by Lexi Ryan
“He loves you.”
She nods. “I know. And I’m trying to get over it, but the idea of them working together every day makes me crazy.”
You and me both, sis.
“But what choice do I have, right?”
I exhale slowly, then breathe in the clean scent of the nursery. As much as my parents’ meddling has made us all crazy, this is the kind of people they are—the kind who set up a nursery in their home for their grandchild.
“You could tell them,” I say. When Della swore me to secrecy about what happened that night, I thought I was agreeing to protect her. Now I realize I was compliant with her cover-up, because part of me wanted to protect Liz from the ramifications of her own poor decisions. If you would have told me eight months ago that any of my decisions were motivated by the desire to protect Liz, I would have called you a liar, but I can see it now. “You could tell Mom and Dad the truth about Liz and Connor’s history, and they’d put Liz off the campaign.”
Her eyes go wide, terrified. “You think I should?”
“No. Not really. It would hurt everyone involved, but if you can’t live with her working with Connor, you do have the choice.”
“I can live with it,” she says, but she sounds less like she’s sure and more like she’s trying to convince herself. She studies me for a minute. “Are you really taking her to the fundraiser?”
I shrug as if I’m not a giant tangle of emotions around everything that involves Liz. “It crossed my mind.”
“Take her,” she says, surprising me.
“Seriously?”
“Woo her. Distract her. Fuck her for all I care, but keep her away from Connor.”
“She’s not going to mess with Connor. You’re married now. It’s not like before, when you two were having troubles.”
She crosses her arms over her chest and sets her jaw. “Are you going to help me get through this or not?”
I sigh. Della needs reassurance and I need a girlfriend to improve my image. Maybe the solution is just that simple. “Yeah. I’ll help.”
Chapter Seven
Liz
Sam visits campaign headquarters again on Friday morning, and again he gives me that look—like I don’t belong and he’d really prefer I wasn’t here.
I watch him in my peripheral vision as he chats with his dad over coffee, but I try not to stare. I try to pretend that we don’t have a history, that he doesn’t hate me, and that there’s no way he’s the man who’s been talking dirty to me online, but I’m not that good an actress, and when he’s on his way out the door I can’t handle it.
I hop out of my seat, grab him, and pull him into the supply closet. Then I feel stupid because it’s dark in here and I can’t even see his face.
“I really want this job,” I blurt.
“Okay.”
Not only is it dark in here, the space is smaller than I anticipated, and every time I inhale, my chest brushes against his. I can smell his soap and his aftershave. I close my eyes and give myself to the count of three to revel in the things the smell does to my insides—very, very good things—then I do my best to plead my case. “I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable or if you hate me or . . . whatever. But this is the first time I’ve had a job I was this excited about. I love it. Please don’t ruin this for me.”
“You’re worried I’m going to tell my father what happened between you and Connor? You think I’d do that to my sister?”
“I never meant to hurt her,” I whisper. “I care about Della, even if she won’t talk to me anymore, and you know I care about Connor—not that way, but he’s a friend, and—”
“Shut up, Liz.” His voice is deep, and the husky tone in his command slingshots me back in time to our nights together, his hands on me, his rough voice whispering commands in my ear.
Obeying, I bite my lip to keep myself from saying more. There’s a time to argue in your own defense, and there’s a time to cut your losses.
Sam’s hands settle on my shoulders then slowly, oh-so slowly, he sweeps his fingertips down my arms and to my waist.
I swallow. Hard. Because right about now, a little make-out session with Sam—in a dark supply room or anywhere—sounds so damn good. It would be a poor decision. Been there, done that, got the heartache to prove it. But damn if I don’t want it anyway.
That last time I had sex? Actual going-all-the-way sex, not that drunken blow job that happened with Connor last summer? No, the last time I had actual sex was good. Great. O-mazing (which is like amazing, but with more orgasms). I found bruises the next day—hickies on the side of my breast and my inner thigh. What self-respecting grown man leaves hickies on a woman? But Sam isn’t self-respecting. He’s just Sam. And he’s damn good in bed and knows it. We hooked up for the first time two years ago and then again at Cally’s wedding last October, even though I’d told myself sleeping with him was a poor decision.
Maybe poor decisions are underrated.
He’s barely touching me, his fingertips resting on my hips, but I want to sway toward him. Hell, I want to rub against him like a cat.
“Rowdy?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you have a date to your sister’s wedding?”
“No.”
“Wanna be mine?”
I actually gasp, a horrifyingly desperate little sound. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Wh . . . why?”
He chuckles softly and then I feel his lips on the shell of my ear. “Maybe I’m fond of what happens when we find ourselves at weddings together. Will you be my date?”
“Yes,” I breathe.
“Good. See you there.”
Then there’s a click, and I squint as light pours into the storage closet and Sam heads for the street.
“See you there,” I whisper, but he’s already gone.
