Southern Girl Series Bundle: Bohemian Girl, Neighbor Girl, Intern Girl

by Georgia Cates

  I get up and smooth my pencil skirt and blouse, nervous to see Lawrence. It’s Monday. Not even twelve hours since the incident. There’s a chance she hasn’t even spoken to Oliver about last night.

  But my gut tells me otherwise.

  I greet her at the door, and she initiates a hug. Not the sign of a sister who’s upset with me over a kinky sex encounter with her brother. “How are you?”

  “Good. Good.” Total lie. Nothing about me is good.

  “Come around and grab a seat. Let’s talk about this birthday party we have coming up.” I open the file I started for Oliver’s party. “I’ve been in touch with Bridge Street Gallery and Loft. It’s available so we’re good for the venue.”

  “That’s fantastic. I just know it’ll be perfect.”

  “I agree. Very industrial chic.”

  I actually did some brainstorming last week for Oliver’s party. Good thing since my brain is shit today. “I’m thinking stout beer themed? We can incorporate stout in everything. Believe it or not, I found a birthday cake recipe that uses a stout in the cake batter. And it’s topped with a whiskey coffee glaze. How fantastic does that sound?”

  “Yes. Ollie will absolutely love that.”

  “I believe so too. Do you think we can get friends and family to contribute photos? I’d love to do a balloon chandelier.”

  “What is that?”

  “Photos are strung to the end of helium balloons. It’s like floating memories over the guests’ heads. A fun way to reminisce.”

  “That sounds incredibly cool. I definitely want to do that.”

  “Dirty thirty photo booth? Or is that asking for trouble since there will be booze?”

  Photo booths tend to go over really well for birthday parties, but they often get out of hand after the alcohol kicks in. Boobs and boners come out for photobombing.

  “I like that idea a lot. Sounds fun.”

  “What about guests? How many are you thinking of inviting?”

  Lawrence hesitates. “Can we put the party planning on pause for a minute?”

  “Sure.” Annnd here we go.

  “What happened?”

  She doesn’t need to elaborate. I know exactly what she’s asking. But how the hell do I answer that question—and not give away too much—when I have no idea what Oliver has told her?

  She continues when I don’t reply. “I saw you and Oliver together on Saturday night at the grand opening. He was very into you. And you were into him as well. I saw it. Did something go down?”

  Oh no. Something went up. It was shit, and it hit the fan. “Things didn’t go as expected.”

  “You’re being as vague as he was.”

  So Oliver didn’t betray me to his sister?

  “Don’t you like my brother?”

  “I like Oliver very much. But—” There aren’t words to explain what happened without giving away too much.

  Lawrence finishes my sentence. “Things didn’t go as expected.”

  “I’m more comfortable with leaving it at that.” And apparently Oliver is too since he didn’t tell her what happened.

  “Got it. I’ll stop being the meddling sister.”

  “Thank you for not pushing.” I look at my notes. “Number of guests?”

  “Let’s go with two hundred for now. I’ll let you know if that changes.”

  I’m certain I appear robotic as I go down the list of questions I’ve asked clients hundreds of times. My head isn’t in this meeting. It’s stuck replaying the scene with Oliver last night.

  I’m coming again. That’s the place where I stop the scene in my head and hit rewind. Because everything that happened after that point was unpleasant. Unfortunate. Unbearable.

  And I’m afraid that’s how it’s going to continue.

  Where did that stick come from?

  I squeal at the top of my lungs when that-ain’t-no-fucking-stick skids in a wavy motion across the top of the water in my pool.

  “Holy-bat-shit-man.” I go to high-stepping out of the pool, pretty sure I nearly accomplish the impossibility of walking on water. Jesus would be impressed.

  I stand on the decking and look over into the shallow end at my swim mate. I hate snakes. Despise them. “Oh no, you don’t. This is my much-needed relaxation after a horrible week, you little son of a bitch. I want to enjoy my pool, and you’re not going to stop me.”

  He doesn’t listen. Rude bastard.

