Chapter Sixteen

TUCKER

“Come on, man. It’s the one Sunday I have off,” Racer complains into the phone. “I don’t get many days off and when I do, I want to get wasted with my friends while watching hockey and eating fucking Little Debbie oatmeal patties by the box. Is that too much to ask?”

I button up my jeans and feel them hang off my hips but not enough that require a belt. Shirtless, I bend at the waste and lace up my brown boots.

“Sorry, Racer. I have plans with Emma.” I really have no idea if she’s available, but I planned a day for us and I’m hoping she’ll put the books down for a day and join me. I’m not ashamed to use my body as a weapon against her, hence the reason I’m waiting to put my shirt on. I think asking her shirtless will better my chances. Is it wrong? Yes, on all levels, but am I desperate to get out of this house with her and spend some time together? More than anything.

“Of course you have plans with Emma. When did you two start dating?” His tone is snide. I don’t blame him. He really doesn’t get many days off, and we’ve often spent them together, so I can understand his frustration. But there is always Smalls.

“We’re not dating. We’re just . . .” What are we? On the verge of sexual combustion? Pretty much. At times I wonder why I’m holding back. I just, whenever I go near her bedroom, I can’t help but look at the room opposite hers and think about what I lost. And I really don’t want to bring Emma into my bedroom when I still have Sadie on my mind; it wouldn’t be fair to her, but hasn’t prevented me from touching and kissing her every chance I get. But is that fair?

“Are you going to finish that sentence?”

I blow out a long breath and run my hand over my jaw “Shit, I really don’t know. I want her, Racer. I want her so bad, but I can’t seem to let the past go.”

“Sadie.” It’s one word but it means everything. He understands.

“Yeah.”

The whiney-bitch Racer disappears. “Tucker, it’s over, and you know I wouldn’t just say that. You have to move on, man. Easier said than done, I get that.” He sighs and says, “Fuck, fine, have your day with Emma, clear your head, enjoy the moment, but promise me something.”

I chuckle. “I didn’t know I had to get permission from you.”

“You always do. Remember that. Every major life decision goes through me.”

“Noted.”

“Good. Now that’s settled and I’m allowing you to abandon me on my day off, promise me this: you will take this day to actually enjoy yourself, enjoy Emma, and for one day, for twenty-four hours, forget the past and experience the present. Can you do that for me, penis breath?”

Jesus. I chuckle to myself and think about what he’s asking me. Twenty-four hours of forgetting everything behind me. Can I do that? Hell, I want to try. Maybe I’ll finally be able to breathe.

“Twenty-four hours? Easy.”

“Better be, especially with Emma at your side. Now hang up before I change my mind.”

“Enjoy your day off, don’t get too fat from Little Debbie.”

“Metabolism of a fucking god, dude. There is no fat on this body.”

Such a dickhead. I hang up the phone and snag a black sweater and my leather jacket from my closet and head downstairs. Emma’s door is closed so I give it a light knock.

“Come in.”

I already know she’s settled in for studying because her “calming candle” is lit and the scent started to float up the stairs to my bedroom. When I walk in, sure enough, she’s parked on her bed, legs crossed, hair over her shoulders and a highlighter in her mouth.

“Hey. What’re you doing?” It’s a stupid question, because it’s obvious, but I want to gather her attention.

When she looks up, her brows pinch together as she takes in my shirtless body. Waving a pen in my direction she asks, “Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?”

Not looking to be coy at all, I answer, “Because I have a question to ask you and thought it would be harder for you to say no if I wasn’t wearing a shirt.”

She snaps her book shut and sets it to the side. “You don’t play fair, Jameson.”

“Never claimed to.” I walk toward her bed and link our hands together, pulling her to her feet. Her eyes search mine as I say, “I want to get out of here for the day and I want your company.”

“But I have to study,” she replies weakly.

“Not an excuse.”

She laughs. “My student debt begs to differ.”

“Are you saying no?”

“I’m saying I have to study.”

Having zero shame, I place her hands on my chest and say, “But can’t you see that I’m asking you with no shirt on?”

“Yeah, and maybe if you took care of me yesterday in the kitchen instead of teasing me, your shirtless tactic might actually work on me. But I see through you, Tucker. You’re a ball of tease.”

Damn.

Plan B.

I take a step closer and start to move my hands up her back, getting ready to really make a move. I lean my head forward, lips wet, and ready when she palms my face, stopping my pursuit.

