Wet (8 page)

Turning, she walks toward the front door and I follow. “Can I just say one more thing about Tinder?”

She picks her purse off the side table. “Be my guest.”

“Your profile is screaming out for the wrong kind of guy.”

She stops in front of the door and turns to me. “Is that so?”

“Yeah. You might as well say ‘Hey, assholes . . . I’m easy pickings’.”

The edges of her mouth turn down. “Gee, thanks.”

“It also makes you sound like an idiot.”

She purses her lips and opens the front door. “I’m leaving and you’re an asshole.”

I step up to the door and press it shut. “I’m not trying to be an asshole, I just need you to understand you’re at risk.”

She lets out a long mournful sigh as she opens the door back up. “I can take care of myself. Go home, Paul.”

I lean into her close to her ear, my lips grazing her wavy hair. “I’m a caged bird finally set free . . . are you ready for me? And that sexy photo of you that makes you look like a pin-up girl. What the hell, Elle?”

She turns and looks up at me with those big eyes. Her gaze is intense and the energy between us is charged—like power-grid-amped, nuclear power plant sizzling. I want to press her against the wall and grind against her while I kiss her senseless.

“You know something, Paul? I don’t think you’re ready for me . . . but you know what?”

I swallow hard. “What?”

“Stephan is.”

She turns on her heel and walks to her car, rocking those high heels like a runway model, leaving me in her open doorway with my mouth agape.

Chapter Four

THE HOT SEAT

I’
m uneasy as I inch my way down Franklin Boulevard driving to my parent’s. The streets are clogged with hipsters at the coffee houses and juice bars powering up for the night of partying up ahead. I chuckle knowing I’m heading to a family dinner. What is my life?

You’re so cool, dude.

To top it off I’m having reservations. Considering how my last encounter with Elle went, I’m not sure how it’s going to be seeing her tonight. I tried to back out but my dad wouldn’t hear of it.

“Your mother is expecting you, Paulie.”

Yeah, they aren’t super flexible about the dinner thing. I think my mom would like me to still be living at the house like Patrick. I love my parents, as a good son would, but living at home could never happen again. I moved out at eighteen and never looked back.

I find Ma in the kitchen checking on her special meatloaf. Trisha is next to her and beating the hell of something that must have once been potatoes. Dad is in the living room with Patrick, probably giving him advice about women. He needs it.

Desperately.

Suddenly the absurdity of this evening hits me and makes me grin. Patrick and Elle are as likely a pair as oil and water. She’s so forward that she’ll scare the hell out of him, and he’s so dull that she’d have trouble staying awake through a single date. I relax and decide to enjoy the inevitable fail of an evening.

When the doorbell rings, everyone pops to attention and Ma hurries to the kitchen sink and washes her hands. She’s still drying her hands with the dishtowel when Dad answers the front door. We both lean into the hallway to see what’s happening.

“Oooo. Oh my,” my mom says as Elle steps inside. She has a big smile and is holding what looks like a pie.

Ma sets the dishtowel on the counter. “What a pretty lass she is.”

I’m too dumbstruck to respond. Elle’s hair is pulled off her face and looks smooth, not her usual wild and wavy. She’s also dressed like a librarian in a longer skirt, sweater, and flat, slipper-looking shoes. If I’d passed her in the street I’m not sure I’d have recognized her.

Patrick practically trips over his own feet to get over to her while Dad handles the introductions. Ma turns and winks at me before hurrying forward.

“Welcome to our home, Elle!” Ma announces halfway down the hall.

I can’t hear Elle’s exact response but she extends her free hand and shakes Ma’s with a sweet smile. I didn’t think she had it in her to be so demure.

Ma gestures to the couch and then takes the pie out of Elle’s hand so she can bring it to the kitchen. When she returns she holds it up close to my face.

“She. Baked. A. Pie,” she says like Elle just won a gold medal.

“I can see that.”

“She’s perfect for our Patrick!” After she sets the pie down she claps her hands together with a victorious smile.

I can’t help but give her a worried look. Has she lost her mind? “Because she baked a pie?”

“It’s not just that!”

“Then what?”

Ma practically swoons. I’ve never seen my mother like this.

“She’s just lovely, Paul.” She points into the living room. “And look, they’re hitting it off already.”

