I put my hand up as I try not to snort with laughter. “I get it, Camille. Remind me to come to you next time I need a good insult.” I gotta say I never thought of any of the von Trapp kids as such downers, but I’ve been proven wrong. “So, if I’m not a Louisa, who am I?”
“Liesl.”
I can’t help my fist pump at that. “Does this mean no more braids and I get to kiss cute guys?”
She shakes a finger at me but laughs while she’s doing it. “No kissing. No fraternizing with the enemy. And also, no braids.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I lean over the desk and kiss her cheek before thinking to ask, “Was that all?”
She nods. “I’ll have your name tag ready tomorrow.”
“Awesome.” I turn to go and then stop in the doorway for a second. “Camille? Why don’t you already have a Liesl?”
“Who says I didn’t? But we all have to retire sometime, don’t we?” She winks at me, and I laugh out loud, thinking that Rayna may have something there with her suspicions about Camille.
I stop for a bottle of wine and a six-pack of the stout Milo likes on the way home from work. Now that the trade show is over, the customers are much easier to deal with. I swear, it was like they were a bunch of spoiled college kids on spring break, wreaking havoc around town and throwing their cash around like monkeys throw poop. I hope my old motel-mates at the Misty Inn made some good money, at least. When I joked about it with Rayna, she said a customer told her his brother is a bodyguard for the ladies over there, and it’s quite the operation. No pimps involved at all; just a bunch of women running their own small businesses. I was pleased to hear it and figured once they get rid of the druggies and the bedbugs, they might just have something there after all. That is if prostitution is ever legalized in the state. Minor detail.
When I turn the corner onto Milo’s street, lights are still blazing from the windows despite the late hour, and I can’t help the smile spreading on my face. The man might be an infuriating mix of a straight hottie with a bad temper, a killer smile, and an infuriatingly annoying habit of burrowing under my skin, but he’s also fun to hang out with.
“You are looking at the newest sixteen-year-old, non-braid-wearing, sneaking-out-to-make-out-with-her-secret-boytoy, bad-ass server in town!” I announce as I saunter in the front door. “You wanna join me for the braid-destroying ceremony or should we get right to the celebration?” I hold up the wine and beer and walk straight to the living room where Milo is horizontal on the couch with bare feet, track pants, no shirt, and an arm thrown casually behind his head.
My powers of speech evaporate immediately. Holy mother of hotness. If it weren’t for the scars, I’d swear he’s been airbrushed. But he wouldn’t be Milo without the scars, so no airbrushing allowed. All I know is somewhere out there is a swim coach who deserves a Starbucks gift card and a well-written thank-you note.
As if the current view isn’t ovary-imploding enough, he uses his bajillion ab muscles to pull himself to sitting, and it’s only then, as I’m perusing the smorgasbord of hot man before me, that my eyes happen to take a breather at his face and notice he’s staring at me like I just deboarded the train from crazytown. Which, technically, I kind of did since I came from work, but whatever.
All I can think to do is walk over and shove the six-pack at him in a completely awkward and graceless manner.
He grins, and his eyes develop a definite glint of naughtiness. I have the sudden, irrational urge to ask him if he’s been a bad boy and then offer to spank him. Abort! Time to find the corkscrew!
I turn on my heel and walk to the kitchen, careful not to go too fast and reveal my panic.
“I’m gonna need a little clarification on your opening statement. It sounded to me like you opened a dictionary and pressed shuffle.” His voice is getting closer, but I don’t dare turn around. If I do, I might lick him, and how in the hell am I going to explain that?
I hear him stop behind me where I’m tearing at the foil on the wine bottle with my fingernails, and I have to force my hands to slow.
“Jill?”
Get it together, man!
“Present.”
That’s not at all helpful.
I give myself an inner titty-punch and turn around, careful to keep my eyes focused upward at his face. But his brows are pulled together in that way that makes him look so exposed like he did a decade ago when he told me he had to break up with his first girlfriend when she went to juvie. I want to pull his face down to mine and say his name against his lips while his beard tickles my chin and I breathe him in.
“Should you have driven home?”
He thinks I’m drunk. I don’t know whether to feel insulted or relieved. But this is Milo, and this is a night for celebration. “I’m not drunk. Not yet, at least.” I hold up the mangled bottle. “I’m celebrating because Camille promoted me to Liesl!”
His face relaxes back into a smile, and he takes the bottle from me. “I have no idea what that means, but congratulations. And thanks for the beer.”
“I couldn’t celebrate alone, and you don’t strike me as a wine guy.”
“Let me pour you a glass.” He finishes opening the bottle and grabs a glass from the cabinet.
I watch his naked biceps shift and tighten with the movements and manage to refrain from asking him to show me his manly armpit again. Just trust me. I accept the offered glass when he’s done, and while he fetches a beer from the living room, I chug half of it down.
“To you.” Milo extends his bottle, and I clink my glass to it. “And to getting all the great things you deserve.”
He’s getting all sweet on me again, and I’m not sure what I’m going to do about it. Chances are I’ll find a way to fuck it up, but for now I just say, “Thanks, Milo.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
MILO
“And that’s why you should never, ever, trust a guy wearing suspenders.” Jill stabs the air with a finger and tips her wine glass to her lips, swallowing the last sip.
She’s adorable as hell when she’s tipsy. I thought so the other night, but this is next level. She’s just finished her third glass, and this is probably a good stopping point, so I tuck the bottle behind my deck chair in case she decides to go back for a refill. I shove aside the thought that’s been surfacing over the last hour—that I may never be able to enjoy this deck again after she leaves. It’s best to focus on the present instead.
“Thanks for the warning. I’ll remember that next time I run into Larry King,” I tell her.
She sets her empty glass on the table and throws her hands up. “See! You just proved the rule. That guy’s been married more times than I’ve internet-stalked David Gandy. ‘She married me for my personality’ my ass. News flash: A thirty-year-old woman doesn’t find your pervy stories funny. She’s just waiting for a blood clot to work its way loose.”
I bite my cheek to keep from laughing at her. “Don’t hold back on my account,” I manage to say.
“See. You get me.” She leans back in her chair and sighs.