  This is man shit. Yes, getting snakes out of the pool is man shit. Tommy always did this kind of thing for me.

  Maybe I can call Maurice. Nah. He’d jump into my arms and tell me to protect him.

  No choice. Gotta man up and get the reptile out myself.

  I grab the skimmer and extend the telescopic pole so I have enough distance to haul ass when I skim him up and dump him in the grass. I shudder because what I’m about to do is giving me the heebie-jeebies.

  I lower the mesh paddle into the water and scoop it under his body. But he swims off the paddle. Dammit.

  I make the same attempt a second, third, and fourth time. “Come on, snake. This is your eviction notice. It’s time for you to go.”

  I make a fifth attempt under its slithery body. Finally. Success.

  I lift the skimmer from the water and quickly move with it toward the grass. And the wiggling bastard falls off, hits the decking, and slithers back into the water.

  “Nooo,” I yell until a fresh coat of rawness covers my throat. “Get out. I don’t want you here.”

  I jolt when Oliver bursts into my backyard through the gate—carrying a big wrench—and my face pulsates with heat. “There’s a snake in my pool.”

  “You should have called me.”

  No way. I’d swim with the snake before I did that.

  “Where is it?”

  It’s been two weeks since our sexual-encounter-gone-wrong. I was starting to get over what happened and now he’s standing there all sexy-as-fuck, wearing a smile that makes my wet bikini bottom sizzle. That night and the embarrassment it caused comes rushing back.

  I wish he’d stayed at his place. I prefer the company of the snake.

  “I don’t see it now. I guess it swam into the skimmer basket.”

  He goes over and lifts the cover. “Just a little garter snake. Probably more afraid of you than you are of it.”

  “I highly doubt that.”

  He reaches in, grabs it by the head, and pulls it out of the basket. “Harmless.”

  “Oh, please get rid of that thing.” My shoulders have a mind of their own and break into a jerk. I can’t stand looking at it wiggling in his hand.

  “What would you have me do with it?”

  “I don’t care. Just make sure he’s departing from my property as he slithers.”

  I squeal and bolt when Oliver walks toward me. “I’m not going to throw it on you.”

  “My brother totally would have. And often did. I think that’s why I’m the way I am about snakes and lizards and stuff like that. It gave him a huge thrill to terrorize me.”

  He goes to the fence and lowers the snake into the grass on his property. “All gone.”

  “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

  “Anytime. Just give me a holler. Or a panicky scream and obviously I’ll come arunnin’.” Oliver hesitates a moment. For a split second, I think he’s going to bring up the incident. Maybe tell me I’m not as vile as he thought.

  “Enjoy your swim.”

  Or maybe he’s only going to tell me to enjoy my swim.

  God, I miss his smile. His laughter. The way I felt when we were together.

  I. Miss. Him. Does he miss me?

  I’m so tempted to ask him to stay. But I don’t want to hear him tell me no. And I don’t want to see the look in his eyes that confirms how repulsive he finds me. “Yeah. See ya.”

  As much as I love the contours of his sexy-as-hell back, I hate watching him go. Again.

  I need a distraction. Girl time. Talking with chicks about d
icks.

  I call Kristin but it goes to voicemail. “Hey, hooker. I’m off today and tomorrow. I think it’s time we have another slumber party. Maybe order way too much takeout from Lazzario’s and drink absolutely too much wine. I’m inviting Jill too so give me a holler and let me know if you can make it.”

  A night with my gal pals. That’s what I need to take my mind off Oliver Thorn.

  Jill opens the oven door and takes out the homemade breadsticks I made to go with our pasta takeout.

  I couldn’t help myself. The baking bug bit.

  “Lazzario would beg you to come to work for him if he knew you baked breadsticks like these.”

  “Baking wouldn’t be a bit of fun if I did it for a living.” They have no idea the only reason I do it is to keep my sanity.

  Jill and Kris would flip out if they knew the whole story about Martin and me. The dominance-turned-abuse. The attempt to kill me. They believe it was a mutual decision to part ways and then I was attacked by some random person who intended to rob me.