I glance at where she’s pointing. So now Patrick staring at Elle’s breasts while she talks to Dad indicates a sure-fire love connection. I roll my eyes.

“Don’t book the wedding venue yet, Ma.”

“Don’t be such a downer. She’s lovely and so sweet—and she baked that pie from scratch!”

“But you haven’t even talked to her yet. Talk about judging a book by its cover!”

“True, but I can tell she’s something special. And did you see the way Paddy looked at her. He’s smitten for sure.”

“How could that be when he doesn’t know anything about her yet? Didn’t you warn us to stay away from divorcees? What happened to all your rules?”

Ma puts her hands on her hips. “Paul Fredrick McNeill! If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re jealous.”

I nod with a deadpan expression. “Yeah, wildly jealous. I wouldn’t stand a chance with a girl like Elle.”

Ma nods too eagerly. “You may be right. You are a bit of a rogue you know, and she’s a nice girl.”

I bite my tongue. There’s no use sullying Elle’s good impression with talk of Tinder hook-ups and a coffee table stacked with porn books pretending to be romance novels.

I look at the pow-wow still going on in the living room. The circle is wider now that Trisha has joined in. I turn to Ma. “So you think Patrick is going to win her heart with his thrilling stories from the world of accounting?”

“Stop!” she says as she grabs the dishcloth and snaps it at me, before joining the rest of the family.

I open a beer and linger in the kitchen a few minutes longer. I’m in no rush to join the Patrick hook-up party.

“Oh, Paulie,” Ma calls out as a summons.

I sigh, set down my beer, and surrender.

“Hi, Ms. Jacoby,” I say as I approach. Now that I’m seeing Elle up close it really rustles my jimmies. Is the get-up she’s wearing
Irish Catholic family cosplay
or something? She looks like she’s heading out to her job at the library. I’m holding back a snicker so hard that my lips are tingling.

She reaches out to shake my hand and when she does I realize I’ve never held her hand. Damn it’s strong but so soft at the same time.

“Hi, Paul Junior.”

Dad laughs. “Oh you don’t have to call him Junior, lass. We call him Paulie.”

She grins like she knows how much I’m not enjoying this. “Paulie. I like that. Hi, Paulie.”

“And what shall I call you? Is it Eleanor?”

She arches her brow with pursed lips. “No, Elle will be fine, thank you.”

Ma turns away from me. “And Patrick was just telling Elle about his promotion at work. Weren’t you, Paddy?”

He nods as his cheeks color. “I’ll be a senior manager now, just below being a junior director.”

Oh for fuck’s sake. Soon he’ll be the VP of senior mid-level bottom-feeder ass- kissers.

“Impressive,” Elle says in a breathy voice. “Why don’t you sit over next to me and tell me more about it.”

By the time we get to the meatloaf she’s mastered gazing at him like he’s the most interesting person in the world, while Ma and Dad keep mentioning his accomplishments to keep the conversation going.

Trisha, for once in her life, doesn’t say much, but the shit-eating grin she has watching me slowly get riled up is really pissing me off.

The family and Elle are drinking some pussy chardonnay that you couldn’t pay me to gargle with. When I go into the kitchen to get another beer, Trisha follows me in.

“What’s up, Paul Junior?”

I narrow my eyes. “Screw you.”

“What, are you pissed because there’s finally a skirt more interested in Patrick than you?”

“Yeah, I’m devastated.” I take a long swig of my beer and then wipe off my mouth on my sleeve. “Completely devastated.”

“It’s got to hurt. I mean she’s really cute.”

“You think?” I ask, studying Trisha. Maybe she’s gay too, and she and her husband Mikey are beards for each other. Talk about a marriage of convenience.

“Super cute. Have you ever seen Ma this amped up?”

“Not since Prince William and Kate got married.”

“Right!”

I decide to push the envelope. “So when they get married do you think they’ll live here with Ma and Dad . . . you know since Patrick still lives at home?”

“Good question. Maybe. But doesn’t she have a house or something? Weren’t you there recently helping Dad with a job?”

I slap my hand over my forehead. “What’s in that damn meatloaf? Are you people all high or something? I was joking Trisha! They’re not getting married!”

“How do you know? Daddy asked Ma to marry him on their first date.”

