Being the middle man at the office is exhausting. Things with Bambi have gotten slightly better since I sent her home early to recover from her breakup, but it’s still strained, the power struggle festering between us alive and well. As much as I’d love to be more assertive, that’s just not who I am, and as much as I’d love for her to wake up one morning and show me more respect, that’s just not happening any time soon.
I sigh contently, sagging into Brooks’ couch. It’s not as comfortable as mine—his is stiff and leather and not as worn in—but it’s a couch, and my ass ain’t complainin’.
Surprisingly enough, I like it here, in his apartment.
“Too bad you won’t let me bring Desdemona over. She’d love that plant in the corner.”
Translation: she’d love to climb that plant in the corner, dig out all the dirt, and destroy the pot it’s in.
“Don’t you dare even think about bringing that cat in here,” he warns. Plops down on the end of the couch, one foot propped on the coffee table, the other up on the cushions. “Crap. Now I can’t reach my plate.”
He shoots me a devilish sidelong glance. Beseeching with a pouty lower lip.
It works and I fold like a stack of cards. “You want me to make you a plate, ask nice.”
“Abbott, can you pretty please make me a plate and hand it to me? I had a rough day.”
I’ll just bet he had a rough day, looking all cute and handsome in the light lavender shirt he wore earlier with his coordinating tie and navy slacks. The dark velvet blue jacket to match.
Rawr.
I scoop some food onto a plate for his majesty, handing it to him with a smile. Flutter my lashes. I mean seriously, who can be irritated with that face?
I want to squish it in my hands.
“How rough could your day have been if you ended it with drinks?” I’m curious to know, already chewing on a vegetable.
“I had drinks with my friends because it was rough, and somehow that made it worse.” I note with confusion that he hasn’t met my gaze.
“So you wore your jacket to work?” I know it holds some kind of sentimental value—no way did he wear that out in public.
“I brought it to work and changed into it afterward.”
Ah, so I was right. It’s a special jacket, for special occasions.
“What did you and your friends talk about? What are they like?” The friends he will not set me up on a date with because they are douchebags.
“My friends are…” Brooks pushes broccoli across the plate before spearing it with his fork and putting it on his tongue. “Professionals. One of them just broke up with his girlfriend, but all he does is sit and whine about that.”
“Whines? How? If he broke up with her, why is he bellyaching about it?” Inquiring minds want to know.
Brooks’ broad shoulders shrug, and I peel my eyes away in time to hear him say, “Dunno.” Chomp, chomp. “He was on the fence about it. Must feel guilty about dumping her.” Chomp, chomp. “You know how guys are.”
No, actually, I don’t know how guys are. You’d have to have a myriad of experience with men to know how guys are, and I? Do not. I’m no Bambi Warner, who is all legs and boobs and long flowing hair—she must spend an hour each morning curling it before work. Styling it. Hours on her makeup and skincare.
I bet she shaves her legs a few times a week, unlike myself.
I’ve been friend-zoned more times than I can count, stick to myself when I’m at bars, and rarely get hit on. I’m a veritable wallflower. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.
The last time I had a dick inside me was…jeez. Who even knows?
“What else do y’all do besides sit around and drink?”
Brooks has the courtesy to swallow before responding. “The usual. Bars, go to the gym and play hoops. Grab coffee, smoke stogies.”
“That’s what you do when you’re together? Go to the gym, play hoops, and grab coffee?” It all sounds so disappointingly ordinary. I ponder this information. “Huh.”
“What does huh mean? None of that excites you?” His chuckle is good-humored and served with a smile.
“Surprises me, that’s all. I thought you were going to say something like, ‘We go to biker bars, car shows, and strip clubs.’”
His eyes go wide. “Right away your brain takes you to a strip club?”
It’s my turn to laugh. “I don’t know why that popped into my mind, it just did.” Another vegetable gets eaten, giving me time to think about what I’ll say next.
“Got strippers on the brain, do ya?”
“No! But let’s be honest, some very beautiful women are exotic dancers.” I shoot him a shy glance.
“You’re beautiful, but you would never do a striptease.”
Hold up—let me take a nanosecond to overthink this: is he imagining me doing stripteases now? As in, prancing around and getting naked in front of him?
Or…is that him saying I’m a beautiful woman? Or is he calling me a prude?
“Are we talking about stripteases or exotic dancing? They’re not the same thing,” I point out.
“Both.”
“You don’t think I’d ever do a lap dance?” I pivot my body so I’m facing him. “How stuffy do you think I am?”
“One doesn’t do a lap dance—one performs a lap dance.” He’s amused by the topic, at least. “It has nothing to do with you being stuffy.”
“So you admit you think I’m stuffy?”
“First of all, can we stop using the word stuffy? You’re taking it out of context. Secondly, all I’m saying is that you’re not the stripping, lap dance type.” He takes a swallow of wine, probably needing it since I’m being such a head case. “You’re classier than that.”
“I’ll have you know, one of my best friends was a stripper in college, and she was classy.” I’m unexpectedly indignant for all those girls who dance in clubs, getting pawed at by strangers simply to pay their rent and feed their kids.
He gapes. “Seriously?”
My shoulders droop. “No.”
Brooks forks some broccoli and stuffs it in his mouth, chewing. “Not that there is anything wrong with being a stripper, though I can think of a hundred better ways to spend my hard-earned cash than at a gentlemen’s club.”
I scratch at my scalp. “How did we get on this subject?”
“It hardly signifies.”
Hardly signifies—two words strung together that shouldn’t turn me on but do. Go figure. I’ve always been a sucker for smart men, and Brooks is not only intelligent, but clever, too, someone who uses words like ‘signifies’ in casual sentences.
Lay off the wine, Abbott—it’s making you stupid.
“You were saying you didn’t think I was the type.”
One of his dark brows goes up. “Because you’re not.”
Which isn’t the point. The point is, he thinks I’m a buttoned-up, uptight goody two-shoes.
AKA boring.
AKA a prig.
AKA prissy.
AKA I have to stop mentally saying AKA.
My chin goes up haughtily, and I defensively cup my boobs in my hands. “Fine. Maybe I’m not the type to give a tease worthy of a gentlemen’s club, but I would do one for the right person.”