  Jill turns the baking sheet sideways and slides the breadsticks onto a serving platter. “Speaking of a living. How did you manage to score today and tomorrow off from work? I hear your boss is a real hard ass.”

  “Last-minute wedding cancellation. It was so sad. My bride for this weekend came into the office earlier this week. Poor thing was in tears, completely wrecked, after her fiancé called off the wedding because he couldn’t go through with it.”

  “You’re the boss of Bash Agency. You shouldn’t spend every weekend working.”

  “I totally agree with Kris. Being the owner of a business should have perks.”

  “I hear what you’re saying, and I don’t disagree.”

  “Sweetie.” Jill’s voice takes on her counselor tone but I’m not one of her patients. “Agreeing and putting it into action are two totally different things.”

  “I know.”

  I’ve allowed the agency to take over my life. It’s become my everything. Family. Friends. Love interest. And it’s a one-sided relationship. It doesn’t return my affection. It brings a certain type of satisfaction, but I’ve noticed lately that it’s not enough.

  “How long has it been since the three of us got together?”

  I’m surprised Kristin asks instead of taking out her phone to check her calendar. She’s so left-brained.

  “Sometime late spring.”

  It was the last time I had a cancellation. Sheez, my job even dictates how often my friends and I see one another.

  “I’m sorry. We’re best friends and we shouldn’t be seeing each other quarterly because I get an opening in my work schedule. I promise I’m going to do better.”

  Jill points at me with a breadstick. “I’m holding you to that.”

  “Me too.”

  Kristin takes a portion of chicken tetrazzini and passes the container to me. “We haven’t caught up in a while. Anything new going on in your life?”

  “I’ve decided I want to date again.” Seems like the best way to introduce the Oliver topic.

  “About damn time.”

  That’s the exact reaction I expected from Kristin since she’s the one who has hounded me the hardest.

  Jill’s reaction is different. Softer. She almost looks as though she’s going to cry. “Aww, that’s great, Addie. Tommy would be really happy about that. A bad breakup shouldn’t dictate the rest of your life.”

  And Tommy’s death shouldn’t dictate the rest of Jill’s life. It’s been two years since my brother died, and Jill hasn’t even considered dating. She still wears the engagement ring he gave her three months before he was killed. But how does one tell a certified counselor she isn’t grieving appropriately? And what is the appropriate way to grieve anyway? It’s likely I’d feel the same, even after two years, if I were in love with a man who was stolen from me because of someone’s selfish stupidity.

  Kristin looks away from Jill and shakes her head. “Do you have someone special in mind, Addie?”

  There’s no going back with these two once I tell them but I’m going for it. “I’ve sort of, but not really, been seeing someone.”

  Kristin slams her palm on the dining room table. “Tell us everything.”

  I finish off the last of my pinot grigio and reach for the bottle. An empty bottle. “Well, we put that one away in record time.”

  “Grab another one.” Kristin gets up and moves toward the wine chiller. “Better yet, let me grab it, and you start talking.”

  “I have a new neighbor. And he’s all that plus some. We’ve been hanging out.”

  Jill pats her hands together like a clapping toddler. “Oh. You obviously like this guy if he makes you consider dating again.”

  “I do. A lot. But we had sort of a weird argument. Or maybe it was more like a misunderstanding.”

  “What kind of misunderstanding are we talking about?” Jill asks.

  These are my two dearest friends besides Maury, and neither have a clue about the things I like when I’m with a man behind closed doors. This could get a little tricky.

  “We had sex.”

  Kristin fans herself with her napkin as she pretends to pass out in her chair. “Lawwwd, have mercy. When?”

  “A couple weeks ago.”

  “And we’re just now hearing about it?”

  I don’t mistake the sharp clip in her voice.

  “You should have called an emergency get-together. This calls for a celebration.”

  Jill is jumping to happy conclusions as expected. It’s her way.

  “Don’t pull out the balloons and penis party favors just yet.”

