Olive Oil and White Bread

by Georgia Beers

  As the ringing began, Angie nibbled on the side of her thumb and prayed for an answering machine to pick up.

  “Hello?” A female voice.

  Angie tried to speak, but croaked instead. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Hi, is Jillian there?”

  “I think so. Hang on.” Rustling sounds followed. A thump. A muffled voice called, “Jill! Phone!” A moment or two crept by. Angie’s palms began to sweat. Just as she considered hanging up and trying another time, noise that sounded like somebody had dropped the phone clattered in her ear. A muttered curse. Then a voice.

  “Okay. I’ve got it.”

  “Um, hi. Jillian?”

  “Uh-huh.” A little bit of an edge to her voice.

  You’re annoying her. Pull it together, Righetti. “Um, hi. This is Angie. Angie Righetti.”

  “I’m sorry, who?” Confusion now.

  Realizing Jillian would have no idea what her name was, Angie cleared her throat again. “Yeah. I, um, I bought you a drink at AJ’s a week or so ago? You gave me your number? Remember?”

  “Angie. . . .” She said it like she was thinking, trying to grasp something. Then, “Oh. Oh!” Jillian’s voice lost its edge immediately. “Of course, I remember. It took you long enough to call. I was beginning to give up on you. Angie.” She was teasing, that much was obvious. Angie felt herself warm from the inside.

  “I know. I know, I’m sorry. I’m . . . a little . . . I’ve never done that before. Bought a drink for somebody I’ve never met. Took me a while to work up my nerve.”

  “Well, I’ve never given my number to a complete stranger before, so I guess we’re even.”

  The way she said it, playfully accusing, like it was Angie’s fault Jillian had handed over her phone number, made Angie smile like a schoolgirl. “I guess so.”

  A few beats went by. Jillian said, “So, Angie.”

  “So, Jillian.”

  “Are you going to ask me out or what?”

  Somehow, rather than making her even more nervous, the mischievous lilt in Jillian’s voice gave Angie strength, made her feel brave. “I was thinking about it.”

  “Good. I was thinking about saying yes. Where should we go?”

  “Well, how about we start with someplace neutral?”

  “Ah, I see. That way, if we decide we can’t stand each other, we can retreat easily. I like it. It’s smart. Safe.”

  “How about we grab a drink at AJ’s—er, The Dimpled Pickle—during Happy Hour on Friday? Then, if we’re enjoying ourselves, we’ll get some dinner.”

  “And if we’re not, we’re free to leave or mingle or whatever.”

  “Exactly. What do you think?” Angie held her breath.

  “I like it. What time?”

  Angie shrugged, even though Jillian couldn’t see it. “Seven?”

  “Works for me. Should we meet there?”

  “Good idea. That way, we’re each free to go when we want to.”

  “Perfect. I’ll see you Friday at seven.”

  Jillian’s voice softened. “I’m really glad you called.”

  The bar was hopping, surprisingly, but Jillian knew it would only get busier; she hoped it wouldn’t get much smokier. The older crowd was always in first, the dykes stopping in for a beer after work. As the night progressed, they’d go home and make way for the younger crowd. At almost twenty-four—and gainfully employed—Jillian couldn’t imagine doing the old take-a-shower-at-ten thing in order to stay out dancing and drinking until two in the morning. No, these days, by two in the morning, she wanted to be long asleep.

  I’m getting old. Already.

  The thought made her smile as she took a sip of her beer. She never liked those hours. She was a morning person. She could remember pulling only two all-nighters in college, and those were only because her friends were studying for the same test and they’d promised to stick together. Jillian had been barely able to function, let alone retain the information they were poring over.

  She’d arrived at the bar a little early, mostly because she wanted to be able to snag a couple barstools before the crowd took over. Also because she was nervous and ready too early and couldn’t stand the thought of wandering around her house, killing time until seven. Plus, she’d had more than enough ribbing from her two roommates, enough to make her wish she’d never mentioned the gorgeous brunette from last summer or that Angie and the gorgeous brunette were one and the same. She would never live that down, especially if things with Angie went anywhere.