* * *
Headquarters is rocking with activity today, and I’ve been so busy since Sam left this morning, I’ve barely had time to think about what happened in the supply closet. We have a load of new volunteers who need training, and everyone is in high gear preparing for the fundraising gala next week.
“It’s not that we don’t appreciate your offer to sing Christmas carols throughout dinner,” I tell Mrs. Patrinsky. “It’s just that Mr. Bradshaw already arranged for a string quartet.”
“If it’s been decided, who am I to change your fancy plans?” Mrs. Patrinsky says. “But I was once told that my voice could call the angels home.”
“More like wake the dead,” Connor mutters in my ear when she’s gone.
I bite back a giggle. “She can’t be that bad.”
“The ladies at St. Catherine’s started a petition to get her to stop singing during mass. It’s that bad.” He winks at me then turns back to the stack of volunteer packets we’ve been preparing all morning.
Something tugs in my chest. Connor and I used to be good friends, but we screwed that up. Now we never talk because it would hurt Della, but that doesn’t mean I don’t miss him.
“What does Della think of me working here?”
He stills but doesn’t look at me. “She doesn’t like it.”
I’m sure that came as a shock to no one. “So why haven’t I been let go?”
Slowly, he turns to me, but first he looks over his shoulder to make sure we’re alone. “She never told her parents about what happened between you and me.” He takes a breath, his regret clear in the grimace on his face. “She doesn’t want them to know.”
“I don’t understand. You didn’t do anything wrong, Connor. You two were broken up. She was moving out of your apartment.”
“In Della’s eyes, I betrayed her.” He shrugs. “But that’s why you’re still here. She doesn’t want her parents to know. And as long as they don’t, both of our lives will be better.”
I hang my head. “I hate feeling like your dirty secret.”
He steps closer. “Liz . . .”
I look up and sigh. He’s so tall
and lanky and adorably goofy. And I’m still not sure Della deserves him. “What?”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “I just want you to know—”
“How are those changes on my speech coming?” Mr. Bradshaw asks, making Connor and I jump.
“Changes?” I ask.
Connor steps back and shoves his hands in his pockets, looking guilty as hell. That’s the kind of guy he is. He always feels guilty and takes the blame, even when he’s innocent. “I emailed some notes to you last night,” Connor tells me. Then he turns to Mr. Bradshaw. “We’ve been busy with volunteers all morning and haven’t worked on it yet.”
“Let me know when you have a new draft,” Mr. Bradshaw says. “I’ll be in my office.”
“Okay, sir,” I squeak. “Absolutely.”
Connor immediately goes to the conference table and boots up his laptop.
“What were you saying?” I ask. I sit down on my side of the table and retrieve my laptop from its case. “Before we were interrupted.”
Connor exhales heavily and shakes his head. “Nothing.”
With a sigh, I boot up my computer, preparing to load my email and see what changes Mr. Bradshaw wants to the speech. The Something Real chat application loads automatically, and my computer dings with a chat notification from River.
Riverrat69: Tell me what you’re wearing today.
Crap. I shouldn’t have this on at work. I flick my gaze to Connor, but he’s got his headphones on and he’s absorbed in whatever he’s working on. A quick reply wouldn’t hurt.
Tink24: Black dress, pink heels, pink sweater. I’m fucking adorable.
Riverrat69: I don’t doubt it, but I’m more interested in what you’re wearing beneath all that. Or you could just send me another picture if you prefer.
I squirm and make sure Connor’s still absorbed in his work. Then I close my eyes and picture Sam at his desk at the bank, typing those words. That’s all it takes for my body to go warm, flushed all over.
Tink24: No pictures today, naughty.
Riverrat69: Fair enough. It will only make me want you in the flesh that much more.
Tink24: I dreamed about you last night.
Riverrat69: Anything good?
Tink24: All of it was good. Except the waking up alone part. That part sucked.
Riverrat69: Feeling a little frustrated, are we?
Frustrated is an understatement. Abstinence hasn’t been good to me. Maybe it’s just all the pressure of making sure I find the right guy, but it’s almost as if the moment I decided I was holding out for the one, every guy I’ve connected with has failed in the physical connection category.
Tink24: I miss sex.
Riverrat69: Surely with all these dates you’ve been on, you’ve gotten a few moments of satisfaction?
Tink24: You overestimate the men in this town. This last guy I took home . . . he was a good kisser—usually you can tell by their kisses. Then he invited me back to his place and got his hand in my panties and I swear he thought he was trying to prime a lawnmower to start, the way he kept pressing on my clit. Jab, jab, jab. Is that supposed to do something for me?
Truth be told, it wasn’t his total lack of finesse with the female anatomy that crossed him off my list. It was that being around him did nothing for me. He was nice enough, just bland. Every man who hasn’t been completely objectionable has felt bland to me. With two exceptions: Sam and Riverrat69. Or is that one exception?
Riverrat69: You’re exaggerating. We’re talking fingering here, not rocket science.