Strong-arming me away, she says, “Nice try, but your attempt has been blocked. Now, please excuse me while I get back to my books; at least they give me what I want.”

She’s playing hard to get. Fair enough, I deserve it.

“Yeah, and what do you want from me?” I link my thumbs in my belt loops, dipping my pants a little lower, it doesn’t go unnoticed by her.

She clears her throat and turns toward her books, settling on her bed again. “You know what I want from you.”

“Can you be clear? I tend to forget things.”

She eyes me for a second and shakes her head. “If you can’t remember what I want then there is no hope for us.”

I snap my finger and say, “Ah, you know what? I have a faint memory of your hard nipples rubbing against my chest. Does it have anything to do with that? Or the way my cock rubbed against your wet center? Didn’t think I noticed? Babe, I could feel your heat through your pajama pants.”

Her mouth falls open only to be quickly shut. “You did not.”

“I did. And I also heard you last night as you came around your vibrator.”

Once again, her mouth falls open, but this time her face blushes an embarrassing shade of red. Caught . . . jill-handed.

“No need to be shy about it, babe. It was hot, so hot that I jacked off to it.” I shrug and start to walk toward the door. Instead of teasing her, which only gets a good blush out of her, I try for honesty. “I really just wanted to spend a day with you, away from everything. Just you and me. But I get it, school comes first . . .”

I head out into the hallway when I hear her groan. “Fine, I’ll go if I can study in the car.”

I peek my head back into her bedroom and give her a big smile. “Deal. We leave in fifteen, babe.” I wink and head to the banister to don my shirt. She put up more of a fight than I expected, but hell, that was fun.

Twenty-four hours, I can do this, especially with Emma by my side.

***

“I thought you were going to be studying the whole way.” I tease Emma who’s had her head turned, looking out the window for the past ten minutes.

Huffing, she turns back to her book and says, “How am I supposed to study when there are so many pretty houses to look at?”

“You’re not. So put the book down and enjoy the view. What are you really going to retain in the next few minutes anyway? Sometimes it’s a good idea to rest the brain, babe. Have fun with me today, pick up the book tomorrow.”

She sighs heavily and caps her highlighter. She sets her book on the ground and says, “You’re a bad influence, you know that?”

I link our hands, pressing our palms together. “Nah, I’m good for your studious soul and you know it.” I playfully squeeze her hand. “Why doesn’t DJ Jazzy Nurse Tits find some good music for us? And when I say good music, I mean it. None of this One Direction crap.”

“Oh please, you like them.”

“I really don’t, but thanks for trying. Hook your phone up to my radio and play me the best you’ve got.”

“Hmm, okay.”

I glance over at her and I swear her smile stretches as wide as a Cheshire cat. What is she up to?

She takes a few minutes to flip through her phone. “Really taking your time there, aren’t you?”

“Just making sure I impress, that’s all. Can’t have DJ Jazzy Nurse Tits letting you down. Which by the way, I’m still not committed to that name.”

“Too bad I am.” I squeeze her knee, which causes her to buckle over and laugh. “Fuck, are you ticklish?”

“Badly.”

“Huh.” I can’t help my smile. “Looks like I can have fun with that later.”

“Go ahead,” she answers nonchalantly. “Hope you like getting kicked in the balls, because that’s what’s going to happen if you try to tickle me.”

“Vicious.”

She chuckles and then says, “Ah, found it. Are you ready for this?”

“Lay it on me, babe.”

The sound of a single guitar strums through the speakers of my truck and it immediately pulls my attention just as a male, folky type voice matches up with the strum of the guitar. I’ve never heard the song and I’m kind of fucking shocked it’s on her phone. This doesn’t sound like the kind of music she listens to.

The song plays out, little strums, followed by some background piano, it all works. Fucking catchy as hell.

When it ends, Emma turns her body in her seat and says, “What did you think?”

She’s practically bouncing on her seat, waiting for my opinion.

Not answering right away, she gets frustrated and pokes my shoulder, causing me to laugh. “Fine. I liked it. You shocked me actually; I didn’t think you were going to pick something so soft. Good choice. Who was it?”

Her smile grows even wider. “Niall Horen. The song is called This Town.”

“Niall Horen. Is he new? I’ve never heard of him. I like his voice.”

“You’ve heard him before.”

“Have I? What song?”