  Just thinking about that game, that ridiculous slide she never should have attempted, made her grin. She had really wanted to impress that stunning woman. She was sure she’d blown it, and she’d given herself half a dozen bruises in the process. And now, months and months later, that same stunning woman had asked her out. What were the chances? She’d assumed she’d never see Angie again after that fiasco at the softball game, sure that she’d solidified herself as a complete and utter idiot in Angie’s mind.

  But that smile.

  She couldn’t get it out of her head.

  That sexy, mischievous smile—Jillian had thought she’d never see it again. And then she’d come here last week, received a complimentary drink from “the brunette at the bar”—and there she was. Not smiling, unfortunately. Looking almost ill, in fact, but that didn’t matter to Jillian. It was all she could do to keep from running up to her and spilling out how she never thought she’d see her again, asking her out right there on the spot. But she hadn’t been alone, and thank god, Jillian had kept her cool, pretending to waver over leaving her number, though it wasn’t even an issue. She was leaving it, whether her friends thought she should or not.

  No call had come.

  Jillian had been ridiculous about the phone for the next three days. Nobody was allowed to stay on it longer than a few minutes at a time, because what if the gorgeous brunette called and she couldn’t get through? And then she gave up and didn’t try again? What would Jillian do then?

  She was lucky her roommates hadn’t killed her in her sleep.

  A full week passed, and Jillian had just about given up on ever hearing from the brunette. She was depressed and saddened, but trying hard to just suck it up.

  Then the call had come.

  And now, here she sat, alone, nursing a beer, hoping she didn’t look too pathetic. She gave monosyllabic answers to the butch who approached her to strike up a conversation until the poor woman received the “Not Interested” message loud and clear and wandered back down the bar to lick her wounds. Jillian slid her empty bottle across the bar and raised her hand to the bartender when a voice spoke up behind her.

  “I’ll have a white wine, please.”

  Jillian turned, her gaze meeting soft brown eyes.

  “Hi,” Angie said, taking in the empty bottle. “Am I late?”

  Jillian shook her head. “I’m early. Hi.” She put her order in with the bartender, then turned to give Angie a quick once-over, wanting to look at her without seeming like she was leering. Angie wore black jeans that hugged her full figure like a lover, a plain gray T-shirt, and a black leather jacket, an outfit that was simple but effectively fashionable. Her dark hair was loose and full, skimming her shoulders in a cascade of brunette that Jillian wanted to bury her face in. Her makeup was subtle, but there, accentuating those beautiful eyes and the full lips Jillian hadn’t had the time to take in during the softball game. And she smelled delicious, woodsy without being flowery, a little musk, subtle but sexy. “Wow,” Jillian said before she could help herself. “You look amazing.”

  A gentle pink flushed Angie’s cheeks, and she blinked down at her boots. “Thanks,” she said quietly. “So do you.”

  Jillian gestured to the barstool next to her. “Sit. Please.” Angie settled herself on the stool as their drinks came. Jillian slid the wine glass to her, then held up her beer. “Here’s to finally getting to meet you in person.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  They clinked
and sipped and eyed one another as they did so.

  “So, Angie.”

  “So, Jillian.”

  “Tell me about yourself. What do you do?”

  “I’m in sales for an ad specialties company.” At Jillian’s furrowed brow, she explained. “We sell anything to companies that they might want to put their logo on.” She looked around the room, then settled on the wine glass in her hand, emblazoned with the Dimpled Pickle logo. “Like these. We could sell these.” She made a face. “Actually, I should sell these. I wonder if they’re buying from a gay salesperson. Hmm . . .”

  Jillian chuckled at Angie’s sudden distraction. “I know the owner. I can give you her name.”

  “Really? That’d be awesome. What about you?”

  “I’m an art teacher.”

  Angie cocked her head with a grin. “Not at all what I would have guessed. You don’t look like a teacher. Not any teacher I ever had, anyway.” She winked.

  It was Jillian’s turn to blush.

  “What grade do you teach?”

