A Fine Mess (Over the Top) (6 page)

What?

What? What? What?

I mimic him and chug half my wine, hoping the buzz will help me tune out the moisture developing in places long dormant. As relieved as I am he didn’t have sex on the airplane, turbulence rocks my mind. I can’t tell if he’s trying to be cryptic, or if he really thinks he made things clearer. Anyone else and I’d fumble over my words, unable to voice my confusion. But this is Sawyer. “I really don’t. We’re closer than other couples I know, so if the attraction is there, if you’re struggling, too, I don’t get it. Is it the timing? Because it’s so soon after Kevin?”

I probably shouldn’t push things. My urge to shop has spiked the past week, the strangeness of my new life eased with each purchase. I kept the extent of my compulsion from Kevin, but Sawyer is different. When I pick at my nail polish, he badgers me until I explain why I’m stressed. If I take too long to order lunch, he does his pros-and-cons thing. He’s not one to let those moments go or ignore my quirks, and he can’t ever know about the farm.

But my heart’s too wrapped up in him to worry about what-ifs.

He swishes his glass, the ice twirling in a circle. “It’s not Kevin. For as long as I’ve known you, you haven’t been into him.” Another swirl, then a sad smile. “You’re a relationship girl, Lil. You want the whole package, which is cool. It’s just not who I am. We’re too close for us to sleep together and for it to mean nothing. It would hurt you when I don’t want more. So, yeah, I’d kill to touch you, and it’s messing with my mind”—his eyes flash in an unfamiliar way—“but I wouldn’t be okay with the fallout.”

I’m about to open my mouth and claim he’s wrong, that I can totally do casual, anything to taste his lips. If I could experience that, I’d suggest a fling. If I could have that, I’d throw caution to the wind. As long as it’s us: me and Sawyer. But the
us
in the thought stops me.

Because he’s right.

I’ll always want more—the bond and commitment and everything that comes with intimacy. I’ve tried to play off my feelings as a crush, but one look from him lifts my mood, each touch burns through me. If we got together, and he pushed me away, my shopping spree this week would be the tip of the iceberg.

I sip my wine. I swallow. I allow the knowledge to sink in. Still, I don’t want to lose him in my life. “So, what do we do? How do we get rid of the weird?”

He taps his chin. “I can do the worm, and if someone gives me a hat, I can spin on my head. But they have to play Run-D.M.C.”

I laugh at the visual, the tense mood lightening. “Bad idea. You’d ruin your hair.” And it is good hair—clipped short on the sides and longer up top, messy but neat. Like he’s just stepped out of bed and dragged his hands through it.

“Fine point. How about an outing, then? Just the two of us, like normal. I have a superfun family Christmas party coming up and need gifts for my nieces. You free tomorrow afternoon?”

“Yes.” The answer spills out. If we stay friends, we have to work through this tension. Plus he’s my employer, and I love my job. Given time I’ll get over him. Given time the weirdness will dissipate. Still, my heart squeezes.

He clinks our glasses together. “See? We can do this. Both of us single. Just friends. Nothing’s changed. I need to spend time with the team, but I’ll text you tomorrow. Maybe you can take me to one of those vintage stores you like.”

I chew my lip, unsure that’s a smart idea. But the urge to spend time with him is too strong. It’ll have to be a different shop, one I don’t frequent. No employees to recognize and comment on my purchases. “Okay. I’ll find a cool store.”

“Tomorrow it is.” He turns around, and I watch his backside as he makes his way into the party, the hint of muscle behind his denim mouthwatering. Muscle I’ll never touch.

Shay slams her drink on the bar before I can blink. “Men are idiots.”

I glance over her shoulder and meet Kolton’s stormy gaze. “What happened?”

“The Asshole bought me a car.”

“A car?”

“A car.”

“Like, full size?”

Her nostrils flare. “I know, right? It’s ridiculous. I told him I’d get one eventually, but I wanted to wait. His house is in a great area by a bus line. I was excited about exploring Vancouver on foot, but he was all freaked out I’d feel trapped. It’s like he needs to solve all my problems.”

“Will you make him return it?”

