The F-Word: A Sexy Romantic Comedy

by Sandra Marton

“What did you expect, Mr. O’Malley? Something from a Victoria’s Secret catalogue?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Of course not,” she mimics, folding her arms over those I-didn’t-realize-they-were-breasts breasts.

  “No.” I run my hand through my hair. “I mean, wait. You’re taking this wrong.”

  “Oh, I saw that look.”

  “What look?”

  “I saw how you reacted to the sight of me.”

  Jesus, I hope not!

  “Bailey. You’re dead wrong. You look great.”

  She makes a sound somewhere between pshaw and what Walter says right before he heaves.

  “You do,” I tell her. “You look wonderful. Any man would be…”

  “What man? I don’t have one, remember? That’s what started this entire stupid thing!”

  “Well, you don’t have one now. But any guy you ever, you know, you were ever with, dated, any boyfriend in the past…”

  “Did you really tell me you went to NYU, Mr. O’Malley? Because that had to be a lie. I don’t think somebody as stupid as you could graduate from—from Degree-Mill U, let alone NYU.”

  “Degree-Mill U?” I laugh. Wrong move, but I can’t help it. “Listen, Bailey—”

  “No.” She stalks towards me, chin raised, eyes glittering. Damn, she looks magnificent! “No, you listen!” One hand rises, forms into a fist with just the index finger sticking out. She jabs that index finger into the center of my chest. “I-have-no-boyfriend. I have never had a boyfriend. And if I did, I would have no idea what to wear for one of what you and the editors at Cosmopolitan call quiet nights at home. Get it?”

  “Got it,” I say, and the next thing I know, I’m reaching for her and pulling her into my arms.

  She’s warm. Soft. Her hair smells like a summer day. Flowers. Sunshine. Lemons.

  Her hand, the one doing the jabbing, flattens against my chest.

  And I bend my head and my mouth is on hers and the kiss is amazing, amazing, sweet and tender and innocent, except her lips are parting and I play the tip of my tongue over the fullness of her bottom lip and that hard-on is with me again…

  I let go of her. She stumbles back. Our eyes meet. I need to apologize, to promise her this won’t happen again, that it was a mistake.

  She licks her lips, as if to take in the taste of me.

  My dick salutes, and I turn away. Fast.

  Impossible. This is going to be impossible. My brilliant plan to help her deal with Cousin Violet and Elevator Boy is not going to work…

  “I know you had to do that. Eventually, I mean.”

  I blink and turned towards her. She’s looking at me in a way that takes me back to seventh grade, a birthday party at Laura Devlin’s house, all of us downstairs in the Devlin’s finished basement playing Truth or Dare. I don’t remember what my truth was, only that I ended up taking the dare, which was Laura and me stepping into the unfinished part of the basement and kissing.

  The same expression that was on Laura’s face is on Bailey’s, a mixture of confusion, worry, anxiety…

  And something I’d been too young to identify.

  But I’m old enough to identify it now.

  It’s—it’s pleasure.

  “Right?” she says.

  I blink again. “Right?”

  “Yes. I’m right about what, you know, what just happened. You, kissing me.” She blushes. “So we can do our best to pull this off.”

  “To pull this off?”

  “To fool everybody this weekend.”

  “To fool…” I catch myself just in time. Did that pathetic excuse for a kiss turn me into a parrot? I inhale. Exhale. Smile. At least, I hope what’s on my face is a smile. “Oh. Yes. Exactly. There’ll have to be some contact between us. Holding hands. Me putting my arm around you.”

  “Kissing,” she says, and she does that little tip-of-her-tongue thing again, and what the fuck is with my dick? It’s doing its best to force its way through my zipper.

  “Kissing,” I say, pretty much the way the guy who does the nightly weather would say showers.

  She nods. “Okay. But next time…Next time, I’d appreciate it if you could warn me. Just so I’m prepared.”

  “No problem.”

  We stare at each other. Then I hear myself tell her that since I didn’t know what she wanted for dinner, I picked up a bunch of different things.

