“I’m not getting a good feeling about this,” she shared.
“I am,” I replied. “Because, listen, like I said, I’ve been thinking on things and after Kent, this is perfect. I mean, I get to feel pretty and funny and spend time with someone that doesn’t have feathers or fur or a mane or isn’t my best friend in all the world. I also get to have unbelievably good sex. When it’s time, he’ll move on and maybe we can still be friends and then maybe he’ll give me discounts on oil changes or something.”
“Did Johnny Gamble perform an invasion of the body snatchers through orgasms this weekend?” she asked.
I grinned at her. “No.”
“This isn’t the Izzy Forrester I know.”
“It’s the Izzy Forrester my mom raised and with what went down with Kent”—and with my dad but Deanna knew all about that so I didn’t have to remind her of it, just myself, so I wouldn’t find another Kent, or another Dad—“this could be the best thing that could happen to me.”
When it looked like she was going to say something, I hurried on and did it quietly.
“I’ll find the guy for me and it won’t be a lunatic like Kent and it won’t be a loser like Addie’s husband. It also won’t be some guy who settles for me, might fall in love with me the way he can, even if most of his heart belongs to someone else. But I’m thirty-one years old, Deanna. Since I can remember, I’ve done everything right. I’ve researched everything, not including Kent, to the point where I’d never put any foot wrong, never make a mistake, never mess up so bad all I worked so hard to get was lost. It’s time now to have a little fun. It’s time now to do something just because it feels good. I know where I stand with Johnny. But I like him and he likes me. I like having sex with him and he wants to have sex with me. So I know where I stand and I’m good with that.”
“Okay then, babe.” She lifted two coral-tipped fingers to her eyes then turned them to me and stated, “But I’ll be watching.”
I grinned again. “I’d expect nothing less. So are you good with changing to Friday?”
“Totally. And looking after your menagerie while you’re camping. And we’re doing lunch this week. I wanna know all about this unbelievably good sex.”
I was still grinning when I replied, “You’re on.” I started to the door, saying, “Gotta get back to work. Lunch tomorrow?”
“I’m in.”
I gave her a wave, left her office and I went back to work.
I’d messed things up.
As I drove up to my house that evening, seeing Johnny lounged in the wicker rocking chair on my front porch, one knee bent, one leg stretched out, two six packs of bottled beer on the deck beside him, his truck parked off to the left so I had a clear view of him, all my calm of understanding where I stood with Johnny Gamble flew out the window and the nerves settled in.
I was late.
And I’d made him wait.
Which was rude.
I kept my eyes on him in a state where I couldn’t let it filter through how good Johnny looked coming out of my wicker rocking chair on my little porch with its pillow festooned porch swing, standing, curlicue, iron candleholders with the crystals floating down, the big and small pots filled with flowers, the amazing fretwork at the corners of the roof supports and in the screen door (it might be crazy, but that fretwork was one of the primary reasons I bought the house).
I had to park, shut down the engine, grab my purse then practically merge with the cushion of the passenger seat while I felt under it for my phone.
I’d called him when I was twenty minutes away, telling him he could show in forty-five and I did this sharing that I was almost home but had to stop for beer.
He told me he’d bring the beer and see me at my place in forty-five minutes.
And then all hell broke loose, part of that hell meaning my phone slipped under my seat so I couldn’t call him and share about said hell, and that I’d be late so he shouldn’t be there in forty-five minutes.
I found my phone, nabbed it, straightened, got out of the car, slammed the door and expertly motored through the gravel of my wide front drive on my spike-heeled pumps toward him now standing and leaning against one of my fretwork festooned posts, staring down at me.
I did this talking.
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. After I phoned, some idiot who looked like he was texting swerved into my lane and I had to swerve to avoid him, and my phone flew across the car, settling under the seat. This means I couldn’t get to it to call and tell you that they set up construction sometime today out on 32 and traffic was backed up forever. Then I had to take a detour that I thought might take me five minutes out of my way but took me twenty minutes out of the way, and now I’m late and you’ve been waiting for me.”
I could hear the dogs barking in the house and I’d made it to the foot of the three steps that led up to it but stopped when I stopped talking and also when I noticed Johnny giving me a top to toe.
“Working girl,” he murmured so low, I almost didn’t hear him.
“What?”
His gaze went from my shoes back to my eyes.
“You a lawyer?” he asked.
I stared up at him.
I’d told him where I worked over margaritas at Home.
“I work at Milo-Corp Data Security and Management. I thought I told you that at Home.”
“You did. Are you a lawyer for them?”
“No, I’m Director of the Data Management Department.”
His lips hitched. “That explains it.”
I was wearing tailored black trousers, which were simple and classic. At the waistband though, I had a trim, shiny gold belt that I found at a vintage clothing store that cost close to nothing but looked like a million bucks.
I was also wearing a black blouse with a slit that fell sideways at the neck but tied in a big bow at the side collar, which even I had to agree was fabulous because it was, but also because I got it on sale (the only way I purchased clothes) but still paid a mint for it.
I further had on a pair of simple, stylish black pumps with a suede upper and a sleek, glossy, slim, tall heel. Shoes that cost a fortune (also on sale) but I took care of them better than many women would take care of their children.
In my life I had to have three wardrobes: casual every day, work around the house and stables, and business attire. I spent as little as possible on all of them even if I worked hard finding pieces that would last and make me feel cute. Or, when it came to work, last, be stylish, and make me look professional and serious even though I was cute as well as young for someone in my position.
I took one step up, murmuring, “I’m sorry I’m late.”
“Iz, your place is only half a notch down from the mill on the scale of sheer awesomeness, so it was no hardship sittin’ here soakin’ all this in,” he told me. “Except I felt bad for your dogs seeing as they’ve been going crazy I ’spect since my truck pulled up.”