A Bad Bit Nice

by Josie Kerr

  Em looked out her living room window, thrilled with the big backyard that she shared with her neighbor. She made a note to go introduce herself later and discuss yard maintenance.

  Her eyes roamed over the backyard, resting on the detached garage. Besides the nine-foot-tall windows that lined one wall of the living room, she was most excited about that garage. It was set away from the house, so she still had to deal with the rain, but at least the car wouldn’t be iced over in the winter.

  She contemplated at the garage, debating the merits of an automatic garage door opener when she saw a figure out of the corner of her eye—and holy cow, what a figure he was!

  The very tall man was casually dressed in a pair of gym pants and Em could see his lean, muscled back through his thin t-shirt. Tattoos snaked around his arms and she could see the tips of color peeking from the collar of his shirt. His wore his longish hair pulled back, hidden under a slouchy hat. She couldn’t see his face, but when he turned to the side, she could see a strong profile, with a straight nose and a masculine jaw that was covered in a full beard.

  Em gaped at the man from her window, watching his arms flex as he raised the garage door. Surely this wasn’t the widower? Em decided that Mister Ideal was probably the son of the widower and was just storing the car in the garage.

  Em finished putting the cookies in a bakery box and dashed off a note, then secured the box with twine. She resolved to make some introductions the next day. Just maybe, she’d meet Mister Ideal.

  *****

  Mick had watched the movers take what seemed like a million boxes into the upstairs unit while the blonde realtor supervised things and talked on her cell phone.

  So many boxes! The apartment was going to be full. Mick wondered what was in them. He noticed that almost half of them were labeled “Glass.” Glass what? Drinking glasses? Shards of glass? Her last name is Glass? He was intrigued.

  He had marveled earlier that they were able to actually get the huge Victorian divan up the stairs and didn’t have to hoist it by crane through the French doors on the balcony. Impressive. The other furniture he saw was either white or rustic or both. It was very feminine, but not overly fussy.

  He couldn’t quite convince himself to go up and make an introduction. Mick was a solitary sort of man on a good day, and today, after yesterday’s whirlwind business trip to New York City to deal with a know-it-all rapper for whom he was building a studio, he just couldn’t stomach small talk and social niceties. He’d go tomorrow, maybe bring a plant or something to the new neighbor, maybe a potted violet. That furniture looked like it would belong to someone who would appreciate violets.

  His phone rang and he groaned when he saw Rory’s number. He debated letting it go to voicemail, but decided that it wasn’t worth Rory’s continuous pestering.

  “Hey Rory, whaddya at? You back to terrorize the southeast?”

  “Oi, Mick. Don’t forget I’m picking you up tonight for karaoke. And you’re absolutely not going to sit on a stool, nursing a whiskey, and keeping mum all night. I challenge you to at least talk to a woman, and not just the bartender or waitress or karaoke hostess.”

  “If I promise to show up, can I take my own car? Half of the time, if you drive, you meet a woman and I end up having to fold into your ridiculous vehicle or taking a cab home and then having to haul your ass back to the pub the next day.”

  “My car is not ridiculous,” protested Rory. “It’s not my fault that you’re six and half feet tall. But okay, we’ll meet there, but if you’re not there by nine o’clock, I’m coming to get you, and that’s not an idle threat.”

  “Any automobile that costs a quarter of a million dollars is ridiculous,” Mick said with a snort.

  Rory made a noncommittal sound in response. “Anyway, your arse is going to be there and be social if it kills you.”

  “Oh, fine.”

  “Oh, and Mick?” Rory quickly added, “You have to stay until at least 11. None of this leaving 15 minutes after you get there business.”

  Dammit, Rory knew him too well. Mick sighed. “Fine. I’ll see you at nine o’clock at the pub.”

  Mick checked his watch and decided that he had enough time to run to the warehouse store; he needed supplies to make lunches for the rec center kids he coached. It had been a couple of weeks since he had been able to make it to the little center, and he knew that with school ending—and with it, free lunches and breakfasts—a lot of the kids weren’t going to be eating. He remembered those lean days when he was younger and would never wish that on anyone.