She growls and flicks her curly hair. “I don’t know. The man drives me crazy. But enough about my first-world problems, why was Sawyer dancing like an extra from
High School Musical
?”

I unleash my sleep apnea snorting sound. “He was trying to make things less weird between us.”

“Seriously?”

I nod.

She spins and gawks at him, as though confirming his insanity. He has a few of his staff in stitches, probably telling them about the time he hooked Kolton’s hair on a fishing line. He loves that story.

She swivels back to me. “Did it work?”

“A bit.” The corseted waitress brushes by him again, and I roll my long necklace through my fingers, pausing on each bead as its story unfolds:
A girl alone at prom, her date flirting with someone else.
“He apologized, too,” I add. “He admitted he’s attracted to me”—her mouth drops open—“
but
he doesn’t want to act on it. He knows I’d want more.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“Did he say why he’s antirelationship?”

“No, but I think it’s because of his family. Most of them are divorced, and he’s never gone into detail, but something heavy happened with his mom when his dad left.” A couple of times, I’ve glimpsed darkness under Sawyer’s happy exterior. A scar left behind from his youth. It happens when his father comes up—a flattening of his mouth, shadows in his eyes. I take the cues and change the subject, but my curiosity is often piqued. Especially now, since his past is keeping us apart.

“I can’t fault him for that. As hard as it must’ve been to hear, at least he’s honest. If he slept with you and then dicked you over, it would hurt a lot more,
and
I’d have to kill him.” A waitress passes with a tray of red velvet cake pops, and Shay grabs two. She moans after her first bite. “God, these are good. You should try one.”

I shake my head. “Not hungry.”

“Anyway,” she says, pointing her other treat at me, “
you’re
still single. What about Ethan? He looked pretty handsy with you, and he’s cute. I thought Sawyer’s head was going to explode watching you guys.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I’m not ready. Ethan is nice, but I have to get over this Sawyer thing before I date, which is totally messed up. I just broke up with my boyfriend of eleven years, and it’s my friend of nine months I’m upset over.” Frowning, I pick at my cuticles.

She licks her last Popsicle stick clean and puts it on the bar. “There are no rules. No right or wrong when it comes to the heart. You do you, and forget about the rest. Personally, I—” She stops midsentence and cocks her ear toward the speakers above the bar. “No he didn’t…”

Van Morrison’s “Sweet Thing” plays, a shift from the funky beats.

Kolton’s wooing song.

I’ve made her retell that story countless times: how after they broke up, he apologized for pushing her away and promised to support her newfound independence, while this song played in the background.

He comes up behind her and whispers in her ear. Shay’s cheeks burn the color of her Merlot, and she places her glass down.

When he walks away, she grabs my wrist. “Mind if I take off?”

Like I could stop her. “That man knows how to apologize.”

She winks at me.

By the time Shay turns, Kolton’s near the alcove that leads to the bathrooms. She follows him, her tight jeans and red tank top hugging her curves with each step. I don’t know what it is with them and public places, but they certainly are passionate.

My mind shoots back to Sawyer and his mention of
dirty things
. Would he whisper sexy nothings in my ear? Tell me what he’s pictured since we met? Would he be rough or gentle? Demanding or giving? Although the girls he dates know the score, many try to tie him down. I’ve heard the stories, listening, breath held, as Kolton teased Sawyer. Each detail nipped at me like mosquito bites, sharp, irritating. An itch that would last a while, then disappear. The gist, though, the theme of the unwelcome tales, was that Sawyer left these women wanting more.

Wanting him.

Unfortunately, I’ll never know how naughty he can be.

As Lily and I walk down the sidewalk, barely speaking, I realize I should’ve chosen break dancing over an outing. Now that she knows I want to ravage her like the animal I am, our weirdness has mutated into the Godzilla of sexual tension. Normally, I’m a fan of foreplay. The divot behind a knee, the curve of a woman’s hip—if treated properly, every inch is an erogenous zone. That road goes both ways. If a woman slides her nails down my thighs or licks my nipples, she’ll have me at attention faster than a marine.

Spending time with Single Lily works me up more than girl-on-girl porn, without the happy ending.