“Any One Direction song I’ve ever played. It’s his first solo song.” The cackle that follows her confession is actually quite endearing because it’s a full-on belly laugh, as if she just caught me with my pants down, willy out, dawning a fucking duck hat on my dick.

When her laughter starts to die down a little, I say, “You think you’re so fucking clever, don’t you?”

She wipes her eyes. “I do actually. Tucker loves One Direction,” she singsongs.

“You couldn’t be more wrong.” I turn into Main Street in Skaneateles, New York, and start searching for parking. “I don’t like New Direction, but am I starting a little boy-crush on Niall? Well, I’m not going to deny that.”

Once again her laughter fills the cab of my truck and I can’t help but soak up the beautiful sound, loving this day already . . . even if it’s at the expense of my manhood.

***

“How cold do you think that water is?”

I have my arms wrapped around Emma’s shoulders, her back is to my chest, and I’m holding her tight as I lean my head over her shoulders and take in the expanse of Skaneateles Lake.

“Freezing, babe. There might not be snow on the ground right now, but it’s cold.”

“Like I would get a black foot if I stepped in it kind of cold?”

“Yeah, black foot-worthy for sure.”

“Only one way to find out.” She shifts and then nods her head at the lake. “Go ahead, give it a go, you can be my guinea pig.”

I squeeze her tighter and kiss the side of her head. It’s insane how easily I can be affectionate with her. I don’t even give it a second thought. “You’re cute, but never going to happen.”

“Not even if I asked sweetly?”

I chuckle and shake my head. “Why is dipping a toe in the freezing lake something you even want to do right now?”

She shrugs. “Just interested in the arctic.”

That garners a laugh from my belly. “You’re interested in the arctic? It’s Upstate New York, Emma, not the northern most part of the earth.”

“Sometimes it feels like that.”

Can’t disagree with her on that. Living in Upstate New York is not for the faint at heart. You have to be ready to fight winter day in day out and the unpredictability of its cumulative snowfall.

“I would say you should be used to it by now, but I can remember seeing you walk the halls in high school, bundled up from head to toe. You had this red winter hat with a pom-pom on top that almost seemed like it covered your entire head. The only reason I knew it was you under that hat was because you were the only one in the whole school who owned such a ridiculous piece of winter wear.”

“Don’t you dare speak ill of that hat,” she teases. “Scarlet gave me many years of warmth.”

“Gave? Do you no longer have the old girl?”

She shakes her head and then rests it against my shoulder. “My cat, Marla Hooch, peed on it and once cat pee hits anything, it’s over. There was no saving it.”

Laughing, I say, “Oh fuck, I forgot about Marla Hooch. You named her after your favorite player in “A League of Their Own.” She would piss on everything. She pissed on my backpack.”

“No, she didn’t.”

“The fuck she didn’t. We were all over at your house after school because you, Sadie, and Smilly were selling cookies for Christmas and wanted us to be taste-testers before you went out in public with your product. I went home with a very wet and very foul-smelling backpack. Luckily Saddlemire had a backpack he wasn’t using and gave it to me.” Thank God for my friends, because I was the kid with nothing. I made a little side money from working under the table for Julius and anything I made went straight to food and clothing for myself since my mom was MIA.

“Oh my gosh, I totally forgot about Birdie’s Bakery, our little Christmas cookie scheme.”

“I think I can still taste your ginger snaps. It was supposed to be a hint of ginger flavor, not a burn your tongue off flavor.”

“Yeah . . .” she chuckles, “we might have added a little too much ginger. Thank goodness you guys were our taste testers.

“Yeah, thank goodness,” I deadpan. “How is Marla Hooch, is she still around?”

Emma nods. “She is, wearing a diaper now because she just squats wherever she wants. My mom finds it endearing, taking care of a cat with urine issues.”

“Endearing? I can think of a hundred other ways to describe that situation and they don’t come close to endearing.”

“Not into being the cat-pee kid?” Her laughter once again hits me in my soul, lifting me up.

“Never. No one ever wants to be known as the cat-pee kid.”

***

“Don’t wuss out on me, just take a sip.”

With lips sealed shut, Emma shakes her head rapidly as she tries to back up but is trapped by her chair.

“It’s one of a kind, lass,” Phillip the bartender says, a deep brogue in his voice.

“Yeah, it’s one of a kind, lass.” I mimic and hold the glass in front of her and shake the contents just enough so it doesn’t spill out. “When will you ever have another chance to drink this fine flavor of vodka?”

“Never. Not going to happen.”