  He went outside to the detached garage. As he bent down to grasp the handle to the garage door, he thought he saw someone looking out a window in the upper unit.

  Once in the garage, he glanced over at the orange Karmann Ghia on the other side of the barrier. Huh. He hadn’t heard the garage door go up, but then, he had the stereo on and Rory yapping in his ear. Surely that was the same car the he had seen circling the house for months. Who is this new neighbor, anyway?

  When he got back from his errands, Mick found a white bakery box on his doorstep. He scooped it up and took it into the house. Unwrapping the baker’s twine, he opened the box, and his face broke into a wide grin. Cookies! Giant cookies, both chocolate chunk and oatmeal raisin. Mick took a chocolate chunk cookie from the package and went to sit on the couch. He opened the note taped to the top of the box. The same neat handwriting thanked him for his flexibility and patience, and hoped the cookies were to his liking. He grinned. Then he bit into the cookie.

  This is the best thing I’ve had in my mouth in years. Just the right amount of chewy and crispy, the chocolate dark, and just a hint of something that he couldn’t quite place.

  He resolved to definitely go over the next day and introduce himself. He might be an introvert, but he wasn’t necessarily rude by nature. And who knows, he just might need a nice cougar to break back into the dating scene.

  He frowned. He wondered if, at 44, he was too old for a cougar.

  Yeah, right. I’m going to need someone to break me in.

  Chapter 5

  “You’re wearing THAT?” Ashley asked. “Oh, no. No, no, no, absolutely not. It may be a smoky pub with drunken Chris Martin wannabes, but you’re absolutely not wearing that out of the house.”

  “What’s the problem with what I’m wearing?” Em looked at her Shakespeare’s Pub shirt (“Two Beers or Not Two Beers”) and her jeans and sneakers. She was neat, not stained, and comfortable. This was fine for a pub.

  Ashley looked pained. “Em, if I had a rack like yours, I would be topless as much possible.”

  Em watched as Ashley started rummaging through her closet, muttering to herself. She pulled out an orange chiffon blouse and held it up triumphantly.

  “This blouse is a prime example of what you should be wearing all the damn time. You’re racktastic, Em, so flaunt it some. Why do you never wear this shirt?”

  “Maybe I don’t want to flaunt it, Ashley. It’s not like a fat girl having big boobs is some sort of achievement.”

  “Missy, you didn’t answer my question.” Ashley put her hand on her cocked hip and tapped a Louboutin-shod foot, signaling that she wasn’t going to accept a non-answer from Em.

  “It’s too sexy to wear to work.”

  “Are we going into the office to hang out with the nerds? No, we aren’t. It’s perfect to wear to the pub tonight. Come on, chop-chop. You can wear the jeans because they make your ass look fantastic. And wear those boot things—those are hot. But I see that pair of Weitzman in your closet. You need to break those things in so you can wear them out. “

  Em sighed with resignation. Ashley wouldn’t give up and the sooner she got to the pub, the sooner she could come home and relax in the deep claw-foot tub with a nice whiskey and a book.

  “WHAT is THAT?” exclaimed Ashley, gaping at Em in horror as Em changed clothes.

  “What?” Em looked down at her body.

  Ashley put her hand over her eyes. “
Em, Em, Em. What am I going to do with you? Cotton granny panties? Beige functional bra? You make good money! Why don’t you buy good underwear?”

  “This is good underwear. It’s supportive and covers everything that needs to be covered.”

  “No, that is emphatically not good underwear. You’re too practical for your own good, Em.”

  “I don’t like those molded cups, and I need underwire. And these panties don’t give VPL like bikinis do.”

  “That thing covering your ass is not ‘panties’; it’s practically a body stocking. And thongs don’t give VPL.”

  Em shuddered. “Baby steps, Ash, baby steps. That blouse you’ve got me wearing tonight exposes half my chest. That’s adventurous enough for the time being. Besides, no one sees my undergarments.”

  Ashley sighed. “Okay, Em,” she said grudgingly. “But at some point, someone is going to see your panties besides me, and you’re going to want them to be pretty.”

  Em rolled her eyes. “Whatever, Ashley. No one really cares about what underwear looks like. They just get taken off. Why bother?”

