She hiccuped, and I laughed silently. “Yes. They did. I wish I could go to Mexico for a week.”
“Me too. Let’s fit that in after skiing and Chicago.”
“Yes! Great idea. And so easily accomplished what with all our spare time.” Another hiccup, and some laughter in the background, followed by shouting I couldn’t decipher.
“Sounds like a good time there.”
“It is. I wish you were here.”
“I was just wishing the same.”
She lowered her voice. “Last night was really fun. I’m so glad we talked.”
“Me too. Guess what?”
Hiccup. “What?”
“I asked my sister to watch Scotty overnight next Saturday.”
“You did?”
“Yes, and she said she’ll do it.”
“Oh my God, that’s awesome!”
“What’s awesome?” I heard someone yell, maybe Skylar. Then, “Everyone look at Jilly’s red face! Is that from the scotch or the conversation? Who are you talking to, Jillian?”
“Oh my God. My sisters are so annoying. Hold on, I’m going into the bathroom.” A minute later, I heard a bang, like a door being shut. “There,” she said. “Now I can talk.”
“What are they annoying you about?”
“They’re teasing me about you. Apparently they can tell by looking at me today what I was up to last night.”
I laughed. “Really.”
“Yes. I am glowing, they said. I clearly got laid.”
“Well, good. I hope.”
“Yes. It is good. So tell me about Saturday. Can you stay over?”
“We’ll have all night.”
I heard a long squeal, ending in a hiccup.
“I’m excited!”
“Me too. What would you like to do?”
“Hmmm. Go out to dinner? Watch a movie? I never did get to watch Shawshank.”
I smiled, but the memory of everything we did on her couch made my cock start to stiffen. “We could try that again.” My fingers hovered near my zipper.
“I could be a good girl this time,” she said coquettishly. “Keep my hands to myself.”
“Jillian Nixon, don’t you fucking dare.”
She laughed throatily. “You know me better than that.”
It made me happy to realize I did.
We talked or texted every day that week, and my anticipation grew so intense you’d have thought I was getting married on Saturday night. By the time I was waiting to be picked up for dinner at seven, the butterflies in my stomach were so frenetic I could have taken flight. And I’d never been the kind of girl that obsessed over what she wore—I knew what worked with my body and what didn’t—but it had taken me all day to decide on an outfit. I’d even consulted my sisters.
“Something sexy,” said Skylar. “You want to knock him out the moment he sees you.”
“Something sweet,” advised Natalie. “You want him to see you as more than just a fling.”
In the end I went with a little of both, pairing a sexy black pencil skirt with a soft, slouchy gray top and a great pair of heels in my favorite shade of red. I was ready ten minutes early and stood peeking out my bedroom window looking for his car. I’d set the scene in my bedroom already—candles on the dresser, clean sheets on the bed, and condoms in the nightstand.
When I saw his car pull up, my heart started to pound. Without waiting for him to knock, I went out the door, and we met on the front walk.
“Hi,” I said, drinking in the sight of him in dark jeans, a white shirt, and a charcoal jacket.
He kissed me, sending a shiver up my spine, and stepped back. “I want to scold you for not letting me collect you properly, but you looked so good running out here to meet me I can’t even do it. Your legs kill me.”
I smiled. “Good.”
We’d decided on sushi at Red Ginger, a restaurant both of us liked, and drove there together in his car.
“I still can’t believe in the last three years that we’ve never run into each other,” I marveled on the ride there, “especially since we like a lot of the same places.”
“I don’t really go out that often. Scotty doesn’t like hot food or sitting still for long periods of time, so eating in restaurants is somewhat challenging.”
“Aha.” I thought for a second. “Actually I don’t either, unless I’m with my sisters or something.”
“What do you normally do for dinner? You mentioned you don’t cook much.”
“I’m embarrassed to admit this, but a lot of nights I eat takeout or leftovers right from the container.”
“Let me guess—standing at the kitchen counter.”
I hid my face. “Guilty. Sometimes I make it to the couch.” I held up one finger. “But I always pour my wine in a real glass. That’s a hard limit for me.”
He laughed. “Of course it is.”
“I do want to cook more often. My mother and sister Natalie are so good at it. Sometimes they bring me what they call ‘mercy meals’ because they feel sorry for me.”
He glanced at me. “Why should they feel sorry for you?”
“Eating dinner late and alone so often sounds sad to them, I guess?” I shrugged. “It’s always been the norm for me, though.”