  Silence. A long silence. Then she says what a good idea, or something like that, and together we finish emptying the bags and opening the containers until the counter looks like an international buffet. Lasagna. Pizza. A big green salad. Kung Pao chicken. Pad Thai. And, as an afterthought, a huge order of cheese-drenched nachos.

  We both reach for the nachos. We smile and start munching.

  “Good,” she says.

  I nod in agreement. “Always.”

  And neither of us mentions what happened just a few minutes ago.

  * * *

  Her cat puts in a cautious appearance. It’s a Siamese with slightly crossed eyes. Having it stare at me is kind of disconcerting because that off-kilter gaze is unblinking.

  “Her name is Priscilla,” Bailey says.

  “Nice name.” I squat down. “Come say hello, Priscilla.”

  The cat doesn’t move. Or rather she does, but it’s only to sit on her haunches and wrap her long chocolate tail around her feet.

  “She’s shy.”

  “Yeah.” I stand up. “I can see that.”

  We talk cats for a few minutes. Then we tuck into pretty much everything on the counter.

  Turns out she loves Thai and Chinese and Italian. Tex-Mex she isn’t sure about, but this is Tex-Mex from a place I know in the East Village and she says it might just turn her into a convert.

  “So,” I say, “I’ve learned something about you already. You’re not a picky eater.”

  “No. Not at all.”

  That’s gonna turn out to be an overstatement, but I won’t find it out until our next meal together. For now, we’re doing fine.

  We clean up after dinner, arguing over who gets to keep the leftovers. I offer the winning argument: that my dog will pig out on anything I bring home and he’s got to watch his boyish figure.

  She laughs. She has a nice laugh. Open, easy, not in the least bit phony or self-conscious. I never thought about it before, but most women seem to be cautious about how they laugh. Not Bailey.

  “Okay,” she says. “I’ll keep it all. There’s enough here for dinner straight through the rest of the week.”

  “No,” I say quickly. Her eyebrows rise. “I mean, we’ll be having dinner together the entire week. What’s left of it, anyway. Have to get to know each other, remember?”

  “Every night?”

  “Every night,” I say firmly.

  She frowns. Nibbles on her bottom lip. My eyes lock on the motion. When she stops nibbling, I drag my gaze to hers.

  “I can’t let you bring supper in every night, Mister…Matthew.”

  We’ve passed some sort of hurdle, though the use of my name is accompanied by a quick blush. Man. What is it with me? She touches the tip of her tongue to her lip, she chews on it, she blushes and, wham, my one-eyed monster gets to his feet and says hello.

  “Fine. We’ll go out for dinner.”

  “Go out?”

  “Sure. We have to do that anyway. You know, get accustomed to being together in public.”

  “Oh.”

  “We can decide on the time tomorrow. In the office.”

  “No,” she says emphatically. “In the office, we’ll continue being what we always were. Always are. Still are, still will be after the weekend.” She stops. “Nobody should know about—about this.”

  She’s right. I have a couple of fairly large construction crews, but my office staff is relatively small. Bailey. Jack, our accountant. Beverly, the receptionist. Tony, who handles the endless paperwork you have to file to put up a house. We’re a tight group and there’s no way
I’d want them gossiping about the boss, even if all I’m doing is giving Bailey a helping hand in her private life.

  “I agree. Work as usual, at the office. So I’ll pick you up tomorrow night at seven. Is that good?”

  She nods, but I can see her hesitating.

  “What?” I ask.

  “What shall I wear?”

  Women ask this question all the time. It usually means, are we going someplace expensive? Are we going to a club? Do I dress up? Dress down? Wear designer jeans or some short, tight thing that’s laughingly called a dress? I understand this. Not only have I been dating for years, I grew up with a sister. I can remember the overheard telephone conversations girls have.

  Should I wear the blue skirt with the white top? Jeans with heels or with boots? Should I put my hair up or down? That sweater I bought, remember? Should I wear it over a cami?

  I remember wondering what in hell a cami was, but I knew better than to ask.

