“I’m afraid of confrontation!”
“Do it in a public place. I can be there if you want. And the rest of my friends.”
“What if he says something mean to me, though? I know, what if I just change my phone number? That’s a great idea. Wait a minute…” Ariel’s face puckers in confusion. “What’s a patootie?”
“A butt. You’re dumping his butt. You’re also dumping the rest of him. In a landfill would be my suggestion.”
I quickly tap out a text.
Rumor has it you’re slacking off and gossiping with employees.
She replies. I’m on my lunch break. Rumor has it you’re stalking me.
I start walking towards her, typing at the same time. It’s not a rumor if it’s true. Turn around. THE KILLER IS RIGHT BEHIND YOU.
Still with her back to me, she texts back.
Cliché plot line, zero stars, would not recommend. Then she very slowly, deliberately turns around to face me.
“How can I make your day better, Mr. Hudson? I want that, and nothing more than that, with every fiber of my being.” It comes out in a sarcastic drawl, with a heavy layering of her Georgia accent.
Ariel gasps and claps her hand over her mouth. “Excuse me, I just remembered that I have to…run for my life,” she says. She scurries off like a rabbit with a fox on its trail.
“Well?” Winona says challengingly. Oh my God, what I wouldn’t give to kiss that smug smirk off her face. Then I’d move south, and…
“Well, nothing.” My watch pings, and I force myself not to look at the reminder that’s just popped up on it. “I, uh…I have a little free time Thursday night. Like, after eight p.m. About an hour.”
God, I’m lame. My sister was right. I’m terrible at wooing women. I think I’m just too used to having them do all the work for me.
Her smile is polite and cool. “I don’t. Weekly stitch and bitch session for the Kitchen Krew. The only time I get to see my friends these days. I was forced to miss it last week, because I was busy cataloging vintage issues of Fashion Forward magazines for a power-mad martinet.”
“Hey. Show some respect. That’s Mr. Martinet to you. Also that was my father’s favorite industry magazine and I’m planning on using past issues to create a display.”
“Whatever. Can I go back to handling your boxers, with great love and tenderness of course?” She pulls a pair of boxers from the bag and strokes them, staring at me challengingly. All the blood in my body rushes south to my cock, and I’m instantly, painfully hard, imagining her hand stroking me, gripping me… And, she won this round.
“Handle away,” I sigh. But I don’t budge.
She folds her arms across her chest and stares at me. I can’t read what she’s thinking. Would she actually want a relationship with me, if that were on the table? Did she only say she wanted me to leave yesterday morning because I left her no choice, with my “work first, last and always” line, or was she completely uninterested in a repeat performance? If I’d done a less asshole-y job of asking her to spend time with me just now, would she have said yes?
Will my blue balls ever resolve themselves?
So many questions. So few answers.
Winona is apparently determined to climb into my head and stir my brains up with an egg-beater. I shake my head to clear it.
“What are you stitching while you’re bitching?” I’m just stalling, and it’s obvious.
She huffs a small sigh of impatience. “We buy suits from thrift stores and alter them for people in a homeless shelter, to go on job interviews.” She chews her bottom lip, and her gaze drifts off to the side.
Up until now, I thought she enjoyed my company, but I feel like I’m boring her, which actually hurts. My desire to be with Winona goes far beyond the physical. I like being with her. It lightens my mood and makes everything feel more colorful, like stepping onto the set of a technicolor movie. I thought she liked hanging out with me too.
My phone pings, cutting off any chance of reply. I’m supposed to be upstairs in my office right now, returning a call from one of our board members, Earl Dempsey. It’s a call that I can’t afford to miss. Earl’s been acting a little off lately, in a way I can’t quite put my finger on. If I lose his vote, I lose everything.
“Hold that thought,” I tell her. “I’ll call you in half an hour”.
“I’ll ignore you in half an hour.”
I power-walk out of the room, leaving Winona behind, trying to ignore the ache in my groin.
Yep. I’m most definitely going to die single. And very, very horny.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Winona
The courtyard is lit with globe-shaped paper lanterns, and the boxed wine is cold. We’re gathered around folding tables, working on our sewing projects. None of us have room in our apartments for a gathering like this. I can’t even bust out my sewing machine without doing so much rearranging that it’s hardly worth it. Most of my upcycling stuff is done by hand.
Xena’s leashed to my chair and scanning the group hopefully for snacks.
I’ve missed this fiercely over the last couple of weeks. The sense of community, the shared purpose, the dirty jokes. Edna’s indignant objections to the dirty jokes. The terrible, terrible wine. God, this stuff is bad. Cheap, though.
I haven’t had the energy to pick up a needle and thread since the day I signed Blake’s contract. My first paycheck was generous, and my parents are bragging about me all over town, but it does come at a cost. Namely, my social life, sleep and sanity.
“Why are we here again?” Edna asks, glancing up from the shirt she’s hemming. She looks at me. “Did I mention the cow thing to you, dear?”
“Several times,” I assure her. I’m lying – she hasn’t brought it up in the past few days – but she’s made her point enough times in the past that I don’t need to hear it repeated.
“This is an official meeting to discuss Winona’s dating-but-not-dating situation.” Isabella takes a swig of wine and winks at me.
“Woo-hoo!” Jemma holds up her wine glass. “Here’s to getting all the details!”
“It is not!” I say heatedly.
“Are we doing Robert’s Rules of Order?” Isabella smirks. “I make a motion that Winona has to tell us all the details. Do I have a second?”
“Second!” Jemma calls out. “I will throw in free lattes for a week if you tell me what his dick looks like.” Something about an English accent makes her sound elegant even when she’s saying things like that.
She holds out her hands approximately a foot apart, and looks at me questioningly. Then she moves her hands closer together. “Am I getting warmer?”
Edna shakes her head reprovingly. “In my day, we waited until our wedding night,” she mutters.
I skewer Jemma with a narrow-eyed glare. “My lips are sealed.”
“This is an official meeting to get Ariel to break up with her lame-ass boyfriend?” Isabella suggests.
“It is?” Ariel asks nervously. She’s expertly hemming a navy-blue skirt that’s part of a two-piece set I snagged for six bucks. “I thought we were going to gossip about butt-cucumbers? I came for the butt-cucumbers!”