Rusty Nailed (Cocktail #2)(8)
Author: Alice Clayton

“Can you believe I was ever worried about gaining a little weight? Look how great my tits look!” she announced as she came back to the table. “Let’s head over to the park and pick up hot boys. Let’s see how many I can get to stop jogging with these,” she said, pulling a wad of cash from her purse and throwing it on the table.

I couldn’t help but laugh as she dragged a protesting Mimi away from her food. Sophia was back on the prowl, and she took out two busboys on her way out of the diner.

• • •

I went to the park just long enough to see that Sophia was indeed back out of her coma. I doubted she was actually over the situation with Neil, but sometimes you have to pretend to be feeling better to actually feel better. It’s why new workout clothes make you feel like you want to work out.

I was still waiting for that one to turn out to be true . . .

I begged off staying the whole afternoon on the grounds that I had a Wallbanger in my bed, which needed no further explanation. As I turned the corner onto my street after hopping off the trolley, I thought about what Mimi had said earlier, about needing to see Ryan every day. They could easily do that: Both had jobs in the city and rarely traveled for work. Mimi was a professional organizer, helping families declutter and clean up, while Ryan headed up a nonprofit that helped put computers into schools in low-income areas.

Would I like to see Simon every day? Of course I would—the speed bump abs alone are worth the price of admission. But more than that, we just . . . worked well together. There was an ease to our relationship that I had never had with anyone else, maybe because we became friends first. And while we had our share of raised eyebrows like every couple, we rarely fought. Maybe because we spent less time together than regular couples.

I shook my head as I walked up my stairs. It didn’t matter why we worked, we just did. And since Simon would continue to be in demand professionally, we’d continue to make it work long-distance. I liked the idea of an unconventional romance, especially since the beginning of ours was so much so.

I’d been on a dating freeze after a one-night stand with He Who Shall Not Be Named (read Cory Weinstein) scared my orgasm into hiding, disappearing from the earth entirely. Going, going, gone it was; no good-bye, no nice knowing you. Just gone. I’d attempted to recover the O by bringing back a few tried-and-true partners, but no go. And of course I’d tried to reconnect by using the Holy Trinity of Fantasy Lovers (the Leto, the Damon, and the Holy Clooney), but even by my own hand, the O had left the building. Finally Simon and I were able to conjure her again in a poof of flour on the floor of my kitchen, surrounded by raisins and honey.

And speaking of unconventional, Simon had never dated anyone in the traditional sense. When I met him he was king of the Friends with Benefits scenario, with an actual harem. As Simon and I were becoming friends in those early days, he’d confided that all the women he’d ever dated seemed to want the same thing: a white picket fence. I convinced him that in fact not all women want that, especially this woman in particular. I’d told him, “The right woman for you wouldn’t want you to change anything about your life. She wouldn’t rock your boat, she’d jump right in and sail it with you.”

I used to date someone who wanted me to be his picket fencer, his own personal Mrs. Stepford. Or Mrs. James Brown, in this scenario. Lawyer, not Godfather of Soul, to be clear.

Picket fences? Thanks, but no thanks. I liked my life, I liked our life—it was pretty great.

A perfect example was our living situation. As I put the key in my lock, I looked across the landing to his apartment door. When he was home we tended to spend most of our time at my place, but I liked that we still had our own apartments. I’d lived with roommates most of my adult life, and even though I was technically subletting from Jillian (no way would I ever be able to afford this amazing apartment without her rent control), it was still my own space.

Which I shared with a very particular feline. I let myself in, looking around for Clive but not seeing him. I had an idea where he might be, though. Kicking off my shoes, I padded quietly back to the bedroom, peeking my head around the door.

Tucked into the one corner of the bed I typically allowed him was Simon, still sleeping off his long trip home. Curled into a ball behind Simon’s knees, Clive opened one eye and registered that I was home. He flicked one ear and stretched his back out, tucking himself tighter into his favorite spot.

I whispered, “Hiya, Clive, how’s my sweet—”

He cut me off with a quiet but very curt meow.

And he gave me a very specific look, letting me know that my boys needed their sleep and I should leave well enough alone. I chuckled to myself as Simon let out a loud snore, then backed away. Clive remained behind Simon’s knees.

Simon’s Knees . . . What a great name for a band.

While the boys slept I did some laundry, I worked on some sketches for the new hotel project, and I baked. Baking centered me, helped me focus and see my way around corners, especially when I was working on something new. Two loaves of zucchini bread later, I was perched on the kitchen island with a colored pencil in my mouth when I heard shuffling.

Simon came into the kitchen, nose first. I caught my breath, almost inhaling my pencil when I saw him in his loose pajama bottoms, rumpled hair, and sleepy expression. I knew if I pressed my face into the exact center of his chest, he’d smell like Downy and warm boy. Heart, as always, skipped a beat.

“Zucchini?” he asked while sniffing the air, his eyes still at half-mast but scanning for bread. His eyes weren’t the only thing at half-mast . . .

“Zucchini,” I affirmed, nodding my head.

A slow grin crept across his face; nothing could make him happier than homemade bread. Well, almost nothing.

“You want some?” I asked.

He walked toward me, and the bread behind me, with a determined look on his face. “You’re kidding, right?” he asked, uncrossing my legs so he could stand between them. “I always want some.”

“Are we still talking about zucchini bread?” I asked, as his hands dug into my hips. Sliding me closer to the edge suddenly, he pressed a wet kiss below my ear.

“I’m hungry, yes,” he whispered, in a voice that instantly told my thighs to part. “And the zucchini bread can wait.”

I moaned. I mean, of course I moaned.

Gone in sixty seconds was everything under my apron, which was flipped up and out of his way. To his knees he went, pulling my hips exactly to the edge of the counter, my legs roughly thrown over his shoulders.