  Those conversations would go on and on, pretty much ad nauseum. Dudes think about what to wear maybe half an hour before getting into the shower. Worrying over what to wear is a female thing.

  Except, looking at Bailey, I kind of know none of the usual stuff is going through her head. What she means is exactly what she’s asking. What should she wear? She’s clueless. And I’d bet there’s not much in her closet that she’d figure was appropriate for dinner out, aside from those awful suits.

  As far as that goes, I’d be happy if she wore exactly what she’s wearing right now. The yoga pants that show off long legs and hint at what I suspect is a sweetly rounded ass. The little T-shirt that’s maybe half a size too small and just a little too short, and did I mention that when I kissed her and she got up on her toes, the shirt rode up just enough so I could feel the smooth skin of her belly against me?

  The one-eyed beast gives my zipper another little nudge.

  “Wear whatever you want,” I say. I sound a little hoarse, so I smile to counteract it, drop a brotherly kiss on the top of her head and get the hell out while I still can.

  7

  We are fine at the office the next day. In fact, we are too fine.

  We’re back to me being Mr. O’Malley or sir, and though I waggle my eyebrows a couple of times by way of suggesting she’s not supposed to call me that anymore, my efficient PA ignores me.

  Mid-morning, when she brings me a mug of coffee as she always does, I say a loud “Thank you” followed by a hissed “No more Mr. O’Malley, remember?”

  Bailey frowns. She reaches for the notepad on the corner of my desk and writes something. Then she turns the pad towards me.

  That change does not apply to business.

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  Her frown deepens. She grabs the pad and scribbles again.

  I have never addressed you so informally. It’s improper.

  I start to respond. Her frown becomes a glare. I roll my eyes and write furiously on the pad.

  Improper? This is the year 2017. And have you ever noticed that EVERYONE else in this place calls me Matt???

  It’s Bailey’s turn. She spins the pad towards her, writes something, then spins the pad back towards me.

  You told me to call you Matthew.

  She’s right. I did.

  Why would I call you Matthew, she writes, when everyone else calls you Matt?

  It’s a good question. I could tell her I was wrong, that she should call me Matt. But I don’t want her calling me Matt. I don’t want her calling me what everyone else calls me, and I’ll be damned if I know the reason.

  I open my mouth, then shut it. Bailey flashes me an I-told-you-so smile.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?” she says.

  I have a quick image of me saying yes, yes there will be something else, and then getting up from my desk, slamming shut the office door, grabbing my PA, stripping her out of today’s suit choice—a particularly sexless dark gray with narrow white pinstripes—bending her over my desk and fucking her until she’s incapable of saying anything except Matthew, Matthew, Matthew over and over and over…

  “Not a thing,” I say, very calmly, and I look at my computer monitor and start hitting the letters on my keyboard, and I don’t dare look up again until I know Bailey’s left my office.

  Then I stop punching keys, grab my coffee and take a long swallow.

  Maybe this plan of mine to help her take on Vicious Violet wasn’t so smart.

  For reasons beyond me to comprehend, it’s not going quite the way it should.

  * * *

  We get through the morning.

  I have a lunch appointment with the couple determined to build the wrong house on the right property. When I leave, Bailey is at her desk eating something that looks like granola and yogurt from a plastic cup.

  “I’ll be back by two,” I say.

  “Very good, Mr. O’Malley.”

  I start down the hall. Then I stop and walk back to her desk.

  “What is that stuff?” I ask.

  “Granola,” she says. “And yogurt.”

  I nod and make a mental note to my growing list of Things I Know About Bailey. Despite last night’s foray into a United Nations assortment of food, she is a health nut. Or maybe not. Maybe she prefers what any civilized American would call real food, but she figures it’s improper to indulge in it.

  Propriety seems to be a big thing for my PA.

  Which makes me wonder how she’d react if she knew there’s a tiny drop of yogurt on her upper lip. I’m sure she’d deem it improper.

  Meaning, I have three choices.

  I can ignore it.

