I admired him as he continued to look at the painting. In expressing his feelings about the artwork, he’d exposed an intellectual side of himself that I hadn’t seen yet. It may have been his most attractive quality.
I reveled in his words while he appreciated the faceless girl in the red dress. Eventually, he turned to face me.
“I’m going to lower my umbrella,” I said.
He flashed what could have been perceived as a smile. “I don’t own one.”
It was obvious that he ran into the face of the storm regardless of the forecast. I smirked at his remark. “I’m sure you don’t.”
He gestured toward the door with a wrench. “Let’s go have a look at your couch.”
Side by side—and without small talk—we meandered to my home. Emotionally crushed by his lack of expressed interest in me, I opened the door and gestured inside.
He walked past me and lowered himself to the floor. He rolled up his sleeves and surveyed the damage. “This should just take a minute.”
Unwilling to accept my fate as being nothing more than a needy neighbor, I knelt at his side. I strategically positioned myself to give him an unobstructed view of my new push up bra.
He didn’t so much as look in my direction.
Knowing more is always better, I unbuttoned one more button on my blouse while he was distracted.
He offered not so much as a glance.
In a last-ditch effort to gain his interest, I leaned over so far that I nearly toppled to the floor. I braced myself to keep from falling.
He stood and dusted off his sleeves. “Well, I guess that’s it.”
I wanted him to want me as much as I wanted him. With my face was covered in cheap mascara, my blouse unbuttoned to my navel, and my hair a mess, it wasn’t going to happen.
My plan was backfiring.
I’d lured him to the home with lies and deception. It was time for me to face the facts. I looked like an idiot and he wasn’t interested.
He handed me the stack of hardback books I’d left on the floor beneath the couch. “I’m guessing you were trying to stabilize the couch with these?”
“Yes,” I lied, setting the books aside. “I was.”
He picked up his tools and took a look around.
His strengths went well beyond his bulging biceps, big cock, and broad chest. A glass of wine and thirty minutes of small talk would be much better than a phony couch repair and an immediate departure.
Willing to accept whatever I could get, I decided to strike up some idle chat and go from there.
“This place is a lot different than yours,” I said, glancing from one wall to the other. “Not as bright and open.”
“Mine looked like this when I bought it,” he replied. “I spent three months turning it into what it is now.”
Hoping to lure him to the wine, I stepped into the hallway and turned toward the kitchen. “I can’t believe you got a contractor to do all that work in three months. I called last week about having the upstairs bathroom remodeled and I was told it would be six months before they could come look at it.”
“I did it myself.”
I spun around. “All of it?”
“Every bit.”
“Of course you did,” I said with a laugh.
His eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”
“You’re like a superhero.”
“Which superhero?”
“Not any of the ones who exist.” I folded my arms under my chest, and then realized I was shoving what little exposed breast flesh I possessed out the top of my unbuttoned blouse. I acted like I didn’t know. “You’re a new one altogether.”
He gave me a curious look. “What’s my name?”
“I don’t know,” I responded. “I like The Gray Fox, but it’s not descriptive enough and it’s kind of cliché.”
“The Gray Fox?” He laughed. “That’s a good one.”
“Captain Cockstrong,” I said. “How’s that? You’d wear a tight-fitting red spandex bodysuit with two overlapping C’s on your chest. One end of each letter would be shaped like the head of a dick.”
His brows pinched together. “Isn’t cockstrong a term that’s used to describe someone who is strong because of testosterone buildup due to lack of sexual activity?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Probably. I just liked how it sounded.”
“Captain Cockstrong would achieve his superpower from abstinence,” he explained. “You should probably pick something else.”
His comment should have struck me as playful or cute. Instead, it struck a nerve.
I shot him a glare. “Are you promiscuous?”
He scratched his beard. “I could be described as such, yes.”
My face flushed hot. Other than voluntarily providing details of my two-year hiatus from sex, we hadn’t discussed our sexual activities. I now wished I hadn’t said a word. Nevertheless, he’d admitted to being nothing short of a pig.
I raised my brows in false wonder. “Oh, really?”
“I told you I was ugly when it came to relationships,” he replied. “I wasn’t lying.”
I pressed my hands to my hips. “Being ugly in a relationship has nothing to do with sexual promiscuity.”
“I tried marriage once,” he said, seeming to recall the experience. “I have no business in a relationship. Knowing that about myself allows me to be honest when it comes to sex. I told you it was a one-time thing between us. I didn’t lie to you.”
“I didn’t accuse you of it,” I snapped back.
He looked me up and down. “Why are you pissed off?”
“I’m not,” I huffed.
“Are you sure?” he asked, looking me up and down. “Because I don’t want you to be.”
Wine and small talk was out of the question. Walking away before I developed feelings for him was the only answer. Anything more, and I’d only be hurt.
“I’m fine.” I hurried to the door and snatched it open. “Thanks for fixing the couch. I appreciate it.”
“I don’t want to leave if you’re mad.”
“I’m not mad,” I insisted.
He gave me a look of disbelief. “You’re sure?”
I stepped to the side. “Positive.”
He offered a shallow nod and turned away. “I’ll take your word for it,” he said. “Have a nice night, Anna.”
I watched him saunter away. Each step he took was a reminder that he had no interest in indulging my sexual desires. When he disappeared behind the shrubbery that separated our yards, I closed the front door and locked it.
My hands balled into fists. I turned toward the kitchen. Despite the outward appearance of my clenched teeth, white knuckles, and mascara-covered face, I wasn’t mad.
I was disappointed.
Braxton
Monday mornings were filled with phone calls and cryptic text messages from clients who made regretful choices over the weekend. Presented with an opportunity to make $80,000 before the sun went down, I silenced my phone and slipped it into my pocket.
“She needs to be brought to my office as promptly as practicable,” Crenshaw explained. “Following her safe removal from the home, her male friend needs to be made aware that avoiding her in the future will be paramount in assuring his continued existence on this earth.”