Hot For His Girl

by Rachel Blaufeld

  “She is, and you’re right.” Reid takes over and winks at me. All the winking has me woozy tonight.

  “Thanks,” I tell him when the server leaves.

  “I hope you don’t mind. I took liberties there, but I just wanted him to go. Do you think Gabby’s dad would mind?”

  I shake my head. “Only if you were drinking a gourmet cup of coffee.”

  “I don’t want to bring tonight’s mood down, but I want to say, I can’t believe he gave all that up. Gabby’s wonderful. Thank you for sharing her with me.”

  I stare, not knowing what to say. Reid with his brilliant green eyes, his slate-gray shirt tucked into dark-washed jeans, his hair tousled and stubble along his jaw. He’s everything.

  “Thank you for being so kind to her. I feel bad; I didn’t realize how much attention she was missing out on until you came. I thought I could be it all for her. Mom, dad, everything, you know?”

  “You’re doing great.” His free hand covers mine. “Not that I’m an expert, but to me, it looks like you’re the best.”

  I close my eyes and inhale the compliment. It washes over me in a way I didn’t know I needed it to. Three words is all it takes for my heart to completely capitulate.

  “Happy New Year, Reid Fellows. This has been the best year ever. I don’t know that next year can top it.”

  In a matter of days—no, minutes—I’ve gone from jilted, cynical, former fat girl to dreamy, hopeful, and smitten.

  “Wait until next year,” he warns me, and a shiver of anticipation runs up and down my spine, zipping to my feet and back.

  We abandon all the serious conversation, order an antipasto plate and two pasta dishes to share, and another bottle of wine.

  Oh, we took an Uber, planning on having our fill of libations and fun.

  “Tell me something crazy you did before Gabby,” Reid says over an after-dinner drink, some Kahlua, coffee, and cream creation that’s going down way too easily.

  “Ha, I don’t know if I can even remember that version of me.”

  “Come on, you can.”

  I set my napkin on the table and lean forward, closing my eyes, dredging up my memory. “Okay, there was this one time. I was eighteen, finishing up my first year of college, and my roommate’s uncle was getting married. It was a third wedding for him, I think. They got married on a Thursday . . .” I drag out the last word.

  “A Thursday? What does that have to do with it?” Reid laughs.

  It’s hoarse and throaty, making me feel it everywhere. Everywhere. It’s toe-curling, and I’m not sure I ever knew what toe-curling was.

  “Well, it doesn’t, but it does,” I say.

  “Okay . . .” He tilts his head, urging me on.

  “We went to the wedding and there was a guy there. I think he was twenty-four or twenty-five. Too old for me. Way too old. After the wedding, he asked me to go to some bar with him, and I went.”

  “That’s not so crazy.”

  When Reid smirks at me, I fall for him more than I already have. I want to go back in time, erase UAB, finish my masters of library science degree, and be worthy of him. Instead, I finish the story.

  “Yeah, hold your horses. I went with an ID for an Asian girl. Me with my big, round eyes and brown hair.”

  “And? Did you have fun?”

  “Um, no. I ended up throwing up all over the bar, puking right there. I haven’t had shots of Jägermeister since then. I also never saw the guy again. Jack, I think that was his name. He hightailed it out of there so fast, I had to take a cab home, my head hanging out of the window the whole time, praying I didn’t barf.”

  Reid is smiling and laughing, his eyes kind of crinkling, a small wrinkle in his forehead, and I love it.

  “This barfing, it’s kind of a thing with you. I’m learning.”

  “Ugh, I should have thought about that before telling this story to you.”

  “No way! I wonder, were you sick when you were pregnant?”

  “Not a single second of the nine months. I felt great.”

  “I knew it. You were meant to be Gabby’s mom.”

  All words are stripped from my mind. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

  Reid’s words have stolen all the air in the room, including my breath. Thank God for the server who stops by at that moment with the check and says it’s almost midnight.

  The clock strikes midnight, noisemakers blare, and I kiss the hell out of Reid Fellows, showing him rather than telling him how he makes me feel.

  Me. Andi.

  Not UAB.

