My cheeks warm. "I'm not going to..."
"You're not going to what...and why the hell not?"
"Why am I not going to find out how big he is or if he knows how to use the massive erection that I felt against my stomach?"
Shana bounces on the bed. "You didn't tell me you felt it. Was it...?"
I shrug innocently. "I mean, it's hard to say...but it seemed..."
"Hard?" She laughs. "I bet the rumors are true. Now tell me why in the world you wouldn't find out?"
"Because I don't just sleep with someone on the first date."
"Well, Miss Prim and Proper, I'll let you know that you will..." Before I can respond, she clarifies, "...sleep with him. Four nights: Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Right? If you never sleep, you'll be pretty damn exhausted."
"Fuck!" The word comes out as a sigh and I fall back again. "Yes, in my childhood canopy bed."
"And you have dated. The other night you had drinks at Gaston's?"
"He had a drink. I had water."
"Which you drank?"
I take a deep breath and lift my head so our eyes meet.
"So," Shana states as if it were fact, "this isn't your first date. You've known him for nearly three years. You even said you've had fantasies about him. Now you're going to have him all to yourself...sleeping in the same room, the same bed, for four nights." She tilts her head to the side. "When is the last time you had sex? Great, mind-blowing sex?"
"Timothy was the last, but I don't know if it qualifies as mind-blowing."
"If you don't know, it most certainly doesn't. And you broke up on New Year's. Honey, this is like being on a five-month-long fast, waking up to a long weekend locked in a bakery, and you have the most delicious, giant, cream-filled cannoli right in front of you."
I giggle and scrunch my nose as I sit back up. "Oh, stop. Now I'm imagining a cannoli."
"A giant one." She uses her hands and extends a finger from each. With her fingers only a few inches apart, she says, "Not a tiny one." Her fingers move farther and farther apart. "This is a huge, long, thick cannoli. And it was baked a day ago, so it's hard. Really hard."
I slap her leg. "Seriously, stop."
"Don't forget the cream."
"Shana!"
"Fine. Just be sure to tell me when you get home if you continued the fast or if you decided that you deserved the entire thing." Her eyes widen. "I mean, according to those rumors, you won't be sorry."
My phone chimes from my purse that I'd dropped on the living room floor on my way toward Shana's room. I hop off her bed and head that direction. As I go to answer it, Shana resumes her packing.
MR. WILLIS is on the screen.
My heart races as I answer, scared to death to talk to him, but equally afraid he's changed his mind. I wonder if the blow-up guy is a possibility. How long would it take to arrive if I ordered it tonight?
"Hello?" I answer.
"Kimbra."
"Mr.—Duncan."
His deep laugh comes through the phone and makes me smile.
"Just Duncan is fine," he says. "I meant to ask you how formal the wedding will be, but I've been out of the office the last two days. I was summoned unexpectedly to visit a few of our distribution centers and haven't been able to see you."
My smile grows with each word. Maybe it's his husky, masculine voice. Or maybe it's because he isn't cancelling and hasn't been purposely avoiding me.
"Formal?" I ask.
"I seem to recall something about being in it?"
I giggle as my head moves from side to side. "I convinced my mom that you should be with me."
"I like the sound of that."
My heart flutters at his response.
Pretend. I remind myself. "A suit is fine."
"And you?" he asks, his words slowing with a hint of provocative undertone. "What will you be wearing?"
I look down at the wood floor, wondering where the heat is coming from. There's no vent or heater, yet the temperature is definitely rising. It's climbing, radiating from my toes all the way to the top of my head.
"A dress," I say.
"What is the color of your dress?" His voice is again like sandpaper, gritty and raw.
"Blue."
"Just like the color of your eyes."
My eyes? He knows the color of my eyes. Then again, I know his are green. I know they're darker when he's at a meeting and in work mode. When he's smiling that sexy, panty-melting smirk, they are lighter with a shimmer of gold.
"I'll bring a few of my blue ties so we can match," he continues. "May I ask what you'll be wearing under the blue dress, or is that against your rules?"
"Pretend."
"Kimbra, I need the ground rules."
"M-my rules are up for discussion."
"I like the sound of that too. Tomorrow, our weekend begins."
With my heart thundering and core now twisting to a painful pinch, I reply, "Tomorrow."
As I disconnect the call, I look up. Shana is watching me from the hallway with a silly smile.
"What?" I ask.
"You're going to be just fine. Forget the fast and enjoy that cannoli. But here's my advice. Don't eat it all in one sitting—savor it."
I shake my head as my cheeks warm from the sting of a full-out blush. "I would suspect that men like to think of their junk as something other than an Italian pastry."
"From what I saw at Gaston's, there is no room for the word junk when describing Duncan Willis."
"Still..."
"I happen to like Italian," Shana says. "And they say London is a mecca for all nationalities. Maybe I'll find myself a nice long, thick cannoli." She laughs as she turns and heads back to her room.
Chapter Eight
Kimbra
The last three days have been hell—or what I imagine that to be.
I've hardly slept or closed my eyes. Every time I do, I see him, think of him, think of me, and think of us. The imaginings have changed, becoming more detailed. Since my conversation with Shana, they now include giant Italian pastries and usually end with us covered in sweet cream and chocolate glaze.
And then I remember the most important part. There is no us.
It's pretend.
Each daydream or night session that may or may not include self-gratification leaves me woefully unsatisfied with an undeniable desire to take the subway to Little Italy and visit the quaint bakery on Mulberry Street.
While cannoli in the city are real, I remind myself that the deal for a plus-one with Duncan is not. That train of thought works well until Duncan—I've been practicing using his first name—does something sweet as he did with his call last night. It wasn't a lot nor did it last long. However, it showed that he was thinking about the weekend. As I try to complete my tasks at work, I can't decide if that's a good or bad thing.
I also can't believe that the one and only time I'll have Duncan Willis to myself will be in my hometown, in my parents' house, surrounded by all my family. Why couldn't Scarlett have decided to have a destination wedding? A hotel room with a beach outside the glass doors would be much better than my childhood bedroom with my mom and dad, brother, and grandmother down the hall.