"That was six months ago. Oh my Lord," she continues without taking a breath. "Tell me you're not single again! I was afraid this was why you weren't giving me his measurements. Why didn't you tell me? You know your aunt and uncle paid for a sit-down dinner. The reception is at the Hyatt. It's very fancy, place settings with real silverware and everything. Oh dear Lord in Heaven, don't tell me that I have to tell them you don't have a plus-one. I know! I can call Darrin. Do you want me to call him?"
Nothing like a little down-home guilt. I take a deep breath and tap the microphone of my Bluetooth. "No. Not Darrin. I-I'm...said...see...going...Thursday...rental car..." I say as I disconnect the call.
One day she's going to catch on.
In the meantime, I'm going to bask in the reprieve.
I told her...well, I tried to tell her.
My thoughts fill with the details of my upcoming trip of disgrace. I need to book a flight and a rental car. I need to buy a dress. If only my plus-one was as easy. I practice my responses in my head. "Children? No, not yet....no, no dog either...Married? No...Yes, I'm sure he's out there somewhere too...Yes, I suppose I'm sort of married to my job...." And then there's the abundance of disapproving looks from my aunt, grandmother, and mother as I sit in my assigned seat at the reception next to an empty chair or next to Darrin McKinney, Indiana's shoe king.
Maybe if I call Aunt Laura now, she can move me to the kids' table. Or I could get one of those blow-up, life-sized dolls.
I half giggle, half grimace as I make my way along the street to the building where I work at a real job. When I enter the lobby of the building that houses the offices of Buchanan and Willis, my mind is hundreds of miles away. Out of habit, I squeeze my way into the coffee shop.
"Caffè vanilla light frappuccino. Venti," I say while making mental notes: it's Monday. I need to be in Indiana on Thursday. I haven't asked for time off or bought a dress or ordered a blow-up date. My mind's a blur as the barista hands me my coffee and I turn, bumping right into him.
"Shit!" I say louder than I intend.
"Miss Jones."
I look up from the steaming coffee that managed to mostly stay within the confines of the cup—thank God for lids—and stare as some trickles down my hand and a small drop lands on my white blouse. My gaze goes to the floor. In front of me are those same shiny, dark leather shoes. My eyes move upward: his dark blue slacks that narrow at his waist. I suck in a breath at the way his suit coat hangs from his broad shoulders. Finally, our eyes meet.
Gritting my teeth, I force a smile. "Mr. Willis." I search his suit for evidence of our collision. "Did I..." I motion with a tip of my head.
Mr. Willis grins his panty-melting smirk. His deep voice drowns out the crowd. "Near miss, I believe. No harm, no foul. Have a good day, Miss Jones." And then he steps around me.
Shit.
A week ago, I was on my knees in front of Duncan Willis at a high-end restaurant. Now I'm bumping into him at the coffee shop. In general, I'm not a klutz; however, I doubt I could convince him of that.
First my mom and now this.
Can this day get any worse?
Not that any of that matters.
Shaking my head, I make my way to the elevator. Minutes later I walk the length of the hall and large room to my cubicle. Leaving my cup of coffee on my desk, I decide that before anything else, I should attempt to save my blouse. Maybe if I can wash the coffee stain away, my day will begin to look up.
Not wanting to strip to my lacy bra in front of half my female coworkers, I turn down a less-used hallway to a smaller employee bathroom, one with only two stalls.
Any other day I'd be irate about the coffee. After all, this is one of my favorite outfits, a white silk blouse, navy pencil skirt, big red chunky necklace, and red high-heeled, fuck-me pumps. It would seem like the shoes would be uncomfortable, but surprisingly they aren't. Besides, I love the way they accent the red. With everything else that's happening, sadly today the spilled coffee seems to rank lower on my list of concerns.
Stripping out of my blouse, I look at my reflection in the mirror and shake my head.
"Nice entrance, Kimbra," I murmur. "Face the fact. It's going to be you and Darrin McKinney or Mr. Blow-up, or..." I say with all the sarcasm I can muster. "... maybe you can sit at the kids' table. You've put it all off for too long. You are out of options."
My chest heaves with the crushing weight of my impending fate. My white lace bra barely contains my DD breasts as I attempt to fill my lungs with a strengthening breath. Carefully, I lower my blouse under a cool stream of water. As I gently rub the stain, the spot begins to fade.
Things begin to look up, until...
"Yes, in here..." A woman's voice coos near the bathroom door.
Shit!
"Of course," I mumble, clenching my damp blouse to my bare stomach and quietly slipping into one of the stalls. As I shut the door, the outside door crashes open.
"O-oh," the female voice pants. "Y-yes. Let me show you."
I shake my head. Really? It isn't bad enough that I have the whole mother-wedding thing and I nearly showered Mr. Willis with my hot coffee, now I get to listen to two people getting it on in a bathroom.
"A-ah, God..."
Silently, I sit on the toilet and hold my wet blouse on my lap. I might as well get comfortable and try to ignore what's happening beyond the stall.
I could hum, but it might not be their song. I could try to think about something else. What color dress would I like to buy?
"Oh. Oh!"
Should it be short or long? Sleeves or no?
"Y-yes..."
It's only the woman who's speaking.
Though my mind is doing its best to ignore the audible and disturbingly erotic scene, my body isn't following suit. My breathing quickens as I force myself to imagine dresses suitable for an Indiana spring wedding.
What are Scarlett's colors? I try to remember. My diversionary tactics aren't working.
The commotion beyond the stall becomes louder. More sounds...more breathing.
Holy shit! Whoever they are, they're going at it.
My wrist vibrates, alerting me to emails or text messages. Ignoring that, I notice it's only a little after eight in the morning. I'm not a prude. I'm not against morning sex, just not in the company bathroom!
The breathing gets heavier. Groans.
My core clenches and mind wavers between sweet bliss and indignation.
I should stop this. I work in HR. What is happening outside this stall is definitely against company policy. And at the same time, it's hot as shit. Besides, I can't exactly run out in my bra and yell stop! Maybe this is the diversion I need from my sucky life. This will give me something to fantasize about during my upcoming shitty weekend.
I close my eyes and visualize the scene to go along with the sounds.
I haven't heard the man's voice yet, just his breathing.
From beneath the stall the female's legs bend. Blue pumps and a skirt come into view as she falls to her knees.
Oh shit! "No!" I scream mentally.
The sound of a zipper echoes throughout the tile bathroom.
"Don't do it," I plead mentally. "Don't do it."
My mind may be disapproving, but the hotter it gets, the more my body agrees. I'm a little ashamed to admit, the sounds alone are turning me on. Wetness builds between my legs as I give in and allow my imagination to take over. Before I realize what I'm doing, I'm squeezing my thighs together, tighter and tighter.