Sweet Sinful Nights

“What did you learn?” she said in an instantly playful tone.

“Those temporary tattoos last at least two days.”

She laughed. “Admit it. You just haven’t showered since Friday.”

He heaved an exaggerated sigh. “You’re right. It’s because I couldn’t bear to wash off the scent of you lusting over me.”

She cracked up. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And so is this mustache you gave me. Remind me to never ever grow one because I look stupid as hell like this. You, on the other hand, are hot in a purple wig.”

“Why thank you. I do have mad Photoshop skills, don’t I?”

“Could be another career path for you,” he said, parking his free hand behind his head, thinking how fucking epic it was to slide right back into this kind of chatter with his woman. He savored the kind of easy connection they had. It was part and parcel of why he’d fallen so quickly for her in college, and why he’d been absolutely certain he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

They clicked.

On every level.

In every single way.

“How was your day?” she asked, and it was such a simple question, such a couple question, and it made his heart nearly trip out of his chest. “How did the meeting go?”

The fact that she asked about work, especially since his work had come between them before—hell, it came between them last night—meant the world to him. He recounted his meeting with Alan, from the guy’s admiration for the ball-shaving bit all the way to the fiancée comment. “If I showed up at this picnic with a pregnant woman or a baby in tow, I’d be a slam dunk,” he said, with a laugh.

He was met with silence on the other end of the phone.

Dead silence. Shit. Maybe he was pushing things too far by even saying something that suggested babies, or pregnancy, or being more serious than they were. He sat up straight. “You still there, Shan?”

“Sorry,” she said in a quiet voice, sounding strained. Her reaction didn’t compute for him, but then he didn’t have the benefit of looking her in the eyes. Besides, it was a weird comment from Alan. “Sorry they’re giving you such a hard time,” she added.

He settled into the soft covers on the bed. “Yeah, but what can you do? I need New York. The location is perfect, and New York is the centerpiece of our expansion plans. I just have to jump through his hoops.”

“It’s silly what they’re focusing on. Like, that’s what makes a difference in whether they approve you,” she said harshly, now switching from the odd distance of a minute ago to a controlled anger. “It’s your character. It’s who you are. It’s how you treat people. That’s what matters. Not whether you have children or a wife, or whether you swear or don’t swear. Or tell jokes about everything that goes wrong with shaving your balls.”

“Couldn’t agree more, but I need to play their game.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m not a twenty-something guy, obviously, and I happened to think that joke was epic,” she said.

His ears perked. “You did? That bit was two years ago. I didn’t think you’d seen it.”

Her voice turned flirty. “I might have caught up on some of your greatest hits recently. You’ve always cracked me up.”

Pride suffused him. He’d made millions laugh, but she was the one whose laugher he craved the most. “That’s awesome. I love that you have a dirty sense of humor.”

“Like a twenty-something guy,” she said. “Though, I’m especially glad that it’s just a joke. Because you’d look silly with a Mohawk down there.”

A grin spread across his face. “See? I’m telling you. You can’t shave your own balls or you wind up with a comb-over or a Mr. T style ’do, and neither one is attractive,” he said, and there it was—the sweet sound of her laughing once more. “So what about you? Did you spend the day getting pampered at the Luxe?”

She sighed, and in that wistful sound he sensed her no before she even said it. “I really wanted to, but Ryan called, and I had to see him, because…” She stopped to take another breath. “We need to visit my mom at the end of the month.”

He sat up straight, pressed the phone more firmly to his ear as if that would bring him closer to her. He felt like a schmuck for having bitched about something as small as whether the neighborhood association liked him. “Tell me more.”

*

She gave Brent the details as she paced around her kitchen table, her edginess returning.

“Why do you think she saw a lawyer?”

“I have no idea. Brent, she’s crazy. Prison made her crazy,” she said, as she stopped at the fridge and found an open bottle of chardonnay.