I’ve tried to rethink my stance. Figure out a way to be with Lily and remain friends. If we could make that work, I’d take her home and suck a path over her ribs, roll my tongue around each finger, taste the length of her neck. I’d bury my face in her pussy.

But actions have consequences, so this skin flick is a no-go.

Intermittent snowflakes drift down as we hunch forward to battle the wind and cold. The snow disappears when it hits the gray sidewalk, gray clouds and gray buildings punctuating the somber day.

Gray.

Gray, gray, gray.

The world reflects Lily’s eyes.

She walks beside me, her red pea coat a shock of color against the ashen backdrop. She points across the street at our destination, and we wait for a break in traffic.

She stomps her feet. “God, it’s cold.”

I cross my arms instead of pulling her against me to warm her up. “Freezing.”

My nuts agree. Subzero temperatures do nothing good for a man’s confidence. No matter what Eva Lamont says, I’m perfectly well-endowed where it counts. Unfortunately, when your two best friends hold you down and shove snow in your pants before you strip and jump into a hot tub, your dick runs for cover.

Lily progresses from stomping to dancing on the spot. “I can’t wait to go away.”

I contemplate doing the running man. “Away?”

“You know, Belize. The trip I booked with Kevin. I leave on the twenty-sixth.”

Shit. Belize. She asked me for destination suggestions a while ago, a “special” spot for her and Kevin’s anniversary. After I stopped imagining all the places I could hide Kevin’s body (superpower wish: become the Hulk), I mentioned Belize—a kick-ass snorkel and dive spot I’d always wanted to visit. I pictured Lily in a white bikini, running through the water like some sexy perfume ad, while Kevin, the man-child, was stuck in their room burned to a crisp.

“I figured you’d cancel. Who’s going with you?”

Traffic doesn’t cease, so she dances faster. “No one. I’m going on my own.”

Revamped fantasy: me dragging her to the sand as waves lap at our feet.

Self-control alert.

When I grazed my lips against her ear last night, she caught her breath. She shivered. She was a live wire ready for action.

And I stepped away.

I don’t often deny myself. I see a rare comic, I buy it. A girl catches my attention, I seal the deal. I spent a shit-ton of money to hang a samurai sword in my loft, because…
samurai sword
. This thing with Lily is testing my willpower.

Her body quakes then, a shiver running from head to toe. Unable to stand by while she acquires frostbite, I grab her elbow and haul her in front of me. I pull her back against my chest and wrap my arms around her. It feels as good as always—the fit of her body tucked into mine. I still want to explore the length of her, every sexy inch, but I could stay here, too. Wrapped together while the cold whips around us. Then her ass presses into my groin, and I have to restrain myself from grinding into her.

Self-control at DEFCON 3.

“Why didn’t you cancel?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer. Her breathing halts. I hug her tighter, my chin resting on her black knit hat. She sighs. “It was too late to get my deposit back, and I think it’ll be good for me. It’s been a rough week.”

Crunching tires overpower her last words, but I hear them.

A rough week, because of me.

My plan was to keep my distance last night, avoid my usual teasing games. Enter Ethan fucking Goldstein. I like the dude, and he’s a great manager, but I’m not one for sharing. Finn’s favorite childhood story is the one where I turned the local sandbox into a WWE ring. Some pudgy kid wanted to play with my Tonka truck. He asked once, I said no. He tried to pull it away, and I slapped his hand, chanting, “Mine, mine, mine.” The little shit was persistent. When he came my way again, I clotheslined the fucker and sat on his chest, a final
mine
spit on his face.

Last night, when Ethan’s hand slid toward Lily’s ass, all I could picture was me spear-launching into the guy, followed by a pile driver or vertical suplex, anything to knock him out cold, my WWE title reclaimed. Because:
mine, mine, mine
. Instead I coaxed Lily away and told her the truth. Now I want her more, and it’s making things harder for both of us. Still, I’m not sure a beautiful girl going to a strange place on her own is the solution.

“You sure it’s safe?” I ask.

She stops shivering and nestles deeper into my chest. “Yeah. San Pedro Island is pretty touristy. I’m looking forward to it,” she adds with less conviction.