  “Right now, I’m teaching little kids, elementary. Kindergarten through fifth grade. I really want to teach high schoolers, though. Or even college. I’d love to teach art history or art theory. I just have to wait until the time is right. And the little kids are fun. They’re so . . . open, you know? Like, the world hasn’t jaded them yet, so they’re not worried about who’s going to think what about their art. They just create. It’s kind of awesome to see.” Angie was watching her with a rapt expression on her face. “What?”

  Angie shook her head and drank some wine. “Nothing. I just . . . I like the way you talk about your work. You’ve got passion around it. I don’t think that’s common, you know? You’re lucky.”

  Jillian smiled.

  “Tell me about your family,” Angie said.

  They talked for nearly three hours without a break, learning about one another, sharing themselves. As the bar got busier and louder, their proximity got closer until they ended up facing each other, Angie’s knee between Jillian’s thighs, Jillian’s knee between Angie’s. Jillian couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so comfortable with somebody, not even Linda. She thought Angie felt almost as comfortable with her, judging by the way she touched Jillian as she spoke, laying a hand on her arm, her knee. At one point when Angie was talking about her sister, Jillian reached out and sifted some of that dark hair through her fingers. Angie stopped midsentence and swallowed.

  “Sorry,” Jillian said, still holding the silky hair. “I’ve just wanted to see if your hair is as soft as it looks since the first time I laid eyes on you at that softball game.”

  “Is it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Angie stifled a chuckle.

  “What?” Jillian asked.

  “The softball game.”

  Jillian covered her eyes with her hand. “Oh, god.”

  “I still can’t believe you tried to make it home.” Angie was laughing openly now.

  “I know. It was so stupid.”

  “What in the world were you thinking?”

  They were both laughing now, and Jillian noticed the way Angie’s eyes crinkled in the corners. “I was trying to impress you,” she said.

  Angie stopped laughing and looked at her. “You were?”

  “You don’t remember me other than for my stupid slide.”

  “Oh, I do remember you. Other than for your stupid slide. I remembered you for a long time after that game. I didn’t think you noticed me at all.”

  Jillian raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Are you serious? You gave me the sexiest smile on the planet. What do you think made me do something so dumb?”

  Angie put her elbow on the bar, propped her chin in her hand, and looked at Jillian. Then she wet her lips with her tongue. Their gazes held. Hot. Intense.

  Finally, Jillian spoke, saying quietly in a husky voice, “I want to be alone with you.”

  “I know. Me too.”

  “I have roommates.”

  “I don’t.”

  Another beat passed. Jillian stood quickly, pulled some bills from her pocket, and tossed them on the bar. She held her hand out to Angie, who took it without hesitation. “Let’s go.”

  For the first time in her life, Angie silently thanked her mother for being somewhat of a neat freak. Angie hadn’t really expected to be bringing somebody home tonight, but her apartment was tidy regardless, because that’s the way her mother raised her. All the whining and stomping and complaining she’d done as a kid every time her mom told her to fold something or dust something or clean something fell by the wayside as she praised all the stars in heaven that her home was presentable.

  “You’ve got a nice place,” Jillian said, setting her jacket on the arm of the couch and nodding as she looked around.

  “Thanks,” Angie said. “My uncle owns the house, so he gives me a break on rent. Otherwise, I’d probably have a roommate or two.”

  “Yeah, I can’t afford a place on my own yet, so it was either get a couple roommates or move back in with my parents after college. And that was not going to happen.”

  Angie scoffed. “No way. I love my parents, but I couldn’t wait to get out and be on my own.” She watched as Jillian’s gaze traveled the living room. She ran her hand over the slate blue couch, then gestured to the matching, overstuffed chair and ottoman.

  “These are really nice. Soft.”

  “They’re hand-me-downs from my older brother. When he landed a job in a law firm, he celebrated by buying himself leather furniture for his place. So I got these. I don’t want to think about what he’s probably done on this couch.” Angie winced, wanting to take back the words as soon as they left her mouth, but Jillian laughed.

  “Oh, my god. You’re probably right.”

  Angie nodded, catching Jillian’s smile, nearly swooning over the dimples that marked each cheek. God, she’s sexy.