  I can tell her about it and hand her a tissue—she has a box of them on her desk.

  Or I can lean down and lick that drop away.

  A shot of heat goes from my balls to the top of my head.

  “What?” she says, and for half a second I wonder if she sees flames shooting out of my fly.

  “Nothing,” I say crisply. “I just—I just—I forgot something.”

  She pushes back her chair. “Tell me what it is and I’ll get it.”

  I wave my hand in the air. “Not necessary. It isn’t important.”

  She looks puzzled. “But you said—”

  “I’ll see you at two,” I say, and I turn my back to her and make my escape.

  * * *

  I meet my would-be clients at a place tucked into the heart of Old Greenwich. The Scotts chose it and it’s handsome and quiet, but it figures that it’s all dark wood, spindle-top chairs, and enough potted plants that I expect to be handed a watering can instead of a wine glass. Still, the food is good, the wine is, too, and the Scotts are nice people. We have some general conversation over glasses of a Napa Valley cabernet sauvignon.

  Then we get down to business.

  Mostly it consists of me giving them all the reasons building the house they envision on those four acres would be a mistake. I talk about the rise of the land, the view out over a forest, the small lake and the untouched valley just beyond it. I tell them it all calls for something sleek with lots of glass, high ceilings and pale floors. When they don’t say anything, I tell them I wish I could build their house for them, but I can’t.

  I can see I’ve finally gotten through.

  Jim Scott puts his elbows on the table and steeples his fingers.

  “We appreciate your honesty, Matt.”

  I shrug. “I’d be wrong to pretend that I share your vision for this house, Jim. And I know it sounds corny, but I think sharing a vision for a place is important.”

  The Scotts nod at each other. Jim looks at me. “Would it be possible for you to—“

  “Recommend someone? Absolutely.” I take a sheet of paper from my pocket. I’ve written two names and phone numbers on it. “Either of these guys would be excellent choices. Be sure and tell them I sent you.”

  Jim hands the paper to his wife. She tucks it into her pocketbook. Then we talk about stuff for another couple of minutes and Jim
reaches for the check.

  I get to it first.

  “It’s my pleasure,” I say, and it truly is. I like this couple. I just don’t like what they want to do with that land.

  We stroll outside. My ’Vette is parked at the curb. Their car is in the lot behind the restaurant. We exchange handshakes, promises to keep in touch, and as I start towards my car I can hear the Scotts speaking softly to each other. I reach my car, unlock the door and start to climb in when Jim calls out to me. I turn around. He and his wife wave me over.

  “Julie and I thought you’d like to know that we’re going to call the realtor,” he says, “and tell him we’re giving up our option on the land.”

  I’m puzzled. “But you just asked me to recommend a builder.”

  “You convinced us,” Julie Scott says, and smiles. “That land is for a different kind of house.”

  I’m pleased and I tell them so. We shake hands again and this time, just before we part company, Julie puts her hand lightly on my arm.

  “I can’t help but wonder,” she says, “if you’ve ever thought of buying that land and building a house for yourself?”

  I grin. “Nice idea, but I have a place. In Manhattan.”

  “Ah. I forgot. You’re a bachelor. Of course you have a place in Manhattan. Why would you want to live on the top of a hill in the middle of nowhere?”

  We all laugh politely.

  Why, indeed? I think as I pull away from the curb.

  Me, with a house in the middle of nowhere.

  I shake my head, reach to the dashboard and punch a button. My ’Vette is restored to her original self, but I’ve added some new tricks. Like Bose speakers and satellite radio.

  I fiddle with the stations until I find one that plays oldies. Aerosmith fills not just the car but my head. Still, that image of a house on a hill surrounded by forest is tough to shake.

  Maybe in ten years. Or fifteen.

  Aerosmith gives way to AC/DC, and I step down on the gas and let the ’Vette do its thing all the way back to the office.

  * * *

  At five minutes of seven, I step from a taxi outside Bailey’s apartment building. I hand the driver a bill and tell him to wait for me. He nods, leans back and settles in.