I set the small tumbler on the bar and step closer, invading her space. I place one hand on the bar counter and the other on the back of her seat. With a low, seductive voice, I say, “I dare you.”

Her mouth quirks to the side as she slowly shakes her head, her soft, lustrous hair floating from side to side. Fuck, I want to run my hands through it. “I’m not the type of person who can be dared, Tucker. I’m the responsible one, you should know this.”

Shit, she’s right. She is the responsible one. I need a different approach. “Fair enough. You drink this shot of pickle vodka, and I’ll do something you want me to.”

That garners her interest. “Anything?”

I lean forward and whisper into her ear, my nose grazing against her soft skin. “Within reason.”

She scoots forward and tugs on my leather jacket while her eyes look up at mine. “What does within reason mean? What are your limits?”

“It’s startling to me that whatever you’re thinking might pass someone’s limits.”

“Just keeping my options open.” She wickedly grins.

I study her for a second and then answer, “No public nudity—”

“Well, there goes my idea.”

“Funny.” I nod at her. “Nothing that involves the freezing lake. Unlike you, I’m not interested in whether or not I can get a black foot. And I refuse to purchase the giant recycled material flamingo you couldn’t take your eyes off two stores down.”

“But it would be the perfect toilet paper holder,” she fake whines and then pouts her bottom lip. I stroke it with my thumb and shake my head.

“Sorry, babe. That flamingo will have to find a home with someone else.”

“Fine,” she drags out. She folds her arms across her chest, glances around the bar and then her head whips to mine. “Oh, I know.”

I don’t like that look on her face, the one that says I have something good to make you do. Is the pickle vodka really worth it?

“Do I even want to know?” I ask, a little worried that she’s going to make me lick the underside of one of the tables. At that point, the answer would be no. The vodka is not worth it at all.

“Do you want me to drink that disgusting vodka?”

I look down at the vodka and then back at her. “I really do.”

“Good.” She smiles and props herself up. “Remember when you went to the bathroom and left me here, at the bar, all alone with no one to talk to?”

“Yesss,” I say, unsure of where she’s going with this.

“Well, while you were ‘pissing’ as you so crassly said, I met a very nice woman who seemed to have taken a liking to you.”

“Oh yeah?” I buck up. “Hard not to resist such a rugged man like myself.”

Emma rolls her eyes and says, “Well, she said she would give anything to rub her face up against a set of abs like yours.”

“How does she know I have abs?” I ask, getting an idea of where this conversation is going.

“I confirmed when she asked. I said they were little divots you could get lost in.”

“Did you now?” I smugly ask.

“Don’t make me get a pin to pop that obnoxiously large head of yours. I was just giving the woman a happy image to consider during her day.”

Picturing a little old lady with white curly hair and a pink cane, I look around to find her. “All right, so what’s the deal? And where is this woman you speak of?”

Emma rubs her hands together and gets ready to lay it on me. Fuck, she’s cute. “She introduced herself as Floats Like a Barge Marge and she’s the dishwasher in the back. So the deal is, I drink this vodka and you let Floats Like a Barge Marge rub her face against your abs for ten seconds.”

My eyebrows lift in question. “You’re going to let another woman touch me with her face?”

Emma shrugs and takes a look at her nails. “Not like you’ve claimed me or anything so I have no reason to claim you. Although, if you actually put out yesterday instead of teasing me, your abs might be hearing a different request right about now.”

I knowingly nod. “You’re going to keep throwing that in my face, aren’t you?”

She leans forward and whispers, “Tucker, that was torture, so yeah, I’ll keep throwing it in your face.”

“You thought that was torture? You have no idea, babe. I can make it way worse.”

“Is that a threat?” She leans even more forward so our foreheads are almost touching from my bent position.

“I can make it one.”

Looking between my eyes, Emma says, “Don’t forget, Tucker. I’m the one with the hot pocket; you just hold the peperoni. You need my warmth way more than I need your meat.”

She leans against her chair and folds her arms again, causing me to throw my head back and laugh. Fuck if that weren’t the truth.

“Playing hard to get now?” I ask with a raised brow. She just stares at her nails. I sigh. “Fine, Floats Like a Barge Marge can rub against my abs.”

“Really?” Emma claps her hands excitedly and then lifts off her chair, standing on one of the rungs, and wraps her arms around my neck. Without seeming to take a second to think about it, her lips press against mine briefly before she taps on the bar counter. “Phillip, can you please tell Floats Like a Barge Marge that her dreams have come true?”