  Jillian plopped down, spread her arms across the back. “Yeah, he’s totally done stuff on this. Comfy.” She looked up at Angie with those blue, blue eyes.

  Angie cleared her throat. “Can I get you something to drink? I think I have a couple beers. And some Coke.”

  Jillian shook her head and patted the couch next to her. “Come here.”

  Hoping Jillian couldn’t hear her swallow, Angie did as she was told and sat next to Jillian, close enough to fit under the arm draped across the back. With her other hand, Jillian reached toward Angie and played with her hair like she had at the bar. She kept her eyes on her own fingers for long moments, then gave a chuckle.

  “You make me nervous,” she admitted, surprised by her own shyness.

  Angie’s eyes widened. “I make you nervous?”

  They laughed together, and Jillian’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “You’re just so beautiful. You take my breath away.” Her cheeks flushed a deep pink, and she looked down to hide her embarrassment. “I know how corny that must sound, but it’s true. I feel like I don’t breathe right when I’m around you.”

  Angie had never felt so revered in her life, the feeling rushing through her like a warm wave, and the only thing she wanted at that moment was to erase the discomfort on Jillian’s face. Before she could stop herself, she lifted a hand to Jillian’s neck, stroked a thumb along her jaw line, and moved in to kiss her.

  Never before had Angie Righetti made the first move. Not with the boys she had dated in high school. Not with the young men she tried to date in college. And not with Patti, the first woman she had dated in college. But something about Jillian gave her confidence, and she was smart enough to not stop and analyze it. She kept the kiss gentle at first, tentative, taking the time to feel the softness of Jillian’s lips, to taste the hint of beer still clinging to her mouth. Gradually, she deepened things, pushing a bit more firmly, requesting access that Jillian gave immediately, eagerly opening to Angie. When their tongues touched, hot and wet, Angie caught her breath as desire coursed through her like a fire. It caught h
er by surprise, but she relaxed into it, let it heat her from the inside, and she pushed harder, the kiss becoming demanding, intensifying, both women breathing heavily until Jillian was on her back and Angie was braced over her, their mouths never parting. It was carnal and raw and so incredibly hot, and for the first time since the spin-the-bottle game at the frat party in college all those years ago, Angie followed her instincts.

  And her instincts were telling her she wanted this woman.

  Badly.

  All of her.

  It didn’t even cross her mind to take the poor girl to the bedroom. Her want was too close, too immediate. She wrenched her mouth from Jillian’s and grabbed at her vest and T-shirt, pulling them up, revealing a smooth expanse of belly that she rubbed a palm over. She dipped her head and poked her tongue playfully into the belly button.

  “You have an ‘inny,’” she lifted laughing eyes to Jillian.

  Not to be outdone, Jillian grasped the hem of Angie’s T-shirt and pulled the entire garment over her head and off, leaving Angie breathing raggedly in her black bra, her own “inny” exposed.

  “So do you.” Jillian cocked an eyebrow and smiled, and those damn dimples sent Angie’s arousal through the roof once again. She peeled off the rest of Jillian’s clothes, baring her completely on her living room couch, forcing herself to take a moment and just look. Just stare. Jillian’s body was gorgeous. Lean, athletic, but gloriously female with ample breasts and rounded hips. Her nipples were pink and the triangle of hair at the apex of her thighs was light and curly.

  “God, you’re beautiful,” she whispered.

  Jillian smiled, then made a gesture with her finger. “And you’re overdressed. Off. Now.”

  Angie stood and stripped off her own clothing in seconds. Before she could resume her position, Jillian held up a hand. “Wait.” Angie stopped. “I just want to look.” Angie could almost feel Jillian’s eyes on her, traveling from her head down her neck, stopping at her heavy breasts. She’d never been a small girl, would never be a small girl, but she was proud of her body. She was round in some places, had curves in others, and had always hoped the person she ended up with would love her for them. Jillian’s gaze moved over her as if she was studying a priceless piece of art. Reaching her toes, Jillian finally looked back up into Angie’s eyes and said simply, “You are stunning. Come here.” And she opened her arms.