I know Lily too well to believe her. The quiver in her voice has nothing to do with the temperature. The way her shyness takes over at times, a trip like this isn’t exactly in her wheelhouse. Who am I to stop her, though?

An Audi drives by, the last of a line of cars. She disentangles herself from me, grabs my hand, and drags me across the street. We push into a shop crammed with merchandise—chairs and tables and knickknacks filling every square inch. She pulls off her hat. “Remind me why we aren’t at a toy store looking for gifts for your nieces. Wouldn’t most five-year-olds prefer dolls?” She rubs her red cheeks and shakes out her hair.

I wrinkle my nose, the smell of baby powder and mothballs pushing my gag reflex into gear. “The twins have more shit than they need. I want to get them something special, and you always have cool things from these antique places. But you have to choose. I’m no good with this stuff.”

“Okay.” Her gaze coasts over lamps and chandeliers as a ginger cat rubs against her legs. Lucky kitty.

I watch the ball of fur grind against her, jealous of a fucking feline. But sliding along her slim calves wouldn’t be enough to ease my itch. Frustrated, I stab my hand through my hair. The store stretches farther than I can see, an archway to our right leading into a separate room, and a cobweb across the space confirms we’re the first shoppers this century.

“Don’t mind Caesar,” a gravelly voice calls. A wheeze follows a phlegmy cough, but no one appears. “He’s harmless…as long as you don’t let him rub against your leg,” says the bodiless voice.

Lily freezes and glances down at Caesar doing figure eights around her jeans.

“
You
brought me here,” I whisper. “If the almighty Oz has us kidnapped by flying monkeys, it’s on you.”

More gurgling and hacking drifts from the back, the sound like a blender losing steam. If I had to guess, I’d say our mystery man is laughing. “Just a joke. The worst he’ll do is follow you around the shop. Holler if you need assistance.”

Lily extricates herself from her new friend and passes under the archway. She treads lightly through the space, carefully, like she might wake a sleeping child. Every so often she grazes her fingers over an object: a vase, a glass figurine, two rooster-shaped bookends. The mothball smell keeps my nose twitching, faint whiffs of tobacco curling through the musty air. She stops at a green clutch purse, the clam shape detailed with gold thread and pearls. I inch forward, then stop short.

Her lips are moving.

She’s not speaking, at least not out loud, but her slender fingers caress the piece she examines. Like it’s holy. She moves to a crystal candle holder. Again, she speaks silent words.

I clear my throat. “Do you talk to dead people?”

She spins around, her eyes popping wide. “What?”

“Do you talk to dead people?” I ask again. “You know, like in
The Sixth Sense
? Or that
Ghost
movie? What’s with the moving lips?”

Her hand flies to her pretty pink pout. “Move? They don’t move.”

“Yep. They move.”

“Really?”

“I’m many things, Lil, but I’m not a liar. You’re walking through this place like it’s a church. What’s up?”

Instead of answering me, she slips her hand from her mouth and picks at her blue nails. Her eyes shift, she blinks repeatedly, then she bites her lip. Not good signs. When she can’t decide what to eat, she does the lip-biting thing. When she’s stressed, her nail polish takes a hit. The blinking is usually when she attempts to lie. But I’ve never seen her tics take over all at once.

I approach and stop in front of her. I separate her hands and unclench her fingers with mine, then I smooth her scrunched brows. Placing my thumb on her bottom lip, I pull it down until it escapes her teeth. For a beat, I don’t move. Her lip is soft and wet. If I tilted her head, I could lean down and finally know if she tastes like that strawberry lip stuff she uses.

Mine, mine, mine.

I pull my hand away. “If you don’t tell me what’s freaking you out, I’ll lock you in here with the feral cat and the almighty Oz. There also might be a secret lab where they experiment on mutants.”

She goes to pick her nails again, but I stop her.

She looks away. She looks down. Her breathing escalates. “It’s nothing. It’s stupid.”

“Stupid is when Kolton tries to race me down a mountain. If something’s upsetting you, it isn’t stupid. Lay it on me.” Caesar darts over our feet, the furball mewling as we both jump. The great and terrible Oz hacks up a lung, and I nudge her arm. “You’re seriously choosing a lifetime in this creepy-ass place over telling me why you’re talking to antiques?”