  Andi’s tentative when we arrive home. She doesn’t invite me in, but it’s unspoken—I’m coming up, sharing this night with her and only her.

  Leona texted a half hour ago, saying Gabby fell asleep around ten. When Andi shared this with me, some unidentified emotion overcame me. I can’t put my finger on it, but I think it must be what a grown lion feels for his cub. But what the hell do I know? Relief that Gabby was asleep peacefully washed over me—not only heat over spending alone time with Andi.

  I don’t waste any more time dwelling on it. Andi is walking in front of me, her heavy coat covering her round ass in that dress that was made for her curves. I’m painfully hard, but I want to take my time. I’m beginning to catch on to the whole single-mom thing, and realize it may be a while before we get an entire night to ourselves again.

  I hold the screen door open while Andi unlocks the door, and in we go. Paradise awaits in the top of a duplex in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

  “Want anything?” Andi asks once the door is locked and our coats are on the rack.

  “You,” is all I say, and I’m on her.

  So much for taking my time.

  Our mouths fuse, and I walk her toward the bedroom. She’s doing fine, hobbling backward with me directing her. She unbuttons my shirt, her fingers fumbling, and I say, “Rip it off.” I have a bag with a change of clothes in the car.

  She does as I say, and her hands are all over me.

  The second we make it to the bedroom, I’m pulling her dress over her head. I crouch and yank off her boots. Fucking finally, she stands before me in just a black lace bra and matching thong. My head is one long string of thoughts, all of them dirty. I make sure my tongue isn’t hanging out—it’s not, really, but I think about it.

  “Smoking,” I whisper. “You’re so gorgeous. I feel like I’m on fire, burning up for you, Andonia.” My hands travel up the sides of her body, and I bring my mouth back to hers.

  She smiles and shares a small laugh at the mention of her full name. “Is that a grill reference? The burning-up part?” I love this side of her—witty, sarcastic, funny.

  “It could be, if it does something for you.” I walk her to the bed and lay her down in front of me.

  She mutters, “Pants,” and I do as I’m told, stripping off my pants, kicking off my boots. Our clothes are all in a tangled pile. I find myself perched over Andi, most of my weight on one arm, and we kiss until her lips are raw. I’m finally back to taking my time, even though my hardness is digging into her belly, begging to get out of my boxer briefs.

  Patience, boy.

  I slide down her body, moving her bra cups out of the way, doing some due diligence before I move further down. I know Andi likes my glasses, but I’m happy with my decision to wear contacts tonight. There’s nothing obstructing my view, slipping off my face, getting smudged or fogged up, on my way to dessert-dessert.

  I find her heat like a dog on a cold night. I am a dog, panting, wanting, taking. I get to work, exploring new spots of pleasure with my tongue—making it happen, captain.

  Andi moans, her hips rising off the bed, her center meeting my face, and then she takes off. I’m a king and she’s my queen. Crazy comparisons like that fly through my head as she comes down from her climax.

  I’ll tell you what—I’m not a dorky stats guy with abs of steel with Andi.

  I’m just me. Stats professor, blogger, eternal optimist.

&nbs
p; Gladly, I wait out her waves of pleasure, and as I grab a condom, she says, “Huh-uh.”

  Shoving me to my back, Andi returns the favor with fervor, hitting all my buttons. Slow glides of her mouth at first, then she speeds up, taking control, using her hand—

  Christ Almighty, I’m going to blow. I take hold of her arms and haul her up my body, taking her mouth for a moment, and then I decide I can’t wait anymore.

  Apparently, Andi can’t wait either. She says, “Hurry.”

  After I glove myself, I hold steady over her. Then I glide in, taking a long stroke in and out before picking up the pace. Her leg comes over my shoulder, and my hand appreciates her muscles and smooth skin. I tell myself to hold out. Fuck, I demand it.

  Thank God I do, because Andi flips me over—okay, I roll to my back with ease—and she climbs on top, both of us racing to tie at the finish line.

