“Can’t call him rug rat forever.”
“But just for a little longer, okay? At least until the hottie downloads, m’kay?”
The redhead exits the cubical and ignores me as she washes her hands. Casper it is.
“Pretty is as pretty does, Hols. Didn’t Nana teach you anything?”
The way I look at it is man is pretty. Ergo, he does pretty things. Hopefully to me!
“Nana taught me lots of things,” I retort, purposely ignoring what she means because our nana first and foremost cautioned us often not to turn out like our mother. “Like how to make a gin rickey for her by the time I was eight. So, I guess she also taught me to appreciate cocktails as well as the concept of taxation.”
“She taught you about tax?” I hear the shock in my sister’s voice because our grandmother was the original badass, and taxes were something to be avoided.
“Because I always took at least ten percent off the top.” Which she pretended not to notice.
Kennedy harrumphs. “Sounds like you’ve had more than ten percent tonight.”
The bathroom door creaks closed, and I’m alone again. Well, except for my sister.
“I am as sober as a judge. I’m just high on my hottie, and you can’t kill my buzz.”
“I reserve my judgment.”
“Are you trying to diss my taste in men?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she answers, opting to be kind because we both know what direction a truthful answer would take this conversation. “I’m just saying looks are objective. You might like them tall, dark, and handsome while I might have a thing for sweet dorks.”
I snort because Kennedy hasn’t had a thing for anyone but her battery-operated boyfriend in a long time. Well, not since she dropped out of college to have a kid. But badgering her about getting some of her own isn’t the point of my call.
“I’m about to change your mind. No, I am about to blow your mind because, trust me, this man is every woman’s type.” The suit. The face. Those knowing looks. The way he made me work for every second of his attention before we were so rudely interrupted.
“Lucky you,” she replies snippily.
“Yep, lucky me.” I put her on speakerphone before placing my phone on the vanity to free up my hands. “Because he sure looks like he knows the way around a woman’s body.”
This time, Kennedy snorts. “You make it sound like most men need a compass.”
“Come on, didn’t you say that guy you dated last year wouldn’t have been able to find your magic spot if it was surrounded by neon lights?” Personally, I think she made him up just to get me off her back.
“It’s called a clitoris, Holland. You’re not at work now. You can use your big-girl words.”
“Why, when magic spot sounds so much better? Be happy for me! He’s handsome, cool company, British and hung!” I hadn’t intended to share that, but when you know, you know. Not only does he have big dick energy, but when I’d dropped my bag earlier and bent to retrieve it from under the table, I’d almost forgotten to come back up again.
“How can you tell? Does he have a funny walk? Wear a sign? Roll it in on a cart in front of him?” My sister may be the straight guy in our double act, but as usual, she has me in a fit of giggles. “Why are we even having this conversation, again? Oh, I remember. Okay, you got me. I haven’t even seen his picture, and I’m jealous. Jealous of you living in London. Jealous of your Instagram feed. Jealous of your hot Wednesday date. What are you laughing at?”
“Nothing.” She wouldn’t understand.
“You win. I’m a loser, and I’m going to overdose on tacos.”
“Good. Maybe next time I see you, you won’t be skinnier than me.” Kennedy has
the kind of metabolism that I’ll never have, sadly.
“Yeah, but you got all the boobs.”
“I’m sorry,” I reply sincerely. “That’s true.”
“Bitch.”
“A bitch who loves you,” I sing-song back as I uncap my lipstick and quickly coat my lips until they’re rosy and glossy.
“Okay, it’s loading. Finally,” she grumbles. “I need to change service providers before—whoa.”
“I told you so,” I crow as I slide the lipstick back and pout at my reflection.
“Who is he?”
I open my mouth, then realise I don’t want to tell her that I only know his first name. In fact, I don’t want to tell her any of our crazy exchange. But it doesn’t matter because Kennedy doesn’t wait for an answer before words start spilling from her mouth at speed.
“He looks like that guy out of the Viking’s TV show. That’s not really him, is it?”
“Viking show?” I repeat with a laugh and feeling oddly validated. “No, I don’t think so.”
“You’re telling me regular men look like that over there?” There’s more than a note of disbelief in her reply.
“Sure, the streets are full of them. That’s why it’s called Great Britain.”
“Smart-ass. You know how to make a man even more sexy, don’t you?”
“Give him a British accent.” But Alexander’s accent definitely has a hint of something else.
“Fine. So I’m officially jealous and will be drowning my FOMO with an excess of tacos. Happy now?”
“You know, taco Wednesday just doesn’t have the same ring to it. But yes, get fat. Just to please me. But that’s not why I sent you the photo.”
“Okay.” Like only a mother can, she makes her reply sound like the embodiment of suspicion.
“It’s to hand to the police if you never hear from me again.”
“Oh. Has the pretty-looking man started to talk about his taxidermy interests?”
“Not yet.”
“But you want me to have this in case you end up dead?”
“Yep,” I reply, noting her indifferent tone.“That’s not how I anticipated this conversation going.”
“I take it you’re going back to his place.” She doesn’t know about the hotel, but she knows I would never take a random man back to my employer’s house in Chelsea. “Or is this going to be an alfresco assignation?”
“You mean, like in an alleyway somewhere?” What is with her today?
“Nothing says special like sex up against a dumpster.”
“Bins. They’re not called dumpsters here.” I don’t rise to her tone as I pinch a little
colour into my cheeks.
“It doesn’t matter what they’re called,” she drawls.
“And why is that?”
“Because to the best of my knowledge, and I have a lot of Holland knowledge
as your big sister, you have never had a one-night stand. Not even to get over he who must never be named. So regardless of whether a bin or dumpster or The Savoy Hotel, you’re not going to have sex with a man you just met. Flirt with one, sure. I can picture that. But sex? Nope.”
“I don’t want to hear you’ve tried to picture me having sex, Kennedy. That’s just creepy. Take a look at that photo again,” I say, almost bouncing on my toes with excitement.