Victoria sounds offended and so I laugh.
“I’m getting in shape for me.” I pick up my shot.
“Chelsea, you work out five days a week. It’s all we could do to get you out here.” Victoria raises her newly done eyebrows.
“There’s nothing wrong with a little tender loving care,” I say with a smirk.
They each pick up their glasses and we raise them.
“To Chelsea finally getting some.” Hannah smiles and they push their glasses to mine to clink.
They down their shots while I’m still holding mine out.
“Oh, just drink it.” Hannah shakes her head. “Who the hell cares? I’m not getting any on the regular, but my pussy is waxed in case the opportunity presents itself.”
A man who was walking by stops and looks over his shoulder at Hannah.
“Keep walking. Not interested,” she says, and he does what she instructs and continues to the other side of the bar.
I’m still getting over the fact that Hannah just said the word pussy out loud.
“Nothing wrong with looking your best on the off chance,” Victoria says.
“Off chance there’s a silver fox around?” I ask.
“Hey now, I’m being nice. If you want to see me angry, keep talking about that man.” Hannah is kind of scary when we bring up the silver fox.
“Nope. I’m good.” I raise my hands in a placating gesture.
“Thought so.” She goes back to drinking her Vesper.
For the rest of the night, we talk about RISE and the gala, Hannah’s party and how she hired a planner to take care of most of the details. I swear the woman must roll around in cash. I can’t even imagine living her life.
It isn’t until my phone chimes that I realize it’s so late.
Minute Man: Can I swindle lunch with you tomorrow?
Hannah and Victoria are chatting about the renovations her and Reed are planning for their Barbie dream house.
Me: No.
Minute Man: Promise to keep my hands to myself.
Me: No.
Minute Man: I remember you being much more accommodating.
Me: And I remember you being much less irritating.
Minute Man: Want to make a new Rambo DVD and see how much endurance I really have?
Me: I have no idea what you’re talking about.
Minute Man: I’ll keep your secret if you go to lunch with me.
Me: It’s your secret, too.
Minute Man: It’s some of my finest work…I’d be happy to show it off.
Me: You’re bluffing.
Minute Man: Try me. I keep my copy in a Steel Magnolias case.
I laugh.
“Who is that?” Hannah asks.
I lift my head and they both smile, again sharing that damn look, so I return my attention to my phone.
Me: When was the last time you watched it?
Minute Man: Last night.
An eruption of butterflies fills my stomach.
Minute Man: I must say, I’m an awesome partner.
Me: Excuse me?
Minute Man: Oh, you stole the show, baby. No doubt about that.
The butterflies slow like they’re flitting through molasses and a wave of warmth runs from my head to my toes.
Me: I’m not sure I like you having a copy.
Minute Man: Technically, it’s mine. You have the copy.
He’s kind of got me there.
Me: I thought you turned off the camera?
Minute Man: Aren’t you glad I didn’t ;) Then you would’ve forgotten how I rock your world.
Me: You’re okay.
Minute Man: Care for a refresher course? I’m sitting alone in my apartment, you can swing by.
My body is screaming yes, yes, oh God what is wrong with you? YES! But I cannot allow my body to make the decisions where Dean’s concerned.
Me: It’s girl’s night. Gotta go. Have fun.
Minute Man: Okay, I’ll just pop in Steel Magnolias. I can never get enough of the female star.
I swallow, cross my legs and uncross them. God, why am I this aroused just knowing he’s watching the same DVD I watched a few nights ago? The one I almost took a lighter to last night because my willpower was waning.
Me: Have fun because that will never happen again.
Minute Man: Oh, sweet Chelsea, I’ll be under you again. I guarantee that.
My mind blanks. I have no smart comments to hammer back at him. I sit there staring at the text he sent because as much as I hate it, I’m woman enough to admit that this is the one time I hope I’m wrong and he’s right.
Chapter Eleven
A knock lands on my door at six o’clock on Saturday.
I twist the cap back on the mascara, examine myself in the mirror, and take a deep breath, silently telling myself that I’ve got this. I only have to be alone with him on the way there and back. A nice goodbye at the end of the evening and I’m done.
A knock hits my door again.
“Always impatient,” I murmur, leaving the bathroom and heading to the door. “You got this,” I remind myself.
I open the door and my pep talks from the past hour were all for naught. Dean stands there in a pair of black jeans, a black V-neck shirt with a black leather jacket over the top. His hair is styled messier than during his work day. He really is trying to torture me. Did he put on Chapstick? His lips are a light pink, his dark eyes even more mysterious when paired with an all-black wardrobe.
“I’m game if you want to stay in.” He walks past me into my apartment.
Uninvited I may add.
The only good thing about his entrance is that I get a view of his ass. Don’t worry, it matches the ensemble perfectly.
“The polite thing to do is wait to be invited in.”
He circles around, hands in his pockets. “You know I ain’t got no manners.”
I giggle. Giggle. Like a damn school girl! At least I stopped it quickly.
“Let me grab my coat and we can get this over with.” I breeze past him toward the hallway.
“Usually my dates beg for more.”
I ignore the stab of pain in my chest at his comment while he follows me down the hall to the closet. When the two of us are in the darkened small space, it feels like I’m suffocating. I should’ve turned the light on.
His cologne. Wait, cologne? Dean never used to wear cologne.
He leans forward to look into my bedroom. “What are you doing?” I step back. “Excuse me.” I place my hand on his chest to push him back. Wrong move. The hard muscles tense under my touch.
“Just getting the lay of the land so we don’t bump into any walls tonight.” It’s too dark to see his expression, but I’d bet his eyes are lit up like Michigan Avenue at Christmas.
“You’re incorrigible.”
“After you doubted my skills the other night, I have to do some legwork. You know I’m not a young buck anymore.”
“Yeah, need a cane yet, twenty-six?” I shake my head.
“Twenty-seven,” he corrects, and my shoulders falter a little. “It’s okay, I forgive you.”
His birthday is in February, so he’s already turned twenty-seven. Fuck me. Why do I feel so bad for not remembering? I bet he doesn’t remember mine.