  We lie there for a long while, allowing our hearts to settle. Andi runs figure eights on my arm, and I stroke my hand up and down her back. Finally, I get rid of the condom, and we clean up. I rush out to the car without a shirt, wearing only jeans, and grab my bag. Once her face is clean, and I have my contacts out, we get back into bed and doze in a heap of twisted arms and legs.

  Out of nowhere, I ask, “Where’s the cat?”

  “Oh. Leona texted they came to get Reese’s after they ate dinner. Gabby wanted her to stay with her.”

  “Good. We should’ve gone to a hotel,” I say, thinking I’ve been an ass.

  “Nah, this is perfect. Seriously, I never get to be this relaxed in my own bed. And I’ve never had a better New Year’s.”

  Maybe not.

  Dear Penny-Pinching Fashion,

  Was your New Year’s resolution to spend your life savings on clothes?

  I thought the purpose of your blog was to highlight steals and deals?

  That’s what it says on your ABOUT US page. I must be confused, because today’s post is about a Tory Burch ensemble that costs enough to feed a family of twenty for a month.

  I know, you said it’s a one-off, a unique opportunity, but really? At first, I thought you were highlighting the Tory Burch outlet stores. Is this outfit going to be there soon?

  I didn’t think so.

  I’ll just head to Marshalls or TJ’s and check what they have, and see if you have any deals next week. My guess is you’re rebranding, now that you built your numbers, and next up is a glorified fashion blog for you . . . Am I right?

  Peace out, Penny!

  Affectionately yours,

  The UnAffectionate Blogger

  P.S. Need a coupon code for Marshalls? Check back later today for a separate post featuring my latest haul from a big-name, even-bigger-discounts store.

  I take a big gulp of my coffee and check the time. Almost noon. What day is it?

  Thursday, right.

  I have a call at two before Gabby comes home, the one with Universal, and I decide to run now. After changing into lined leggings and a thermal shirt, I slap on some deodorant and put on my shoes. Standing by the door, I slip on my hat and tighten my laces, and as I grab my gloves, I’m hit with a bout of nostalgia.

  It’s only been five days since New Year’s Eve, but I haven’t seen Reid all week. My “work” has kept me busy, and he’s tied up with a new semester, sorting out his classes and a new TA. Plus his blog, which he openly talks about. He made beef short ribs last night. My mouth salivated while I watched his video. I even printed the recipe. What the heck? I’m never going to make beef short ribs.

  Good thing Reid had a shirt on since it’s winter, or Gabby would have had to call an ambulance.

  We’ve texted and even called one night. He misses Gabby, and me even more. We have plans to see a movie on Saturday, and I plan to tell him about UAB after Gabby goes to bed that night.

  I think.

  I push it all out of my head as I start to run, sticking to the street because not everyone has salted their sidewalks. As I settle into my stride, I begin to map out what I’m going to say to Universal. A series of videos of attractions, funny bloopers, no Gabby or me, but perhaps some quotes? I don’t know if I want to expose myself like that.

  I’m not paying attention to my route, and then I hear, “Hey, Andi!”

  I turn my head, realizing for the first time that I don’t have my earbuds in. What is happening with me?

  “Hey, Reid.”

  I slow and catch my breath. Taking a look around, I see I’m on the edge of campus. Reid is standing there in an oxford shirt, jeans, and dressy boots. A young guy, kind of cute if you like that type, is next to him.

  “Where’s your coat?” I ask, unable to drop the mom role.

  “Back in my office. We stepped out for some lunch. This is Greg, my new TA. Greg, this is Andi, my lady.” I love the way he doesn’t say girl.

  Greg looks at me sheepishly, and I know he knows who I am—Reid’s girlfriend? My pulse quickens, and I’m not even moving.

  I wipe my glove on my shirt and extend it. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise.”

  “It’s early for you to run,” Reid says.

  Part of me beams that he knows my schedule. He also knows how I take my coffee. #justsaying

  Crap, he should have said girl because I’m acting like one.

  “I have a conference call on policies.” It’s a lie. Sort of. I do have a call, and it’s on my personal policies.

  “Boring?” Reid asks with a raised eyebrow.

  “Pretty much,” I say, lying again.

