Not because I actually believe it, but because the part of myself that absolutely cannot believe that someone so far out of my league is attracted to me is scrambling to go back to that safe, comfortable place where my best friends are Ben and Jerry and my book boyfriend is Drew from Emma Chase’s Tangled.
Damn it.
Deep breaths. One. Two. Three.
“Heavy breathing,” Declan says, shattering my concentration. “I like it.”
Oh, God.
Do you have a thing for women with their hands in toilets?
My mouth opens and I’m certain those words will come out. I imagine him sitting in an old, well-worn, expensive brown leather chair, the kind with brass buttons that dot the seams, and he’s holding a brandy snifter full of the finest liquor. Declan’s wearing well-worn Levi’s and his shirt is pulled out of the waistband just enough to show an inch of perfect, muscled skin right at the navel, a thatch of hair calling out for my hand. His eyes are hooded and have a soft focus to them, the way men get when the blood rushes south and they shift.
They really do. There’s a subtle change in them when sensuality takes over, a warm, predatory taste to their words. The air changes, crackling with sparks and fire. It’s confusing and heady all at once, because those two states shouldn’t be able to coexist.
Yet they do. Yin and yang. Male and female.
Stick and hole.
“What are you wearing?” I blurt out. It’s better than Do you have a thing for women with their hands in toilets? I smack my forehead, hard, and the dull throbbing from my hangover kicks back into place.
Someone calls my name from the other room but I ignore them. Chuckles stops rubbing against my ankles and goes to the door, pawing the bottom. No way I’m letting him out, yet. If I open the door Mom will tumble over the threshold like something out of a bad sitcom.
“Heavy breathing, and now the What are you wearing question?” His voice rolls out like it’s on rails, sliding with throaty nonchalance through more innuendoes than I can count. A fun, humorous sound, like we’re in on a joke together.
He can’t see that I’m dying here, gripped by a set of looping thoughts that race at breakneck speed, driven by a deep fear that this is one big cosmic mistake. I’m torn inside. The reason I mystery shop is that I’m in control. I’m there in secret, watching everyone and everything and—a little bit like a god—the only person whose experience matters in the end. My word is gold, my observations validated, and the whole process is neat. Tidy. Measurable. Documented.
Being felt up and kissed thoroughly in a hallway at a posh restaurant by a man who is so many standard deviations of gorgeous and rich away from me that on a bell curve, he’s a million miles away, makes my mind vibrate so hard with uncertainty that it’s about to shatter.
I make a sound that is supposed to sound like a throaty laugh but sounds more like I’m hacking up a frog’s leg.
“Workout clothes, actually,” he answers. “No shirt, shorts, and socks and shoes. I just came in from a run. I’m sweaty as hell and sitting on my balcony, feet propped up and drinking a huge bottle of water as I watch the morning sun burn off the clouds over the bay.” That’s the longest stretch of words I’ve ever heard from him, and I’m agog.
And drooling.
Shirtless. Sweaty. Burning. A pulsing, throbbing sense pours down, like I’m channeling energy from my pain-filled head to my deeply turned-on nether regions, his casual way of talking about himself and his life making hope take over, dialing down the racing fear inside me, slowing the rollercoaster to a halt and giving it permission to take a rest.
“Oh,” is all I can say, the sound half gasp, half surprise. Half hope.
“And you?” His tone is flirty.
“Workout clothes, too.” If you count giant penguins all over my oversized flannel bottoms “workout” pants.
“What’s your poison?” I know he means what kind of workout do I do, and my brain goes blank. Because I don’t. Work out, that is.
Mom’s profession comes to the rescue. “Yoga,” I say, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
She’s definitely listening in, because I hear a super-loud snort from the other side of the door and she shouts, “The only downward-facing dog Shannon knows is—” and then muffled sounds of indignation.
I really, really do not want to know the end of that sentence.
Bzzz. Someone texts me. I ignore it.
“Six too early for you? Will you be home from work by then?” Declan asks. I finally look at the clock. 9:12 a.m. For a second I think he means today, but he’s talking about Friday.
“Yes. It’s...” My mind is a blur and I can’t get my tongue to work properly. “It’s perfect.”
And then I remember, again, that today is still a work day. Uh oh. Greg doesn’t generally hold us to a tight schedule, but it’s Tuesday, and that means—
“Weekly meeting!” Amanda shouts as she bangs on my bedroom door. “You have twenty minutes to fit in a shower. Get moving!”
Even Declan heard that. “You need to get wet,” he says.
Oh. Well. That did the trick.
“Happy shower, and I’ll see you Friday.”
Click.
Mom and Amanda barge in. “Well?” Mom says.
“Date. Confirmed. Friday at six. Picnic at the state park in Sudbury. He’s bringing dark- and milk-chocolate-covered strawberries,” I say. Might as well give them the specifics.
I walk to the bathroom, but before I can get away, Mom says, “Your mouth is going to have so much fun on that date.”
I wince. Amanda frowns.
“You know what I mean!” Mom says in a tight voice. “Quit sexualizing everything. You people have such dirty minds.”
“You’re the one telling me to get pregnant accidentally by a billionaire to get big child support payments and asking about lesbians and strap-ons,” I say, sarcasm dripping from my voice. “I wonder where I could have gotten it!”
“Your father,” she says definitively. “The man never met a dirty joke he didn’t like.”
I roll my eyes and finish my walk to the bathroom. My shower is quick, thoughts of Declan making me anticipate Friday
Tap tap tap. Someone’s knocking on the door. “Mom!” I shout. “Can I take a shower in peace?”
“It’s Amanda. And Amy.”
They open the door. “We need to talk.” Steam fills the room as the hot water churns in full force. The scent of coconut and almond fills the bathroom as I shampoo quickly.