  “‘Why bother?’ Ashley boggled at her friend’s attitude. “It’s part of taking care of yourself. You won’t be sexy and beautiful until you feel sexy and beautiful and…”

  “...And having a string of material between my asscheeks is not going to make me feel beautiful, Ashley, so give it up.”

  “Hmph. Fine then. But we’re going to go lingerie shopping very, very soon, missy.”

  “Oh, you’re serious now, because that’s twice you’ve broken out the ‘missy’ on me. Okay, we’ll go next time I’m in town. I’m back out in two days. That’ll give you time to find stores that have big girl sexy stuff.”

  Em finished dressing and struck a pose. “There, happy?”

  “You look so great!” Ashley squealed. “Karaoke won’t know what hit it. Seriously Em, you look fantastic.”

  Em blushed. She didn’t know if this was a good idea, but she was doing it.

  “Okay, we need to leave before I chicken out of wearing this shirt, Ash.”

  Chapter 6

  Mick sat on an end barstool, nursing a beer and watching the crowd. He had arrived at a quarter until nine to find Rory perusing the karaoke selection list, choosing whatever obnoxious song he was going to inflict on an unsuspecting audience tonight.

  Mick shook his head. He knew that wasn’t fair to his best friend. Rory had a fantastic singing voice and a dynamic personality, and if he was honest with himself, he was a little bit jealous of Rory’s charisma. Not for the first time, he wondered how on Earth they had ever become close friends.

  Mick grinned in memory at that first meeting. Rory coming up to him in the cafeteria, bold as can be, sticking out his hand, and saying, “You’re new. I’m new. Let’s be mates,” his Irish brogue so thick that Mick could barely understand him. Mick remembered being shocked at his confidence, but mostly he remembered the tall girl standing silently beside Rory, all eyes and wild red hair.

  “This is my sister, Grace,” Rory said, jerking a thumb behind him. “She’ll be a friend, too, but not too friendly, ‘cause she’s my sister.” He narrowed his eyes at Mick, emphasizing the word “sister.” Heh. We all know how that one turned out.

  Mick glanced up to see the pretty bartender looking at him expectantly and realized that she had been talking to him. “I said, congratulations,” she repeated.

  “Uh, thanks?” Mick said. “What are you congratulating me on again?”

  “Your divorce,” the bartender said. Mick frowned in confusion. “You’re not wearing a wedding band tonight. So congratulations on your divorce!” She smiled and lowered her eyes suggestively.

  “Oh, right.” Mick said, glancing at his hand. He still wasn’t quite used to the bareness of his left ring finger. He smiled weakly back at the bartender. She’s way too young for me.

  “Okay, I’ve got my song picked out. I’m up third.” Rory slapped him on the back and turned to wink at the bartender. “Meghan, love, get this man something a bit stronger, and I’ll take the same. He needs a bit of fortification for tonight.” Mick rolled his eyes at Rory’s exaggerated Irish accent. Meghan giggled and poured two shots of Irish whiskey.

  “Sláinte, boyo,” Rory said, raising his glass. Mick replied the same.

  “She congratulated me on my divorce,” Mick said, jerking his chin toward the bartender.

  Rory looked at Mick in confusion, but then his face brightened with realization. “Oh, the ring. Huh. That could work for you.”

  “She’s half my age, Rory.”

  “She’s 26. That’s not half your age.”

  “How do you know that?” Mick asked. At Rory’s silence, he said, “Oh no, now I’m definitely not going there. No offense.”

  Rory shrugged. “You know the ladies find the accent irresistible. She offered.”

  Mick made a face, and Rory just laughed and shrugged again, but then he grew thoughtful.

  “Just talk to someone, yeah? You don’t have to sleep with her. Flirt a little. It’ll do you good.”

  “I was never good at the social stuff back then; what makes you think I’ll be any good now?”

  Rory just sighed and finished his drink, but before he could reply he heard the host call his name. “That’s my cue.” Mick turned around on his barstool to watch his friend mount the stage. When the familiar strains of the song Rory had chosen came over the speakers, Mick had to laugh. Rory was a nut.

  *****

  The sounds of music drifted outside as Ashley and Em walked up to the pub.