He nods, throws his towel over his shoulder, and heads behind the mirrored bar to the back. When Emma turns to me, she smiles brightly, kisses me again but this time, with a little tongue.

Hell, I like that. I like that a whole lot. I start to bring her in even closer when she pushes against my chest to sit back down.

“Hey, I was in the middle of something. Get your ass back up here.”

She wiggles her finger at me. “Uh-uh, you have to get those abs ready.”

“What do you want me to do? Hop up on the bar and start doing crunches?

“Might be nice.” She leans her elbow on the bar and props up her chin. “Kind of dreamy actually. Let’s see it. Do some sit-ups.”

I pull my jacket closed and turn my body slightly away from her. “I’m not some piece of meat you get to parade around. I’m a man with feelings,” I tease. “I have emotions and needs. I’m not just on this planet to give in to your every demand.”

She laughs, picks up the pickle vodka, downs it one swift swallow, cringes for a second, and then pats her mouth dry with a napkin. “Yeah, we both know that because if you were giving in to my demands, I would have had at least five orgasms by now instead of the one from my vibrator.”

Holy fuck, Emma. Never in my life would I have imagined such a sentence coming from her sweet little mouth, but with every day we spend together I see a different side of her that I fucking like. Sassy, smart . . . sexy.

“I told you not to be salty.”

“And I told you to fuck me. I guess we both don’t listen to each other.” She winks and turns toward the kitchen door just as it starts to swing open. Phillip steps out first, holding a towel in his hand, leading the march like he’s the front man of a boxing posse.

In the right corner, we have Tucker Jameson, construction worker, and all around sex throb. In the left corner we have . . .

My mind goes blank as Floats Like a Barge Marge steps into view. Turning to the side to fit her shoulders through the doorway, a six-foot-five woman stomps—yes, stomps—toward me wearing a white apron, hair net, and white knee-high stockings. I gulp as she smiles, revealing a lovely gold shade set of teeth. With one swipe of her paw, this woman can flatline me in a second, and I’m a big fucking dude.

“There he is, the man of my wet dreams,” she says in the deepest voice I’ve ever heard come out of a woman. Step aside, James Earl Jones, we have a new Mufasa in the running. She holds out her foot-long hand and shakes mine. “I’m Floats Like a Barge Marge. And you, my little dumpling are . . .” She releases my hand and squeezes my cheeks together with her man-claw.

Barely able to talk over the clamp she has on my face, with my lips puffed out like a fish, I say, “Tucker. It’s a pleasure.”

FLAB Marge—Floats Like A Barge, see what I did there—lightly taps my cheek and says, “Oh no, the pleasure is all mine.” She rubs her hands together, looks down at my abs, and licks her lips. “I’m ready when you are.” She strokes her jaw and oddly winks at me. “And don’t worry, dumpling, I shaved this morning for you. This is one fresh face.”

Annnnnnd, my penis just shriveled up inside itself.

I glance at Emma who, with tears streaming down her face and her hand over her mouth, is silently laughing. Once again, seeing her so happy has me by the balls. With a sigh, knowing this will make Emma’s day, I lift my shirt up, close my eyes, and let Floats Like a Barge Marge do her thing.

***

“This is my wallpaper for the rest of my life!” Emma hugs her phone to her chest as we walk into another little shop on Main Street, Skaneateles.

“Laugh it up, pretty girl.” I shut the door behind us and take in the eclectic store full of house décor, quirky kitchen supplies, and coined tourism gifts.

She bumps my shoulder with hers and shows me her phone once again. It’s a picture of me with my shirt up, abs exposed, and a cringe on my face as FLAB Marge rubs her prickly face against my skin. Hands down, the worst ten seconds of my life—not really, but fuck, it’s pretty high up there. I’m scarred for life.

“I’d rather not reminisce on what happened back there.” I rub my stomach. “I’m not shitting you, I think she gave me beard burn on my skin.”

“She did not.” Emma laughs.

“She did. Ever heard of aftershave, Marge?” I pick up a wine stopper that looks like a daisy and then set it back down. Pointless crap, that’s what all this shit is.

“Maybe we can pick some up and you can give it to her, you know, as a little thank you for the experience.”

“And why the hell would I do that?”

She loops her arm through mine and rests her head on my shoulder. “Because you’re a nice guy?”