I bite back a laugh, and Connor looks up from his computer and cocks his head. I clear my throat. “Just an email from my sister,” I lie. “She’s hilarious.”
Riverrat69: They should make straight boys take a class on pussy. I remember back when my brother hit puberty and cornered me with questions . . . God bless him, he was trying to figure it out, but I lost sleep for weeks worrying about the poor girl he got to third base with the first time.
Tink24: What would they teach in your proposed pussy class?
Riverrat69: Not to jab at the clit like it’s a primer, for starters. You’re not drilling for oil, for Christ’s sake. Pussy 101 would focus on foreplay, technique, patience, and execution.
Tink24: If you put this on Kickstarter, women everywhere would donate to the cause.
Riverrat69: It’s a matter about which I care very deeply. Very.
I look up at Connor again, and his brow is wrinkled as he watches me. I hurry and close out the chat application and pull up my email. God, I haven’t even been here a week and I’m already having risqué chat conversations on the clock. Not that I’m getting paid by the hour, or much at all for that matter, but still. I want to keep this job.
The email with the suggested speech revisions is waiting for me, and I put my head down and get to work.
Chapter Eight
Liz
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” I tap on my screen wildly as if there’s some magical swipe-tap-hyperventilate combination that can take the text back. Or, more specifically, the picture. Nausea rolls over me and I drop my phone to the counter and press my hands to my hot cheeks. It’s over. It’s done. The picture is out there.
“Liz?” I look up to see my mom standing in my kitchen, frowning at me. Her hair is extra coifed tonight, and her frown extra condemning. Which, if you know my mother, is saying something. If a frown can say, “Anything that’s wrong in your life, you brought on yourself,” Mom’s does. She doesn’t mean to be a judgmental harpy where all of her daughters are concerned, kind of like clowns don’t mean to be creepy. Intent is pretty much irrelevant.
I drop my hands from my cheeks. “Hi, Mom.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. It’s just hot in here. I’m feeling a little woozy.” I’m not about to tell my mother that I accidentally sent a naked picture to Sam Bradshaw.
I want to meet River in person. I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind since he suggested it. But given my complicated history with Sam, I decided that River/probably Sam needed to know exactly whom he was meeting. When I sent the picture, I was so busy thinking about what Sam’s reaction would be, I sent it to Sam via text message, rather than to River via Something Real chat—a picture of myself in nothing but a purple lace thong, black heels, and a smile.
Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck, fuck, fuck.
It shouldn’t matter, but now instead of the picture being the way I tell River/probably Sam that I am Tink24, the picture is on its way to Sam’s phone from my phone. Even if it’s really the same thing, it’s not the same thing at all.
“You’re not wearing that, are you?” Mom asks. She narrows her eyes so disapprovingly at my fuzzy candy-cane sleep pants and white tank that, for a moment, I consider it. Just because it would get Mom’s hackles up, I want to wear my pajamas to Hanna’s wedding rehearsal. Hanna wouldn’t care. She’s so sleep deprived from taking care of the twins while Nate’s been on tour that she probably wouldn’t even notice.
“I’ll go change,” I mutter, turning toward my bedroom.
The second my bare feet hit the carpet of my room, my phone buzzes, rattling against the kitchen counter. I spin and run all in one motion and reach for the phone at the exact moment as Mom’s fingers wrap around it. “I got it.”
She lifts a brow but doesn’t release my phone. “Are you hiding something? If you’re doing something you don’t want your mother to know about, you probably shouldn’t be doing it.”
“I’m not a little girl anymore, Mom. There are plenty of things I do that I don’t want you knowing about.” With a tug, I snatch the phone away and tuck it into my pocket. If she knew what I did moments before she’d arrived, she would be so disappointed. Of course, I don’t think she’d be less disappointed if I’d sent it to the anonymous stranger it was intended for.
“We’re going to be late,” she scolds.
I rush into my room, close the door behind me, and lean against it befor
e withdrawing the phone from my pocket.
Sam: Nice shoes.
That makes me smile. Damn. I needed that.
I click into the text box and stare at my phone, but I can’t think of a reply.
Instead of texting Sam, I pull up the chat application I use to talk to River. I already depleted my short supply of courage sending that picture the first time, so I’m not going to send it again.
Tink24: Do you still want to meet me?
Riverrat69: More than anything.
Tink24: When? Where?
Riverrat69: Can you get to Brown County tomorrow night?
I put my hand to my mouth. I’ll be staying in Brown County tomorrow after Hanna’s wedding. And so will Sam.
It really is him. It has to be.
Tink24: Yes. It will have to be late. I have an event.
Riverrat69: 5429 Water Pointe Blvd. I’ll wait up.
Tink24: I’ll see you then.
Riverrat69: I’ve never actually ripped a woman’s clothes off before, but I might have to with you. I don’t think you’ll make it past the foyer before I bury my face in your pussy.
The thrill that buzzes though me at his words settles hard and hot between my legs.