“That was decades ago, when they lived in a tiny village in Ireland where Dad could either marry Ma, or his second cousin. Times have changed, Trisha, or haven’t you noticed?”

“Jealous,” she says with a taunting expression.

“Shut up,” I growl.

“Jealous! Jealous!” She spins on her heel and goes back to the dining room with me following close behind.

I sink back into my dining room chair with a huff and dig into my meatloaf.

Taking a sip of her wine, Elle watches me over the edge of her glass I stare back and raise my eyebrows with a
what-the-hell
look.

When her eyes dart over to my mom and then my dad, and sees they’re both focused on their dinner, she looks back at me with a piercing intensity.

I take a long sip of beer as I glare back. She holds her gaze without blinking.

Game on, Elle.
But damn, the woman has focus. My eyes start to water from the pressure and I turn to Ma as I blink.

“I like Elle’s outfit, don’t you, Ma? It’s much fancier than what she wears at home.”

“I do,” Ma says with a smile.

Elle gives me a dirty look with a headshake so subtle that I doubt anyone else notices.

“What do you mean exactly, Paul?” Patrick asks, his serious accountant expression on his face.

“Oh you know at her home she had those tight stretchy pants on and a little tank top on during my first visit to her place last week,” I say as I fill my spoon with a pile of buttered peas.

Patrick’s eyes widen as he glances at Elle and then looks down at his plate.

Elle’s cheeks color. “I was wearing my work-out outfit. And in fairness I wasn’t expecting anyone at the house just then.”

“Riiiight,” I say before leaning back in my chair.

“I think it’s lovely that you work-out and keep such a nice figure,” Ma says.

“What kind of working out do you do in an outfit like that?” I ask.

“It’s a Pilates spin-off. You know, working with resistance.”

“Resistance? How do you do that?”

“With exercise balls, and various elastic straps.”

I rest my elbow on the table and rest my chin in my hand. After she’s had a bit of time to fidget, I tilt my chin up and soften my expression to give her, what has been termed, my panty-decimating smile.

I clear my throat. “Really, balls and straps?”

She shakes her head briskly. “It’s a great workout. I swear,” she says sounding a bit frantic.

“Well, I’d
really
like to see that sometime. You and this resistance thing.”

In the downcast light of the light fixture over the table I can see her cheeks are turning hot pink.

“Me too,” says Patrick the dork. He has no fucking clue what’s going on.

Elle looks like she’s just steps away from losing her cool entirely.

It’s at this point my dad announces that he’d love some of that pie Elle brought. Ma jumps up and starts clearing dishes. After they gesture at Trisha and I, we pick up the cue to help clear too.

Dad pushes his chair back. “What would everyone like with dessert? Tea, coffee? I think I’d like a hot toddy with the pie? How about you, Millie?”

Ma nods her head.

The way the three of them scurry to the kitchen it’s obvious that it’s a ploy to get Patrick alone with Elle.

He keeps nervously folding and unfolding his napkin in his lap. I turn toward him. “Hey, Patrick, show Elle the animal shapes you can fold out of napkins.”

She turns to him with a bewildered expression.

“When I was in school I worked summers at the country club,” he explains to Elle.

My work here is done
, I think as he clears a space on the table to fold his napkin.

Everyone is bustling about the kitchen as I lean against the pantry door. While I sip my beer, Ma keeps peeking through the crack in the door to spy on Patrick and Elle.

“Oh, he just folded his rabbit!” Ma says to Dad.

Even Trisha rolls her eyes.

“What do you imagine she thinks?” Dad asks.

“Well, she’s smiling at him. I think it’s good. It shows he’s not just about numbers and tax write-offs.”

Oh for fucks sake.
He’s folding a fucking napkin in the shape of a rabbit.

Ma peeks again and then turns back to us. “He got up and left the room. Paulie, go ask if she’d like a spot of tea or some coffee. I don’t think she should have a toddy since she’ll be driving.”

“Sure thing, Ma.”

“Hey, Elle,” I say as casually as possible as I approach the table.

She sits up straight and pulls her shoulders back when she sees me.

“Hi Paulie.”

“So where’s Patrick? Did you scare him off with your dirty mouth?”

She gives me a stern look and shakes her head before glancing toward the kitchen door that’s still closed.

“He got an emergency text from a client, so he excused himself to email them some documents.”