  “I cannot believe you talked me into wearing this.”

  Ashley poked Em in the back. “Boobs out, chin up! Let’s go! We need to find you some D.”

  “You’re really crass, you know, Ashley.”

  “Oh, my God, Em. You curse more than anyone I’ve ever met!”

  “Cursing and crassness can be mutually exclusive,” Em sniffed, feeling exposed because of the plunging neckline of the shirt. Her hands fluttered along the pussycat bow that decorated said plunging neckline.

  Em surveyed the pub as the next song began, her eyes lazily drifting over people at the bar. The sight of a tall man perched on a stool at the end of the bar made her do a double-take.

  “No fucking way!” Em exclaimed softly. “He’s here!” Mister Ideal was at the bar, sitting on a barstool and whistling and clapping.

  Holy hell. He looks even better than he did in the yard.

  Gone was the stocking cap, but he still had the tousled knot of hair gathered at the back of his neck. He had traded the t-shirt for a black waffled Henley, the sleeves pushed up, showing a heavily tattooed, masculine forearm. His long legs were clad in jeans that showed off his muscular thighs and, sweet Jesus, he had on a pair of black O’Keefe lace-up boots on his feet. He hooted and grinned broadly at whoever was about to take the stage. Em imagined that she could see the crinkles at the edges of his eyes and almost swooned. It should be illegal for a man to look that good.

  Ashley’s squealing interrupted Em’s fantasizing.

  “O.M.G. red-hot leprechaun on stage! Well, not a leprechaun because he’s way too tall and big. Maybe a Highlander,” Ashley babbled.

  “Ashley, did you just say ‘O.M.G?’ What in the hell has gotten into you? You need to stop dating millennials. You’re turning into a female Wooderson.”

  “Alright, alright, alright. That’s what I like about those college boys; I get older, they stay the same age,” Ashley deadpanned.

  “Oh my fucking God. You haven’t even been drinking yet!” Em laughed.

  As she pulled on Ashley’s arm to tell her that Mister Ideal was sitting at the bar, Em heard a familiar voice begin singing. Em turned her attention to the stage and her jaw dropped. Rory, her Irish boss, was singing “Rhinestone Cowboy,” and singing it well.

  “Hey, Ash, I know your Highlander. He’s not actually a Highlander, though. He’s Irish,” Em said into Ashley’s ear.

  “What
?” Ashley’s squeaked.

  “Remember the good-looking boss that I said was totally your type? Well, THAT is the boss man,” Em said, gesturing toward the stage.

  “You greatly underestimated his appeal, Ermengarde Davidson. As soon as he gets off that stage, I demand an introduction!”

  “All right! I’ll introduce you! Sheesh! But more importantly, Ash, Mister Ideal is here!”

  Em nodded her head subtly toward the end of the bar where Mister Ideal was sitting. Ashley tried to nonchalantly look, but being Ashley, her attempt at subtlety failed miserably.

  Mick saw Ashley gawking at him and smirked. My God, that blonde is about as inconspicuous as a flashing neon sign. Wait, was that the real estate agent?

  Mick grinned at the realization that it actually was the flashy blonde real estate agent. He decided to introduce her to Rory, if only to distract him from his goal of finding Mick a hook-up.

  Mick looked back at Ashley while Rory wrapped up his song. His eyes slid down and over to see who was with the gregarious real estate agent, and his eyes widened.

  Standing next to Ashley was one of the prettiest women Mick had ever seen. She had dark chin-length hair and glasses, and was wearing an almost translucent blouse, the prim cut of which made it even sexier. Holy crap. Mick swallowed. She flashed a smile at Ashley—oh God, dimples—and glanced over at Mick. Their eyes locked momentarily and her smile broadened before she shyly ducked her head.

  Instead of turning around when she was caught looking, Ashley continued to look at Mick, blatantly staring now and shifting her gaze between Mick and Em. Then she noticed Rory walk up to Mick and clap him on the back.

  “Girl, I think the Hot Leprechaun is friends with Mister Ideal.”

  Chapter 7

  “Okay, boyo, who’s caught your attention? I haven’t seen that look on your face in years.”