Best Laid Plans

The vulnerability in her voice. The way she wanted me to know that what we’ve done—and not done—matters to her.

“Do you realize how useful you’d be at the end of the world?” she asks as she picks up the plates at the end of the meal.

I grab them from her and take them to the sink. “That’s random. Why are you asking that?”

“You have real skills. You can put out fires and build them.”

“You think I should become an arsonist at the end of the world?”

“I’m just thinking about the things the ladies at the book club said today.” She turns on the faucet.

“What did they say?”

She tells me about the conversation, and her voice is pitched higher, and that’s when it hits me. She’s nervous.

I move in behind her and turn off the water. “Let’s do the dishes later. Let’s just sit and talk now.”

“About the end of the world?”

I shake my head, grab the bottle of wine along with two glasses, and guide her out of the kitchen and to the living room. We sit on the couch.

“Tell me more about the ladies in the book club.” I pour two glasses and hand her one. She loves talking about work, so this should ease her mind.

She takes a drink. “They’re these bawdy sixty-somethings. They’re funny and bold, but they’re real too. They talk about how they feel and what they think. I love that they read everything from memoirs to romance to dystopian lit.”

“Sounds just like you. You’re an omnivore reader.” I down some of the sparkling wine, and it tickles my tongue.

“That’s true. Maybe that’s partly why I connect with them. But I also do because of their friendships with each other. It reminds me of how I want to be in thirty years.”

“You want to be a bawdy lady in a book club?”

She nods. “I do. I want the people I’m close with now to still be in my life. To still be part of my story.”

Her meaning isn’t lost on me. She’s talking about her girlfriends, but she’s also talking about me. I’m not sure how to give her the reassurance she needs, so I keep it broad.

“You will be. I’ve no doubt about that. No one is writing anyone else out of their story.”

She drinks some more, stares at the window looking thoughtful, then turns back to me. “Sometimes I want to ask the ladies for advice.”

“What would you ask them?”

She lowers her voice to a feathery whisper. “If they think it’s crazy that I want to do a striptease for my best guy friend.”

I laugh, loving the direction she’s heading. “I’ll answer on their behalf.”

“Will you now?”

“The answer is most decidedly no. It’s not crazy.”

She raises her glass, offering a toast. “To friendship. We can stay friends, right? Even if you see me in nearly nothing?”

“I want that badly.” To stay friends and to see her in nearly nothing. The trouble is, I want a third thing too, but I’ve no idea if she does. I’m confident she’s physically in the zone, but I don’t know if her heart is hanging out even remotely in the same vicinity as mine.

She stands, sets down the glass, and tells me she’ll be right back.

And because I know her, I don’t turn on “Pour Some Sugar on Me” or “Back in Black.” Grabbing my phone, I find Norah Jones on Spotify, because it’s sexier, because it’s mood music, and because I’ve heard her play it before.

I lean back against the couch, and soon her shoes echo against the floor. Holy smokes.

The pink dress is gone, and in its place is the black apron with the pink bow. But she’s changed something else too. Her hair is pinned up high on her head in a clip, and she stops in front of me.

Jesus Christ. My throat is dry. Parched, even.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Want a dance?”

“Fuck, yeah.”

She turns around, raises her arms above her head, and sways.

That’s all she does.

No gyrations. No twerking.

She moves her hips back and forth, but it’s not a striptease. It’s more like I’m looking through a peephole, witnessing a woman in her room, dancing alone, her eyes closed, music pulsing in her veins. This dance is more sensual and erotic than I imagined. It’s like I’ve been invited into her private thoughts.

She leans her head back and runs her hands down her sides.

She’s stunning. Her ass wiggles in front of me, but she’s not going for an in-your-face-with-a-G-string move. She’s simply grooving to the music.

“How’s that?” she whispers, tossing her gaze over her shoulder at me.

Our eyes connect, and in hers I see vulnerability and passion at the same damn time.

“It’s so fucking sexy.”

She smiles, and it’s a new kind of smile. Daring and pleased. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Desire charges across my body in sharp, hot spikes as she turns around, bends forward, and places her hands on my knees, giving me a perfect view of the swells of her breasts.

Dear God. Her tits are exactly where I want to bury my face. All night long.

“That’s so incredibly arousing,” I rasp out.

“I know,” she murmurs. She stands tall again and slides her right hand down her breasts toward her legs, and I go up in flames.

She reaches behind her, unties the apron at her neck, and lets the top fall, revealing . . .

A new bra.

This one is white lace, and it’s even better than the last. It suits her. She’s a woman made for white lace.

I lick my lips. I want to be smothered in the lust I’m feeling for her.

She unties the apron at the waist and tosses it at me.

I catch it, laughing, grateful for the momentary relief from the gallons of sexual tension flooding my body and brain.

“Nice catch,” she says.

“I still have some baseball skills.”

“Maybe next time you can show off your other skills. Do a fireman thing. Like a fireman stripper.”

“That can be arranged,” I say as she pivots, giving me a fantastic view once again of her ass, half of her cheeks exposed in her white panties.

She takes a step, looks back at me, then loses her footing. My hands shoot out, and I reach for her as she stumbles into my lap.

The music still plays, but it’s as if the house has gone silent. The quiet enrobes us, wrapping us in decision time.

My hands are cinched on her hips.