That’s when any shred of restraint inside me…evaporates.
“What the hell are you doing?” I demand. “This isn’t your weekend Chippendales’ show.”
“Gemma, it’s three hundred degrees in here. I’ve got a t-shirt on under this. You’ll live.”
He peels off the shirt, and I divert my eyes away from his very, very nice biceps, his smooth and surprisingly tan forearms…and they fall to his belt.
Then they fall lower, which is when I think about the elevator.
I felt it. He’s large. Too large. It would be irritating, having to deal with that thing nestled up against me every morning and night.
“If our positions were reversed, I’d be complaining to HR right now,” he says.
Shit.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I reply, quickly looking away.
He closes the overhead bin and takes the seat beside me again. “I practically watched your thoughts scroll across your face and they were surprisingly filthy. I’m not sure I could even say them aloud.”
I press my thighs together, feeling breathless. It’s probably the heat. “Considering most of the women you date don’t read yet, I figured you’d be better at talking.”
“Really?” he asks, his mouth twitching. He closes his eyes, pressing his fingers to his temples like he’s a psychic. “So, I see you in a room, and…wow, you really want me to put my tongue there? I mean, I don’t know. I’ve never done that before.”
I roll my eyes. “You do seem like the type who wouldn’t have done much with his tongue.”
“I’ve done plenty, Gemma,” he says, his gaze on my mouth, his voice so gravelly that I have to swallow to get the air moving through my throat. He sits back in his seat and closes his eyes again. “Anyway, I didn’t say no to that really surprising—and some might say unsanitary—thing you want me to do. I’m just saying it’s a big step this early on. I normally start with the regular stuff first.”
“Do you even get to the regular stuff, or can you not wait that long before you dismember the body?”
His mouth twitches. “Now you’re trying to get me worked up.”
I laugh, hating myself for it. On the intercom, the airline attendant announces we’ve been cleared for takeoff, and that’s probably for the best. I don’t need any more time spent considering whether I could be friends—or more—with Ben Tate. I shut the window shade and close my eyes, quietly praying that Thomas the chef sweeps me off my feet so I never have to consider this question again.
I meet Thomas—who apparently goes by Tad—at a bar in North Hollywood.
His hair was short in the photo but is longer in real life, pulled back in a small ponytail. I’m fine with this, but he does not exude the calm authority I’d hoped for. He’s one of those twitchy guys whose free hand drums on the table constantly, as if he’s nervous or bored or fresh out of cocaine.
I tell him I’m a lawyer, hoping he will then ask if I’m fulfilled. Maybe he’ll get me talking about some secret interest of mine and suggest a change in careers. If I was someone who liked to bake, for instance, he’d encourage me to open a cupcake shop in his quaint little home town. If I was an artist, he’d convince me to start selling my work and he’d have a studio on his property that I was free to use. But I can’t paint, and baking seems like a waste of time, so I’m counting on Tad to come up with something better.
“I bet you make bank,” he says instead. Not quite what I was hoping for.
We talk about our interests. Mine include long walks at sunset, which is something I plan to like in the future, and work. His include fantasy football, “dank memes” and Xbox.
Our love was written in the stars.
I offer to pay the bill and he enthusiastically accepts. This also does not happen in Hallmark movies, where the men are old-fashioned and insist on holding doors and paying tabs, ignoring the heroine’s weak feminist protest.
As we leave, he asks if I want to hang out, which I assume is a euphemism for something more naked. “Your place is probably better,” he adds. “All my roommates are home.”
For a moment, despite how consistently disappointing Tad is, I consider it. My libido has been like a furnace at peak temperature for a full day now at least. But I can only picture overeager fumbling and awkwardness, a sweaty pale torso covered in idiotic tattoos—a Tasmanian Devil waving a rebel flag or a cartoon character peeing on a car—so I tell him I’ve got to get to bed.
I arrive home and discover the one plant I own is extremely dead. Keeley bought it when I was discussing getting a cat to prove I could not take care of a cat—I guess it’s a good thing we ran this experiment first. I sigh, “Sorry, my little plant friend, it wasn’t meant to be.” I throw it in the trash and the apartment seems emptier than before, which is an accomplishment because it’s been empty since I moved in.
I bet Ben’s house is gross. I picture a leather sofa covered in bodily fluids, a dartboard and artwork of the “Dogs Playing Poker” or “James Dean sitting in a 50s cafe” variety.
And I would definitely look down on him for all of this, but when he stepped into me, when his hands ran from my back to my ass and he started moving me toward the bedroom…it would not matter all that much. The next morning, I would, indeed, be appalled I just slept with someone who owns “Dogs Playing Poker” but for the hours preceding it—Ben’s weight pushing me into the bed—I bet I’d be able to look past it.
13
You can make anyone seem like a monster if you know enough about him: if you put him on the stand and ask about the time he drank too much at a party, told an off-color joke, got into an ugly argument in public, was late for school pick-up. The trick is to know about all these things.
Dennis Roberts, a college basketball coach in the process of divorcing my client, has practically done my job for me.
“Oh, Dennis,” I say aloud, going through his social media accounts, “I deeply appreciate your lack of discretion.”
I hear a laugh and look up at Ben standing just inside my door. He’s smiling…and he has dimples. I don’t know why that makes my heart give one overly loud thump. “What did he do?” he asks.
I’ve learned, after what happened at Stadler, that no one you work with is truly your friend, but I’ve missed being able to share a victory with the few people who will truly understand it. “Sent a picture of his dick to a temp,” I reply, unable to hold in a grin. “And then tried to pay her off.”
His smile, for a moment, is almost affectionate. “Only you would be so excited about potential harassment of an employee.”
“You’d find it exciting, too, if you weren’t hoping to get away with it yourself. Did you need something?”
He blinks, as if I’ve caught him at something. “Did you finish the records request?”
I sigh. “I did it this morning. If you’d checked your inbox, you’d know that already. Also, I’m not an idiot, so don’t treat me like a first year.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets as he comes a step closer. “I don’t need to check my inbox when I can just ask. And you’re not partner yet, so it’s not like I’m going to assume you’re competent.”