I’m kidding.
I’ll kill him myself.
Upstairs I uncork the wine and pour a glass. I stick the bottle in the fridge, palming her glass and mine to take them outside. The night is cool and pleasant, and the pool sparkles, lit from below with soft violet bulbs. She’s still on the phone, arm crossed over her middle, eyes on the water. I slide the door aside and open my mouth to ask if she wants me to leave her glass for her when I hear:
“It wasn’t the worst date ever, but close. He expected a kiss good night. Ha!”
I freeze, my interest piqued. I listen in for a second. Just long enough to feel relief that her derelict date didn’t get a kiss good night. Idiot. I pull in a breath to announce myself, but what comes out of her mouth next causes my tongue to stick to the roof of my mouth.
“At this point I’d pay a thousand dollars for an orgasm from someone other than myself.”
Swear to God that’s what she said. I nearly face-plant onto the patio and give myself away. Her sweet, musical laughter draws me in as my mind spirals to the gutter. I don’t know what’s more appealing. The visual of her giving herself an orgasm, her legs spread wide on her bedsheets, her mouth open in a moan or…
Yeah, that’s the best visual. I can’t come up with a single better one.
“Vivian!” she admonishes with another laugh. This one is playful, open, and a touch naughty. Cris is not naughty. At least I haven’t heard her say anything naughty. I lean out the door further, too rapt to turn back now.
“Oh great idea, Viv,” she says, the words heavy with sarcasm. “Should I mosey down to the wine cellar? And then what? Slink up to him—” Her hand goes to her hip and she shimmies, making her black dress pants look a lot sexier than they should.
My eyes move over her pert ass and up to where her curly hair brushes her shoulders. I make no move to go inside or announce my presence. I have to hear what comes next or I’ll explode like a confetti cannon.
“And then I’ll soften my voice like this—” Her voice slips into a seductive husk I’ve never heard before. Her red shirt is cut in a V, revealing her bare back—no bra strap. All I can think about is how silky her skin would feel under my fingertips and how good her blond curls would smell if I buried my nose in them.
My brain goes offline when she purrs, “Excuse me, Benji…” But her eyes are still on the pool, her purring only for Vivian. I’m riveted, mouth agape, frozen with one foot on the patio outside, my palms strangling a pair of wineglasses. I take a shallow breath and another, anticipating what might come after hearing her say my name so sensually.
She doesn’t disappoint.
“How about you slide one of those talented hands into my pants…”
Beads of sweat form on my forehead while I hang on to the word “pants” with both hands. I find myself wishing this was a choose-your-own-adventure story. I lapse into a fantasy about sliding my hands into her pants, which is probably why I didn’t notice she turned around.
Her voice trailed off some time ago. Now she’s staring at me, phone to her ear, her mouth gently agape—ironically not unlike the Cris in my debauched fantasy. And here I am, in limbo at the open patio door, statue still. It’s painfully obvious I’m eavesdropping.
Well. Painful for her. I’m so intrigued I can hardly think straight.
“I have to go,” she says to Vivian. Then in a harsh whisper adds, “Call you later.”
She ends the call and slides the phone into the pocket of her pants. The same pants she suggested I slide one of my “talented hands” into.
Her smile brightens as if by force. “Hey! Change of plans. I’m going to head home after all. I am beat. Sorry to make you go through the hoops for the wine.” She laughs, but it’s not the sinful, playful trill from before. No, no. This laugh is bordering maniacal.
“What a night!” she says. Loudly. She steps around me, careful not to bump the wineglasses or brush against so much as my arm.
Surely she’s not going to pretend she didn’t say what we both know she said—what she has to know I overheard.
I follow her brisk steps into the kitchen.
“Sorry again about the wine,” she calls, moving away from me as I set down our glasses on the bar. She shoulders her purse and walks away. I jog to catch up.
“Oh, hell no.” I press my hand against the front door as she attempts to pull it open. “You’re not going anywhere. Not until you explain what just happened.”
Chapter Six
Cris
Crap. I knew that wouldn’t work.
I turn slowly to face him. He’s close. Too close. Regret surfs on the crashing waves in my stomach. “I should go.”
He shakes his head. “You’re not leaving until we talk about your date.”
The date. He wants to talk about my date? Maybe he didn’t hear what I told Vivian. Maybe there was a blip in the universe, and the words I thought were overheard instead frittered off and vanished into the atmosphere.
Then he tacks on, “And whatever you said about your pants.”
Double crap.
This is Viv’s fault. She called to say she felt betrayed because I’ve been giving Benji the lowdown on my dating life rather than talking to her. In my defense there wasn’t much to tell. She then accused me of using the postmortems following my dates as an excuse to date Benji. I laughed and explained those were his idea, and then possibly protested a wee bit too much.
To throw her off my trail, I recapped my date with Rick Backer, who might be the penny-pinchingest man I’ve ever been in the presence of, and I’m including my maternal grandfather who died a millionaire and left his money to my uncle—my mom’s brother—but lived eighty-eight years as a miser.
Vivian then mentioned I’d better step up my frequency of dates since I needed to cash in my V-card (the V is for virginity), and that’s when I blurted out I’d love an orgasm. She suggested Benji. I laughed again and acted as if it was a ludicrous suggestion. She is engaged to Benji’s brother. I don’t want how I feel about Benji getting back to Nate.
“Have a seat.” Benji tips his head toward the bar where our abandoned wineglasses sit. I shake my head. “Cris.”
“Benji.” I guess I can be thankful I didn’t mention the V-card thing or else I’d have a lot more explaining to do. Although judging by the look on his face, I already have plenty of explaining to do as it is.
Viv loves to tease me about him. I’ve done a good job pretending I don’t find my boss attractive since I met her, but she doesn’t believe me. I’m a horrible liar. On the phone, she suggested I solve my orgasm issue by approaching him, and I deflected. But my joking might’ve gone too far by the time I committed to the character of seductress, and wouldn’t it figure that Benji was standing right behind me when I spun my R-rated fairy tale.
The key to problem-solving is to start from the square you’re in, which means I can’t deny what he heard. He’s too smart for that. Even if he was as dumb as a brick, I’m transparent. Any claim he misheard me would be an obvious lie. My remaining option, which he is thwarting, is to flee.
“Can we do this later? The wine went to my head tonight.” I pin a smile into place and try option C: reason.