As we walked around Holland, going to the shops, eating ice cream, and having dinner, I kept watching her, wondering if she would be upset that tiny-dick was with Ellen or about the photographs. She had been, but Saturday afternoon she looked and acted exactly as she said.
She was liberated.
I adore seeing her happy and carefree.
After dinner, we drove west until we reached the shore of Lake Michigan, and sitting on the light-colored sand, we watched the sun set.
There’s no doubt that I’m getting too used to waking next to her. It’s not only waking. I’m getting used to the whole package.
Crawling into bed beside her and enticing her to put away the Kindle and concentrate on something a bit more strenuous and much more fulfilling.
After three weeks of off-and-on togetherness, I’m surprised by how fucking ready I am to be inside her. I’d been wrong. Being with the same woman isn’t mundane or boring. Hell no. Each time with her there is something new, something better than the time before.
We’ve been going at this now for nearly three weeks.
That thought reminds me of the date.
Shit.
In two days, it’ll be her wedding date.
I scramble to think of something to help her get through that date.
Of course, my first thought is more sex.
I mean, it’s a cure-all for what ails you, right?
It always works for me.
But for once, I’m not thinking about me. I’m thinking about her. It’s funny how just thinking about Sami reroutes my circulation.
My treadmill begins to slow for my cooldown. I’m twenty-five minutes into my thirty-minute run when a piercing scream shatters my bubble and scatters my thoughts. I turn just in time to see Miss Tits and Ass in mid-air, before landing herself half on the floor and half on the treadmill.
Jumping off my treadmill, I offer her my sweaty hand. “Are you all right?”
She brushes herself off and takes my hand. Her hold lingers as she stands. “I guess you’re my hero. You saved me.”
I pull the earbuds from my ears, not positive of what she said. I mostly noticed the way her puffy lips moved. It’s a revelation I hadn’t realized was even possible. With this woman’s hand in mine, I see her as I never have.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not judging; I’m assessing.
I’m seeing her bleached blonde hair, Botox-enhanced lips, and fake tits.
Is she pretty?
I suppose.
No matter how pretty she is, she’s fake; she’s emblematic of all the women I’ve been involved with. No wonder in the past I haven’t wanted anything permanent. The women weren’t permanent. They were all similar to this woman, an illusion of what is supposed to be sexy.
“You know,” she says, “since you saved my life, I owe you three wishes.”
Freeing my hand, I reach for my shirt and wipe the sweat from my eyes. As I do, her gaze goes to my abs.
Shit.
This is my move except it’s not.
It’s only sweat.
When I don’t speak, she says, “I’m still available for drinks.”
“I’m still—”
“You said you were kind of seeing someone,” she interrupts. “It’s been a few weeks. Are you still only kind of?”
“It’s complicated.”
She lifts a painted and manicured finger to my chest. “I’m not complicated, Marshal. I know what I like, and I’m a no-strings-attached kind of gal. Tell me that doesn’t appeal to you.”
It would have.
A month ago, I would have jumped at the chance.
Three weeks ago, I had.
“You seem nice,” I say. “The thing is that I need to figure out where this relationship is going.”
“I’m here if you make any decisions,” she says with a sexy smirk. “Besides, I have to grant you three wishes. It’s the life-saving rule.”
I come up with a lame excuse and head into the locker room. The entire time I’m showering and getting ready for the office, I think about what she offered and why I’m not interested.
The whole time I am thinking about Sami.
She and I need to talk.
I know we have been talking, as well as doing other things, but my little confrontation with Miss Tits and Ass makes me realize I’m not satisfied with Sami’s and my amended agreement. Sami has just recently earned her freedom, and I don’t want to take that away, but damn, I want more.
I’ve played the field. I know what is waiting on each base.
Well, really who’s on first, what’s on second, and I don’t know is on third—that’s from one of my dad’s favorite Abbot and Costello bits.
In all seriousness, if I don’t tell Sami how I feel, I’ll never know if there’s a chance. If I do tell her, I may lose her as my friend. If I don’t, someone else may offer her forever and always.
The back and forth continues.
Once I’m settled behind my desk at my office, I pull out my phone and send a text.
“Hey. We need to talk. Dinner? Pizza, my place or out?”
Marshal
I wait for Sami's text message like a high school kid. Shit, I've never waited for a response even when I was in high school. Not even for her.
Why?
Because back then, I knew she'd eventually respond.
She always did.
Always.
Why the fuck am I nervous about it now?
Did I think she'd really let me down?
I didn't want to think she would.
And then it happens. The simple chime and there it is on my screen.
Text message from Sami:
“Talk? Sounds ominous. Food, though, sounds great. Your place is good. Not pizza. Grill?”
I don’t want her to think ominous.
“Not ominous. See you at six.”
At ten minutes before six, I have my apartment all set.
I stopped at the store on my way home from work.
The steaks are marinating and ready to pop on the grill, charcoal is warming, wine is chilling in the refrigerator with salads, and there are potatoes in the oven. The small table on my balcony is set with two place settings, and there is even a candle in a jar.
It’s as I stand half in my apartment and half on the balcony that I realize the pansy I've become.
A candle.
I have a fucking candle on the table.
It wasn’t planned. I just saw it. The grocery store had candles on an endcap thing. And the moment I saw it, it seemed like a good idea. That was then.
Now the stupid candle doesn't seem like a good idea.
Now it screams desperate.
Hell, I’m no better than tiny-dick and his roses.
Is Sami allergic to candles?
Fuck!
As I run my hand through my hair, I glance down at my button-down shirt, the way I have the sleeves rolled, and my jeans hanging loosely from my hips.
How and why am I nervous?
When have I ever been nervous about a woman?
This is Sami, my Sami. We've had dinner together thousands of times.
Shaking my head, I decide I should change into shorts and a t-shirt when a knock on the front door stops me.
I don't even look through the peephole. I know who I want to have on the other side. And damn it, I'm Marshal Michaels. I need to get my shit together. If I want this thing with Sami to be more than what we have with our new agreement, if I want Sami to see me as more than a friend, then I need to act like the man who's been sweeping women off their feet for over ten years.