He was speechless. That’s how good I looked. I was posilutely delighted with my seduction.
He pushed me back just a little so he could look at me. His eyes scanned down my chest, down to the cotton boyshort underwear below.
“What? What’s wrong?” The way he kept looking at me was flattering, but I wanted him touching me, and he wasn’t. Maybe his cut still hurt?
He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, I’m just. It’s your outfit. It’s…distracting.”
The Amazon goddess inside me preened. “You should be taking it off,” I said in the most sultry voice I could manage.”
“Right.” He nodded. He started to reach behind me to undo my bra, then stopped. “I’m sorry. I can’t. I mean.” Gently, he nudged me off his lap. “What the hell are you… what are you even wearing?”
“You don’t think it’s sexy?” I knew he was more of the academic type, but everyone loved Wonder Woman. Everyone! It was science.
Well. Apparently Marc didn’t because he said, “Not really.”
Not really? Not really?!
I could feel myself growing red, my blush rising up my chest, then my neck. By the time it reached my cheeks, I’d harnessed my humiliation and turned it into rage. This was not my fault. I was not the reason we couldn’t seem to complete a proper one-night stand.
“Okay, you see this?” I asked pointing my finger back and forth between us. “This is you. It was you the other night all along,” I said, angrily grabbing the dress off the floor.
Marc’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“You weren’t hard then, and you aren’t hard now. There’s a problem here, and it isn’t me!”
He shot up from the chair. “What are you talking about? You’re wearing a six-year old’s Halloween costume. If I were hard right now, you should be deeply concerned.”
I drew in a sharp breath. I might be small in stature, but I’d legit bought this underwear from the adult section of Warner Brother’s online store. It was a grownup size.
“Well—well—“ I searched for something equally insulting to tell him. “You smell like a six year old girl, so there, Mr. Rose Hibiscus.”
“That was an old scent. How’d you know about that one? I thought I’d thrown out the bottle. Anyways, you know that’s my mother’s business.”
I didn’t lower myself to answer that I’d noticed it in the trash can and given it a test-sniff.
“That doesn’t mean you have to wear it. It’s kind of a turn-off.” Which was a lie. Marc could wear old bath water and still be hot. But he didn’t have to know that.
He rolled his eyes. “Oh for Pete’s sake. I held your hair while you puked in my toilet and you’re going to talk about how I smell?”
“That’s not fair! We’d had a lot of liquor.”
“Which was exactly why I’d passed out the night before.”
Fair point. He could have that one. “Fine,” I said. “It was the alcohol. But we didn’t do any better yesterday.”
“Well.” He scratched at the back of his neck. “That was really all your fault.”
“What? How can you possibly blame that on me?” There was no way I could be pinned with that catastrophe. Was there?
He pointed a finger at me. “You stepped on my pants while I was trying to take them off.”
“You were trying to take them off over your boots—”
“I do it all the time by myself,” he huffed.
“And maybe you should keep doing it by yourself.” Nice one, Madison.
“I’m certainly not doing it with you!” He looked just as annoyed as I felt, but he was not about to get the last word.
“Fine!” I yelled creatively.
“Fine!” He yelled back.
I turned around and stomped to my bedroom, slamming the door behind me. A second later I heard his door slam shut too. He’d gotten the last word after all.
I threw myself on my bed, hugging my knees to my chest and chewed on my lip trying to stop the tears. I would not cry over him. I would not cry over him. I tried to hold on to the annoyance, but it dissolved into the hurt.
My fault, indeed! He was just as responsible as me. Yet I was the one spurned, wearing a Wonder Woman outfit and sniffling in my bed.
After a while of not-crying over Marc, I decided I’d be much less miserable with wine. I could maybe even draw this up for my sweet new sitcomic. He’d be killed off at the end, of course. Only a couple episodes in, but oh well. Maybe my heroine could just get herself a new screwmate. I stopped in the bathroom to blow my nose and clean up my smudged mascara. Then, as quietly as possible, I opened my door and peered down the hall.
His door was still shut. Good.
I snuck out of my room and slipped into the kitchen.
And found Marc already in there.
He’d popped open the wine already—my wine—and was sipping what looked like his first glass. When he saw me, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he turned to the bottle and poured a second glass.
Then he held it out in my direction, like a sort of peace offering.
I paused for only a beat before crossing to him. Wordlessly, I took the glass and nodded my thanks.
I knew I should apologize. But I wasn’t about to take all the blame. I took a swallow, leaned back against the counter next to him and stared at my feet. Casually.
A minute passed. Then another.
I heaved a sigh. Time for me to be the adult. Again. Adulting was so overrated. “Maybe…” I said, trailing off.
Marc lifted his head and cocked his head, giving me his full attention.
“Are we both bad at sex?” I asked tentatively.
“Seduction,” he corrected quickly. “Maybe we’re both bad at seduction. Not bad at sex.”
“Right. Because we haven’t gotten far enough to evaluate the sex,” I said, bitterly.
He looked about ready to refute me, but it was true, so what could he refute?
It was Marc’s turn to sigh. He took another sip of the wine. “Now this is apricot.”
“And vanilla,” I muttered. Only a few days in and already the descriptors were becoming obvious.
He picked up the bottle. “Citrus and strawberry,” he read.
“Really?” I was extremely surprised.
“Really. We’re apparently really bad at wine too.” He was smiling when our eyes met. His gaze was soft and warm, even after everything we’d said.
“Look,” he said, pivoting toward me, giving me another heart-stopping view of his perfect body and cheeky grin. “I can’t go on a bangcation like this. I need to know my wines, and I have to be oozing seduction. Parisian girls will have no patience for a bumbling guy who can’t tell an apricot from an apple.”
I shifted so I was facing him, too. Something told me his curls and smile would overcome quite a bit, but I wasn’t going to say it out loud. “And I’ll never date again if I’m always this awkward.”
“I can definitely see how it would be a problem.”
I gasped. “Dick.” I mean, it was true, but he didn’t have to be so agreeable.
“I’m commiserating,” he clarified. “I’m just as much of the problem as you are.”
“Okay, okay.” I took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. He’d been going somewhere with this, and if he was thinking the same thing I was thinking…“So. Should we…?” Could we?