  “This is cool, seeing you here. This is how we met, Greg. Kept running into each other, literally.” Reid pulls me close and kisses my cheek like he’s done that exact thing every day for the last five years.

  I can’t stop the smile from spreading across my face.

  “I’ll let you go. Run, Forrest, run,” he says.

  I chirp, “’Bye, talk later,” and off I go.

  When I get back home, I strip out of my damp and cold clothes, put on dry ones, wipe my face with a makeup remover cloth, and settle in for my call. Life of a single, work-at-home mom. It’s not glamorous, but it’s better than a cubicle.

  Universal oohs and aahs over my reach and engagement. They want to fly Gabby and me there, put us up for five nights in a hotel, and provide all our meals. Um, plus pay me. I should be ecstatic . . . I’ve made it! They’re totally cool with my not featuring myself and going around the park anonymously.

  “It’s a nontraditional approach, for sure,” their PR rep tells me. “But we’re not the mouse, and we think this could be fun. You’re edgy, and we want to appeal to a diverse audience.”

  I must say, “Thanks for the chance,” three times before I hang up.

  On a big sigh, I think, Wow! I would have cut off my right arm to have this opportunity way back when I was only a mommy blogger. Now I have it, and I’m not even sure if this is the blog I want to write anymore.

  My phone alarm pings, and I don’t have time to dwell. Time to get Gabby and start my second gig. Mom.

  Hey, Andrea,

  I know it’s been a while. Happy New Year. Hope this finds you well.

  Your blog on Penny Pinching was brave, but I like how you called her out. I’m almost afraid of you calling out my blog one day.

  I wanted to see if we could chat one more time. I have this opportunity with Disney, and I need some advice. I know I’m putting a lot on you, but I’m a one-man show when it comes to this blog. I don’t have a community. In fact, the woman I’m seeing—I told you about her—she used to be a mom blogger, and apparently there are conferences with learning sessions? I wonder if those exist for someone like me, a man blogger who isn’t a dad.

  I’m off track. If you have time to take one more call with me, I’d be so appreciative.

  — Reid

  “No!” It’s midnight and I was in my bed, checking emails, and now I’m hot and pacing my room. “No!” I say again, practically wearing a path in the area rug.


  This has to stop. I can’t keep lying to Reid, and I need a whole new life.

  It’s too much, way too much. Gabby adores him, Leona thinks he’s Jesus, James is on cloud nine and wants to come back to Pittsburgh, my sister thinks he’s HOT, and, by the way, he thinks I’m a medical transcriptionist!

  My head pounds and I grab some Tylenol.

  Saturday, it’s a must. I have to tell him.

  I make a note in my calendar, calling it Tell Day, and swallow the pain relievers. Refusing to look at my laptop again, I crawl into bed.

  Saturday. Tell Day.

  I drive Gabby to a new pottery class she’s been begging me to attend. It’s a drop-in art place that has classes for kids after school and on Saturdays. They’ve been leaving flyers at school, and the main problem with an inquisitive child is that they read everything. The class costs twenty bucks, and to be honest, it’s money well spent. I need time to collect my thoughts.

  As Andrea, I answered Reid and told him a phone call wasn’t possible. “I’m way too swamped with work at the moment,” I wrote. Swamped with mixed feelings is more like it.

  Walking into the coffee shop down the street from Artsy Fartsy (that’s the name of the craft place, for real), I tug my hair back into a bun and take a long inhale. I don’t know what I’m so worried about. Reid is such a good guy. One of the good ones.

  I think back to Halloween when we finally met IRL, and he offered the girls apples as a joke. I knew then, he is more than Grill and Groom, better than just a stats professor, and greater than the sum of both. He’s the kind of guy who deserves a young wife and a big family and all the riches that go with it.

  So, what’s he doing with me?

  I suspect it won’t be for long after today.

  And I’m back to questioning my motives and decisions, and Reid’s character. That’s me. Non-trusting.

  Hey, if your ex walked out on you in the delivery room and the famous bloggers called you ugly, how would you be? Exactly. A woman’s skin can only be so thick.