I kiss the top of her head. “Not that nice, babe. Hate to say it but my time with Floats Like a Barge Marge is over. It was a one-and-done deal. She got hers, I got to see you drink pickle vodka, which you took down like a champ amazingly, and now the moment is over. We’re moving on.”

“What’s Racer’s phone number? I want to send this picture to him.”

Or we’re not moving on . . .

“If you really think I’m going to give you his number, you’re delusional.”

She snakes her hand around my waist to my coat pocket and fishes around for my phone. I twist away from her and bump into a display of soybean candles, causing a slight clash of the jars against each other.

“Please no horsing around inside,” the shop owner calls out, sounding like a grumpy old coot.

Emma, of course, blushes in embarrassment and apologizes while scurrying toward me, trying to hide her face. From behind, I wrap my arms around her and whisper in her ear, “Oooooo, you got in trouble.”

Her boney little elbow flies into my stomach as she whispers, “You got in trouble too.”

I laugh and grip her tighter, ceasing her little elbowing attempts. “Yeah, but whereas it matters to you when you get in trouble, I couldn’t care less.”

It’s true. Emma has always been the goody two shoes, the compassionate and caring one. I’ve lived a hardened life and getting in trouble is nothing new to me. It’s actually quite fucking endearing to see how someone like Emma cares so much when she’s “scolded.” Fuck, it makes me want to wrap my entire body around her and protect her, tell her the world isn’t coming to an end just because she was lightly reprimanded.

I come to her side and put my arm around her shoulder as we continue to walk around the store. Her hand links with mine so she’s holding my arm that’s wrapped around her body. She’s affectionate, really affectionate actually, and I like it. I’ve liked that she hasn’t shied away when I’ve kissed her in public today, or that holding my hand has been a must for her while walking around. Stopping us in our tracks just to give me a hug comes so naturally to her, and I really like that.

Growing up, there was no affectionate mom in my life. Mine was neglectful. I would get hugs from friends’ parents when I was young, friends, when I got older, but I’ve never truly experienced the affection Emma dishes out. It’s sincere, wanted . . . needed.

“Oh my gosh, look,” she gushes as she drags me over to the kitchen area. Retreating from my arms, she slips her hands into a pair of lobster claw-shaped oven mitts and holds them up for me to see. “You need these.”

Attacking me with the oven mitts, she tries to pinch me but I dodge her while laughing. “Why the hell do I need those? So you can chase me around the house, playing demon lobster mistress?”

She pauses, holds the lobster claw mitt up to her chin and ponders for a second. “I never thought of that, but now you mention it, we are so getting these. I was just thinking you needed oven mitts since you don’t have any. But now that you mention this little lobster pinching game, it’s a slam-dunk buy for me.”

“Slam-dunk buy, huh?”

“Absolutely.” She jukes around, trying to pinch me but I’m too quick for her. When she reaches for my stomach, I yank on her arm and pull her into my chest where I trap her, arms at her side. No pinching is going to get her out of this little cage.

“What are you going to do now? Your little punk claws can’t help you here.”

“That’s what you think.” She wiggles in my arms but gets nowhere.

“All you’re accomplishing right now is some great friction between us. Face it, Emma, you’re trapped.”

“That’s what you think, but . . . with . . . just . . . urghhh, why are you so strong?”

“I work out every day and also do construction for a living. I’ve got muscles, babe.”

She struggles some more and says in a strained voice, “Yeah, but do you have brains? Hi-ya!” Out of the blue, she stomps on my instep, which frees her from my grasp, sending her into a turning wheel of booklets. The display topples over, and in cute Emma fashion the lobster claw oven mitts go to her mouth in shock. She looks completely horrified.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.”

The shop owner marches toward us, the depths of hell in her eyes as she starts picking up the display Emma knocked over. “I told you not to horse around. I’m going to have to ask you to vacate the store.”

“Oh gosh.” Emma starts fumbling around, trying to help the shop owner with the display but is useless with her lobster hands. “Um, can I just get these items real quick before we leave?” Faster than I’ve ever seen her, Emma floats around the store and plucks random items from the shelves. She holds them to her chest as she walks over to the counter and plops them down.

I stand aside and chuckle to myself. Guilt purchases. That’s what she’s doing. She’s buying a bunch of shit because she feels guilty. I wouldn’t expect anything less.