She rolls her eyes, her signature move. “Fine. But like I said, it’s stupid.”

When she doesn’t continue, I nudge her. “Still waiting.”

Another eye roll. “So,
sometimes
, when I’m in places like this”—she drops her voice to a whisper—“I sort of think of stories. Like where an object’s been, or, you know, what life it’s led. Like guessing who owned it or why it was discarded.”

She scans my face, and her gray eyes glaze. I’m not sure what she’s worried about, but her hesitant voice and body language hint at fear. Paranoia. Which makes zero sense. Lily’s always at ease with me. With other people, she fumbles. With others she’s shy. Never with me.

I clap my hands together, determined to get us back on track. “I’m game. Let’s play.”

She shakes her head, startled. “What?”

“We’ll take turns. We’ll each choose something and tell its story. I’ll probably kick your ass; I have a very vivid imagination.” Current fantasy: stripping her naked and sinking so deep inside her I disappear.

On that note, I flip around to hide the fact that the shrinkage from outside is no longer an issue. I shrug off my jacket before I overheat, then help Lily off with hers. Although her long blouse hangs loose over leggings, the thin cream fabric brushes her breasts and hips, hinting at the woman beneath. Sexier than if she dressed to impress. The knee-high boots don’t hurt, either.

I lay our jackets over a wooden bench. “I’ll go first.”

I walk around the space, pausing at a globe, then an old cash register. Lily’s lips part in anticipation each time, reminding me of when I’d play duck-duck-goose, my favorite game as a kid; I’d walk behind my friends and smack their heads so hard they’d see stars. I hover over a Japanese pot, then I spot the perfect thing. Grinning, I lay my hand on a hideous teapot in the shape of a bonnet-wearing kitten.

“Ready?” I ask.

She nods.

I fan my hand in front of the spout. “This treasure wasn’t always a teapot. It was…a girl.” That wins me a smile. “This chick was on the dog side of ugly. Not popular with the lads.” I get my third eye roll of the day. “So she’s at this carnival one night and sees a Gypsy, a seer type, and offers her anything if she’ll cast a spell to make the girl pretty. The Gypsy senses the girl’s desperation and offers her services for free. She chants some stuff over the girl and sends her home. In the morning, the girl’s mother walks into her daughter’s room to find it empty. All that’s in the bed”—I touch the god-awful pot—“is this stunning piece of art.”

When I pause, Lily stares at me. “And?”

“
And
…the end.”

“What do you mean, the end? The Gypsy lied, and where’s the girl?”

I shrug. “The girl asked to be made pretty, and beauty, as they say, is in the eye of the beholder. The old witch had a thing for cat-shaped ceramics and turned the girl into the pot. Totally weird fetish.”

Lily presses her lips together to keep from smiling, but a laugh bubbles up. “You are kind of good at this.”

“Was there ever any doubt? Your turn.”

She walks by a few items before stopping beside an ornamental clock. The white face is covered in glass, intricately carved wood encasing the timepiece. She drags her fingers over its edges. “A man bought this for his wife before he took a business trip.” She traces the glass circle in the center. “His wife set the time when he went out the door and checked it constantly. She…” Lily glances over and I give her a thumbs-up, earning me eye roll number four. “She felt connected to him when she was near the clock. When he didn’t return as expected, she brought the clock into her bedroom so she could watch it. She didn’t eat, didn’t sleep. Then the clock stopped.”

When she doesn’t continue, I say, “And?”

She crosses one foot over the other and folds her arms, like she’s trying to shrink. “The end?”

“The end? Like the
end
end? That’s like cutting
Star Wars
off before we learn Vader is Luke’s father. Give it up. What happens?”

“Her husband died when the clock stopped. She got rid of it to escape the constant reminder.”

I glance between the ugly teapot and the clock. “I win. Yours was too depressing.”

She unlatches her hooked limbs and laughs. “
Mine
was depressing? Your girl got turned into a teapot. A
tacky
teapot.”