze drifts toward the pool house but it’s dark too. Noah’s in bed. Maybe not alone. Or maybe he’s out. No way to tell which, but all of the above are disappointing.

  Not that he owes me an evening after I bailed on him, but . . .

  Anyway, just as well, I tell myself as I turn away from the pool house. I already know he’s all wrong for me. Sure, we’ve been thrown together here sharing the house, but our relationship is based solely on the business of getting that chicken replaced. The last thing we need is any romantic complications getting in the way of earning the rest of the ten grand. We need to stay focused.

  And I need to get some sleep.

  * * *

  A week later, Noah and I are working on Operation Replacement Chicken in our office. And by “our office,” I mean the park bench that has become our headquarters for Dog for a Day.

  We’re just waiting on one dog to be returned before we take them all back to the shelter. It’s been a crazy day. First up, a band needed dogs for a music video. Then, some weird guy wanted to fill a bed with puppies and sleep among them.

  “Can’t he just roll around on a pile of money like normal people?” Noah had said. But whatever. Five puppies for a long nap equals cha-ching.

  Finally, Gemma’s sister Alice and her sexy boyfriend, Nick, needed a pit bull for some project. It was especially mysterious when Alice held her finger to her lips and told me I hadn’t seen her. Wink wink. Obviously, Gemma doesn’t know her sister is even in town.

  “How much today, boss?” I ask Noah as he’s pulling up the report on his phone.

  He holds the screen up to me, a satisfied grin on his face.

  I let out a whistle. “Another thousand dollars? That means we’re halfway there!”

  He nods. “And we have a full line-up tomorrow.”

  I feel a pang of guilt about doing all this on the down-low. But I push it away, reminding myself that our little scheme hasn’t just gotten us money, but several dogs have been adopted out. Diane thinks the spike in adoptions is because of the “long walks” I’m taking with the shelter pups, doing impromptu meet-and-greets out at the dog parks.

  Ah, nope. Whatever. It’s working.

  After Alice (in a big hat and sunglasses) and Nick return the pit bull, N
oah and I take the “afternoon shift” back to the shelter. Once the dogs are settled in, we leave and get back out into the sunshine.

  “Now what?” Noah asks.

  It’s still early and I feel good. Also, I’m having a fun time with Noah. And as he smiles at me now, I realize it’s mutual and not just because of the dogs. I don’t want it to end.

  “I could eat,” I suggest, hoping he takes the bait. Knowing he will—the guy is always hungry.

  He nods. “The farmers market is only a few blocks away.”

  As we stroll, we talk about the next day’s appointments and what pictures he’s going to have to update on the website. Today alone three dogs on our roster got adopted!

  “And I was thinking of doing an Insta series on the older dogs,” he says. “The puppies are an easy sell, but the older ones, like Fred and Bailey, need an extra boost.”

  I look up at him, because the way he’s talking about the dogs and wanting to profile them, it’s not just about making us money. He really cares.

  It does weird things to my insides.

  “What?” he says, smirking. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Ugh, Eve, you’re wearing your heart on your sleeve!

  “You really love the work, don’t you?” I say, not letting on what it means to me that he loves the dogs.

  He nods. “I do.”

  “I hope all this helps with your business.”

  “It will,” he says. “I haven’t worked with a lot of non-profits, and this is a combo of advertising and exposure, so it has its own challenges.”

  “Also, that challenge of keeping it secret while getting clients,” I remind him.

  He taps his nose with a finger. “Exactly.”

  As we walk through the booths of the market, high-energy music drifts toward us. Then we hear some raised voices and laughter. Noah looks at me. “Want to find out what’s going on?”

  “Lead on.”

  Following the sounds, we find ourselves in the middle of a street fair that’s a feast for all our senses: the fast beats of samba music, the mouth-watering aromas of roasting meats, and the scene in front of us—women in colorful showgirl-type parade outfits dancing.

  A huge banner strung over the dance floor tells us it’s the Brazilian Days festival.

  “Let’s grab some food and watch the show,” I suggest, when the dancers suddenly fan out and start grabbing spectators to pull them onto the dance floor . . . Including us. Glancing over at Noah, I’m surprised that he smiles and goes along with it. I would have figured he was too cool for school, but maybe it’s the dancers who appeal. I allow the tall, stunning Brazilian goddess who is basically wearing a feathered bikini to lead me out the floor, too.

  As a group, we learn steps to the samba as a line dance, the leader in her red outfit calling out the steps: “Forward, cha-cha, back, cha-cha. Get your hips into it. Head up. Smile. Have fun!”

  I get that last part right, at least. Noah and I are side by side, doing our best to learn the steps in half-time, laughing as we try to follow along. Then the leader pronounces we are good enough to dance in couples. For a second, I think Noah’s going to join with one of the tall, tanned Brazilian hotties, but he immediately turns toward me as if he’d never even considered not partnering with me.

  “What do you say?” he asks, holding a hand out.

  “Just don’t trample on my toes,” I warn him.

  He laughs. “No promises . . .”

  I gingerly take his hand, and he places his other on my waist. Uh-oh. I didn’t think this through. We’re closer than we’ve ever been before, and I feel the heat expand and create a flush right through me as I lay my palm on his muscular shoulder.

  I take a breath as the music begins. The dance instructor reminds us the samba is all about hips. And having fun.