Annoyed and wanting to get us out of the store as soon as possible, the owner leaves the collapsed display and starts checking-out Emma. When the total comes into view, Emma pulls out her wallet but I hand the owner my card before Emma can. I wrap an arm around her and kiss the side of her cheek. “I got it, babe. Consider it a little thank you for spending the day with me.”

Still slightly embarrassed, she mouths a thank you and puts away her wallet.

Disgruntled, the owner packs us up and sends us on our way. I hold on to Emma’s hand tightly, while I carry our goodies with the other and lead her outside into the chilly air.

“She was pleasant.”

“We destroyed her store. I feel so bad,” Emma replies.

“Don’t; we just spent over one hundred dollars in her little store. I’m not even sure what the hell we bought.”

“Me either,” Emma deadpans before looking at me and chuckling. “I was so nervous, I grabbed whatever I saw and blacked out in the process. Shall we look in the bag?”

Two lobster claw oven mitts, an Earthly Embrace soybean candle, garden-patterned cocktail napkins, eleven-bean soup mix, hummingbird feeder mix, and two “wine glasses” made of solo cups and plastic stems later, we’re in my truck, hands linked, laughing about the big night we have planned ahead of us with all our new goods.

***

“This soup really isn’t that bad,” Emma says while plugging her nose and bringing her spoon to her mouth. “You just have to avoid breathing when you eat it.” It should have a warning label saying, “Rancid. Do not smell while consuming.”

My bowl of the eleven-bean soup Emma snagged while at the kitchen store rests a foot in front of me, barely touched.

“Yeah, I’ve heard food critics talk about how NOT smelling the aroma of your food is the way to really enjoy a meal. The more pungent, the better.” I grab my very white trash-esque solo cup wine glass and bring it to my lips, trying to get past the Angry Orchard that’s inside it. It was, unfortunately, the only booze in the house, and I needed booze to make it through this soup, therefore I had no choice.

Emma sits back in her chair, grabs one of the cocktail napkins we bought, and dabs at her face. “It really is unpleasant soup, isn’t it? And what’s the crunchy thing in there? I’m all for texture in a meal, but I’m not quite sure what that crunchiness is.”

“No fucking clue. I took two bites and was done.”

She sighs and then smiles while she lifts up her hand, which is covered in red. “At least we got these bitchin’ oven mitts.” Lifting up my hand as well, the one that’s donning the other oven mitt—she made me—we high-five across the table.

“I can’t imagine ever topping such a prestigious buy. Not everyone can be as lucky as us,” I say, playing into her delusional purchases. I look over at the soybean candle we have lit and say, “I will admit, that candle smells damn good. It was a risky purchase, buying a candle without taking a sniff test, but your spontaneous purchase paid off.”

“So would we say I only had one dud for the day?” She nods at the soup.

I hold up my fingers. “Two, babe. Hummingbird mixer?” It’s the “centerpiece” of our weird dinner she threw together for us. In her words, she didn’t want it to feel left out.

“But it looks so pretty sitting in the middle of this ornate card table.” She pulls a Vanna White and shows off the table, motioning her arms around our mishmash of a dinner table.

“So ornate. I really enjoyed seeing warning signs of human digestion on the mixer container while I tried to suck down that soup. Made for an appealing atmosphere.”

She chuckles, turns the hummingbird mix to see the warning labels and cringes. “Maybe not the best, but,” she holds up her finger and says, “I have an idea. Take your drink and oven mitt over to the sofa and I’ll meet you there.”

“Are things about to get kinky?” I wiggle my eyebrows at her.

“You wish.”

She clears the table, which I feel guilty about. There is a need inside me to take care of her, and clearing the dishes, although simple, seems like something I should help out with, but knowing Emma, she would snip at me if I didn’t do what I was told. Therefore, I pick my drink up off the table and head over to the sofa. The only light in the room is from the small chandelier in the dining room, but it makes for some great mood lighting.

I press my body against the armrest and lift my legs on the cushions so I’m spanning the length of the entire sofa. I place my oven mitt hand behind my head and wait. When Emma returns, she saunters over to me in her cute heart-covered pajama set with a spoon and a gallon of ice cream.

“Up for a different kind of dinner?”

“I’m always up for dessert for dinner. What flavor?”

“Chocolate chip cookie dough, the best kind.”

“Can’t argue with you there.” I pat my lap. “Have a seat, beautiful.”

She raises an eyebrow at me. “You expect me to just sit on your crotch?”

“Normal people call it sitting on a lap, but if you prefer to say crotch, we can lean that way.”