  Kristin’s nose wrinkles. “It was bad sex?”

  “No. It was fantastic—literally, the best ever—but there were problems afterward.”

  Jill’s face drops. “What kind of problems?”

  “I like it a little rough. Or moderately rough.” I have to keep this vague.

  “Who doesn’t? I love having my ass smacked and my hair pulled.”

  I’m not at all surprised to hear that from Kristin. She fits the part. But both of those things are in a different league from what I asked Oliver to do.

  “It had been so long. I guess I was a little overzealous.”

  Kristin giggles. “I think zealous is understandable.”

  Not according to Oliver Thorn.

  “Oliver had a violent childhood. He was abused by his birth parents, so he had a hard time with the idea of being assertive with me. It didn’t go well.”

  Jill grabs the bottle of wine and refills everyone’s glass. “Aww, that’s too bad. Maybe you could try getting some drinks down him so he’ll loosen up.”

  Wow. That’s a little out of character for Jill to suggest something like that.

  “We’d had drinks, quite a few beers, and he was still very adamant about the whole thing. I don’t think alcohol could have swayed his stance about it.”

  “Bor-ing.” Kristin takes a drink of wine. “Your first sexual encounter in years is with a stick-in-the-mud. That’s tragic.”

  I feel the need to defend Oliver. “It wasn’t like that. It was really good.”

  “Yeah… until it wasn’t.”

  Okay. Kristin is sort of pissing me off.

  “Are you ready to give up on this guy?”

  Per usual, Jill is the one who’s going to try to talk it out and solve the problem.

  I shake my head. “No.”

  I want Oliver.

  “Then go back to square one. Warm him up to the idea of rough play. Start slow. Use baby steps.”

  Jill’s right. I can now clearly see that asking him to choke me the first time we’re together might have been a little much for someone who has never done anything like that.

  “You’re right. Oliver needs to be eased into it.” And that’s what I think about as we finish the next two bottles of wine: all the ways I can condition Oliver into being the bedroom alpha I need and want. That is if he still wants me. It’s bee
n two weeks. He’s probably moved on by now.

  Kristin stretches out on the sofa and kicks me in the thigh with her foot. “You should go over there. To your neighbor’s house.”

  “You’re drunk-talking.”

  She giggles. “I may be drunk but I know what I’m talking about.”

  I’m drunk too, but not so much that I can’t rationalize. “Let’s say I go over there. Then what? Throw myself at him and say spank me, please?”

  “No. You pique his interest. Dangle the carrot.”

  I look over at the clock. “It’s almost midnight.”

  “So?”

  “He’ll think I’m nuts.”

  “Not nuts. Horny? Probably. Which might not be a bad thing.”

  “Don’t you think it’ll be painfully obvious what I’m doing?”

  “Do you really care if it gets him back into bed with you?”

  Seeing him again scares the shit out of me. “We’re having girl time. I can’t believe y’all are trying to talk me into going next door for dick.”

  “You won’t be going over there to get dick tonight. You’ll be laying the foundation for getting dick later.”

  I can tell this conversation is about to get real. “I assume my vagina is the carrot so how do I dangle it?”

  “Oh God. You two are killing me.”

  I’m happy to see Jill laughing. She does far too little of that.

  “The first thing you’re going to do is change out of those leggings and tunic into something sexy.”

  I’m going to change into something sexy before I go over to his house at midnight. “Don’t you think that’ll be obvious?”

  “Who gives a fuck if it gets the two of you naked together again? That’s what you want, right?”

  She has a point.

  “Well, yeah.” I want Oliver but I’m not going over there looking stupid, even if I have had a whole bottle of wine. I’m not that drunk. Yet.

  “We need a reason,” Jill says.

  I’ve got it. “He left his motorcycle wrench by the pool today.”

  “Yesss, a man needs his wrench. Perfect excuse to go over there.”

  I don’t know. Despite the alcohol, I can still see that expression on his face from two weeks ago. The one that told me he was disgusted by my kink. And it shakes any liquid courage the wine may have given me.