  Then, we’re dancing, and the tension disappears. Because there’s nothing romantic about the klutzy mess we’re making.

  “You go right!” I nudge him, as Noah stumbles.

  “No, it’s your turn!”

  Soon, we’re laughing. Stepping on toes, apologizing, more laughing. It’s the most fun I’ve had in a long time, and we dance to three songs. When the music finally comes to an end, I’m a little sad.

  But I’m also parched and breathing hard, ready for a break. It’s almost like we’ve just had a more . . . horizontal workout. Without the orgasms, of course. This thought makes me look away from the intensity of his eyes. Has he just had the same thought?

  I clear my throat. “Should we get something to drink?”

  He nods. “Sure.” He leads me over to one of the patio tables set up beside a concession and waves me toward the seat. “I’ll be right back.”

  I watch him go, and as my heart slows back to normal, it’s doing weird things that have nothing to do with exercise. He’s fun. He’s caring. He has moves on the dance floor, which adds to my confidence that he’d have moves in the bedroom.

  He’s standing at the counter, his back to me, and I can’t help as my eyes drift down his body, from his broad, firm shoulders, to his trim, hard waist and lower, to that ass I could sink my teeth into.

  Whoa, Eve—where the hell did that come from? Maybe I’m channeling Marge.

  But no. Maybe it’s because we’re on track to replace that chicken, making me less stressed about the money situation and having to come clean to Viv.

  Yes, that must be it. Relief. Not, you know, burning desire.

  Noah returns to the table with a tray filled with drinks and various meats on sticks. As the aromas hit me, my mouth floods and my thoughts go from the thirst to actual hunger as I realize we never did get lunch.

  “This looks amazing,” I blurt. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure. I know you get cranky if you don’t eat.”

  “Do not!” I protest.

  He grins. “Sure. Whatever you say, cranky-pants.”

  I try to glare, but I can’t help laughing. Then my phone rings.

  Trish.

  The laughter dies on my lips. I hit the ignore button. But then it rings again.

  “You’re not going to get that?” Noah asks casually.

  “Nope,” I say, reaching for another steak skewer.

  “Falling out with your bestie?” he teases.

  I sigh. “Not exactly.”

  The phone beeps with a voicemail. I hit the button to listen. She never leaves messages, so whatever it is, this must be important. At least to her.

  “Eve, honey. I’m getting married! This weekend in Napa. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you, but I so hope you can make it. I’ll send you all the details. Oh . . . in case you haven’t figured it out yet, it’s your mother! Toodle-loo!”

  I angrily stab at my phone to delete the message. Because you’ve got to be kidding me.

  This perfect day? Totally ruined.

  12

  Noah

  “I can’t believe it!” Eve exclaims for about the tenth time as we head home. “She’s getting married. Again. This weekend!”

  She’s angry and frustrated, her cheeks pink as she rants and raves. I shouldn’t be thinking about how adorable she is when she’s upset, but that flush and the red lips? Sue me, but I’m pretty sure this is what she’d look like after being the recipient of a screaming orgasm. It’s a very good look for her.

  I feel like a dick even thinking it, but I blame that street fair—watching her dance, her hips swaying to the music, her smile, the way she held onto me. It was intoxicating. I suddenly want to get very drunk on Eve.

  But I can’t. She is off limits. She’s a hopeless romantic who sees the world—and relationships—in a completely different way from me. Plus, we’re stuck under the same roof. There’s no way we could just hook up without it ending in an unholy mess. I need to stay focused on that.

  “She does this all the time,” Eve is saying as I push away my X-rated thoughts.

  “Gets married?” I ask, surprised.

  “Sh
e doesn’t marry all of them,” Eve sighs. “But more than I can count. Seriously—I think this will be her . . .” She looks up, thinking. “Seventh engagement, and counting?”

  “Wow.” Then, something she said before clicks into place. “Is that why you moved around a lot as a kid?”

  She glances over, pausing. Like she’s trying to determine if I can be trusted with this personal detail. Finally, she exhales and nods. “Yeah. Let’s just say she doesn’t make the best decisions.”

  “I’m sorry. That must have been tough.”

  She shrugs. “I learned to deal. Mainly by not getting attached to any of them. If I learn their names, that counts as enough. Anyway, would you be able to take care of Hans and Leia this weekend, while I go witness the latest sham of a wedding ceremony?”

  She looks like she’s steeling herself for battle. And I’m not used to sunny, optimistic Eve looking quite so grim. That’s the only way I can explain what comes out of my mouth next. “Why don’t we take them to boarding?”

  “Really?” Her eyes narrow. “They’re not that much trouble. You can’t handle them for two days?”

  “I could . . . Or, I could go with you to the wedding.”

  Eve blinks. “Wait, what? Why?”

  Why indeed? But now that I’ve made the offer, something makes me double down.

  “It’s in Napa, right? Free wine, free food. What’s not to like?”

  Eve looks at me sideways. “You have no idea what you’re getting into. Seriously, it’s going to be an epic shitshow. You don’t have to go.”

  “I know. I’m offering.”

  But she shakes her head. “I’m not talking Real Housewives, epic-shitshow entertaining. Well, maybe for you it would be.”

  She’s trying to put a smile on it—ever the optimist. But I can see she’s on the edge. There’s more going on with her mom that she’s holding back, and it’s obvious this weekend is going to be rough for her.