“It’s your crotch,” she replies with indignation before letting out a heavy breath, as if my request is borderline torture. Regardless, she straddles my lap before sitting down, and I didn’t miss the little smirk on her face as she did so.

She places the ice cream in front of us and holds out the spoon for me. Not wanting to prolong my dinner much longer, I remove the oven mitt despite her protest, snag the spoon, and take a big scoop and plop it in my mouth.

“Hey, I thought we were wearing the oven mitts.”

“It’s getting in my way of ice cream time.”

I take another bite and relish in the cold, creamy taste of the vanilla base. When I swallow, I notice Emma’s eyes trained on my throat, her lips wet from her tongue, and I can’t help wondering what’s going through that pretty head of hers.

“Want a bite?” I ask her.

She nods and licks her lips again. Despite her sitting on my lap, she’s still at eye level with me, which I enjoy because it’s like I can see straight into her soul, into her desires. Right now, without a doubt in my mind, Emma isn’t just thinking about ice cream.

I scoop some ice cream out with the spoon and feed her a bite. I watch in fascination as her mouth closes around the spoon and sucks the ice cream off with a more powerful force than I was expecting. Hell, this woman surprises me every single day.

Sweet, motherly Emma— the girl I knew in high school and at our parties—is not in the house tonight. When it’s just us, there is this electric energy about her. It floats between us. Masked is the girl who holds back the hair of her friends. Disguised is the girl who warns us about using coasters, or the selfless girl who’s busying herself cleaning up after others rather than enjoying the moment. Instead, I’m graced with this lively spirit who is sucking me into her little world of sassy imagination. I want to get lost and live on nothing but her smile, her jokes, and her incredibly beautiful charm.

When I pull the spoon from between her lips, I watch her mouth expertly work the ice cream around, and when she swallows, all I can think about is what it would be like to see that sinister mouth wrapped around my cock, taking everything I can give her.

Eyes trained on each other, Emma takes the spoon from me, scoops a ball of ice cream and brings it to my mouth. I don’t break eye contact with her; instead I stare into those pools of blue, and open wide, letting her slip the spoon into my mouth. I close around the utensil slowly and pull the ice cream off. Her eyes widen and then turn heady when I lift the spoon vertically and lick the metal. Her spare hand that isn’t holding the spoon with me floats down her neck, her fingertips grazing her long column until they get to her collarbone. Oh hell. That’s sexy. And she has no clue.

I follow her fingertips with my eyes, watching how they graze tenderly across her skin. I imagine my tongue following the same route. When she starts to plunge her fingers down toward the buttons of her top, the pit of my stomach rumbles to life with heat and my cock starts to strain at the zipper of my jeans.

Expertly one-handed, she undoes the top button of her shirt, and then the second and third. Before she goes on with the fourth, she parts the shirt ever so slightly so I can see the swell of her cleavage. Her hair floats like a fucking cloud over her shoulders, cascading down to where her shirt is open for me. How can I not imagine what she would look like with just her hair covering her breasts? The image in my head makes me even fucking harder.

Not feeling like ice cream any longer, I take the spoon, put it in the carton, and set them on the ground next to the sofa. When my hands are free, I immediately grip Emma’s waist and reposition her on my lap so she’s a little closer and so her pussy is lined up perfectly with my erection. When I settle her down, she gasps, her eyes widening and her breath uneasy.

I bite my bottom lip and look down at her, nodding at her shirt for her to continue. A small smile slides across her mouth as she starts to unbutton the rest, button by button, deliberately taking her time, which I can appreciate because this girl is worth taking time with.

When she reaches the bottom, she doesn’t open her shirt, instead she leaves it so I can only see two inches of her soft skin peeking through. She leans forward and the fabric dips with her as she places her hands on my stomach and slowly works them under my shirt. Her palms feel like fire against my skin, igniting me with a sexual awareness I haven’t felt in a very long time. As she moves her hands up my stomach, her fingers inspecting every contour of my abs, she brings my shirt up with her until her hands are on my pecs.

Our breaths are heavy with anticipation, of the sparks kindling between us, of the built-up tension that’s on the brink of detonation. My heart hammers rapidly under the palm of her hand as the air between us stills. Our souls connect in this moment. It’s as though we’re making a silent vow to one another that our friendship will never be the same, but what resides in our near future has the promise of parallel serendipity beyond anything we’ve ever experienced.