Ten days, four hours until Halloween
Jude
You still alive?
I text Corinne at eight. I’ve been waiting at a table for an hour, sipping on water, reading the news.
Vilma stops by my elbow. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Cabot. I know you’ve had to wait. Both of my evening-shift girls called in sick, so we’ve been trying to cover. My morning girl just arrived, and so things will pick up soon.”
Fuck. Her morning girl.
But I smile at her. “It’s fine, Vilma. No worries.” She pats my arm and takes her leave, and I text Corinne again.
Do you have an ETA? Should I order for you?
I put my phone on the table, and as I do, Zoe sees me from across the room. Her eyes light up, and she literally stops what she’s doing. She makes a beeline straight for me, and it’s like I’m the only one on the planet who is important. A thrill shoots up around my heart, causing it to pound.
“Hey, sailor,” she murmurs when she reaches my elbow. She smells like drugstore perfume, but it works for her, a tangy loud scent of flowers and fruit. She’s got on too much, but that’s her personality. She’s blatant, she’s obvious.
“I thought we established that I’m not a sailor.” I arch my eyebrow, and I can’t help but smile. She’s flirting with me. Who wouldn’t enjoy that?
My self-rationalization knows no bounds.
She shrugs. “I like sailors, though.”
She pauses, her pen above her pad. She takes the tip of it in her mouth and nibbles on it, then her pink tongue darts out to swirl around it, round and round.
“What would you like?” she almost whispers, and her breathy tone reminds me of Marilyn Monroe. Happy biiirrrthday, Mr. President... I bet JFK didn’t give one fuck about fantasizing.
I clear my throat. “I’m waiting on my wife. But I’ll have a salad to start, I think.”
She smirks a bit. “Why have salad when you can have steak?”
I feel my heart pounding against my ribs, threatening to break them.
“Are you the steak?” I ask bluntly, and the blood rushes through my temples in a roar. There’s no sense in pussyfooting around this.
Her lips part. “Maybe. Although I do know a guy with a great sausage.”
I startle at her bluntness because she’s referring to my dick pic, and I thought we were done with that. She throws her head back and laughs, sliding her hand down my arm as she slips into the seat next to me.
Her fingers are warm, and the heat bleeds through my shirt into my skin, making an imprint. I feel it throb, a foreign object in a place it shouldn’t be. I’m like a deer in the headlights, and I’m frozen.
“I’m sorry.” She giggles. “But the look on your face is priceless. I didn’t mean to have fun at your expense. I won’t mention it again. Probably.”
She giggles again, and I can’t help but chuckle, too.
“I deserved that,” I admit. “I really did. I’ll be more careful who I send pictures to from now on.”
“Not too careful, I hope,” she answers, and her carefully sculpted eyebrows are raised, her eyes staring boldly into mine without flinching.
Now I’m really stunned, and I can’t help but engage. I can’t help it. Her bluntness draws me in. It’s refreshing and we’re just talking.
“I thought dick pics don’t do it for you.”
She smiles, a grin that stretches from one side of her mouth to the other.
“Maybe I liked yours,” she tells me. “It’s everything I like...long, strong and hard.”
Jesus.
She doesn’t miss a beat, as though she doesn’t know my heart is pounding a million miles per hour.
“I’ll go get your order in.”
When she stands up, she slides her full tits along my shoulder, and there’s suddenly a lump in my throat as I watch her walk away, her young ass perfectly formed, like an upside-down heart.
This is wrong. I’m a dumbass. I should run.
But wait, the devil on my shoulder whispers. You’re not doing anything but talking. What’s the harm? Your wife will be here any minute. You’re good. You’re just here to eat with your wife.
I shove my misgivings away, and I lock them closed with a key, mentally handing it to my internal devil.
Fuck it.
As Zoe takes care of her other patrons across the room, I feel her watching me. It’s like a heated cord, running between the two of us, tying us together. I watch her smile at a middle-aged man, and as she flirts with him in front of his wife, she watches me from her periphery. I wonder if she’s trying to make me jealous, or if she’s vying for a bigger tip. Either way, she’s pissing off the wife.
Zoe sways when she returns to me with a glass of water. As she sets it down, I look at her. “You know, you don’t have to flirt for tips. Good service works just as well.”
She’s surprised by that but masks it quickly. “Oh, I perform very good service.”
Jesus, she never turns it off.
“But thanks for looking out for me. I’ll be right back with your food,” she purrs. “It just came up.”
A minute later, she’s setting a juicy steak down in front of me.
“Life is too short for salads.” She smirks, and I know she’s not talking about my meal. “I mean, if you really wanted the salad you ordered, I’ll go get you one. But I think you really want the steak.”
She’s the steak. She knows it, and I know it.
“This is fine,” I manage to say, and she laughs, trailing her hand across my back as she leaves to attend other patrons. I watch her sway and laugh and flirt, and I try not to, but my gaze keeps getting drawn back to her, over and over and over.
Her hips sway as she works the room, her skirt tight as she bends over. I picture what I would do with that ass, and...fuck.
My phone rings and I pick it up.
“Babe, I’m so sorry.” It’s Corinne. “Fields is stuck in Barbados, and he didn’t let us know until tonight. Lucy is trying to get someone here to take over for me, and I fell asleep in my chair. I’m so sorry. I’ll just have to see you at home.”
“That sucks,” I tell her honestly. “I wish I had known. I would’ve just stayed home.”
“I’m so sorry, Jude,” she says, and she sounds so sincere. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“Okay. Just try to get home early, okay? Maybe we can still salvage the evening.”
“Deal.” She hangs up, and I look up to find Zoe watching me, a strange look in her eyes.
I’ve got to get out of here.
I wolf down my food, and just when I look up to wave her over for my check, she’s in front of me with a drink in each hand.
“I don’t know what you like to drink,” she admits, setting one down in front of me. “But the rum and cokes aren’t bad. I’m off work now, so I need a drink, and you look like you do, too. Vilma’s drinks aren’t fantastic, but at least she has them. Most of these hole-in-the-wall places don’t.”
Son of a bitch. I didn’t get out of here fast enough, and here she is at my table, tucking her legs up under her. With her short skirt, I can actually see her crotch if I try. I pointedly look away.
“That’s one of the reasons I started coming here,” I tell her, watching the condensation drip down my glass. “Vilma’s has a liquor license. My wife used to like to come here on Sunday mornings for Bloody Marys with breakfast.”
“Oh?” Zoe’s eyebrow is raised again, and her lips are plump as she runs her tongue along the rim of her glass. I follow that pinkness with my eyes, imagining the wetness of it. “Why doesn’t she come anymore?”
“She comes sometimes.”
She giggles. “I’d think so, with a sausage like that in her bed.”
Damn it, I can feel my cheeks flush. I haven’t spoken with anyone like this but Corinne in fifteen years. It’s a rush that I can’t ignore as the blood pumps hard through my groin.
“I’ve had no complaints.” I sound smugger than I am as I gulp at my drink. Half of it slides down my throat in one big swallow.
“I bet.”
She smiles again and takes another sip, and this is okay. I’m talking about my wife, for God’s sake.
Zoe examines me over the rim of her glass, and she twirls her hair in her fingers.
“Tell me about you, Jude Cabot. You seem fascinating.”
“I’m not,” I assure her, but she’s already shaking her head.
“That’s a lie,” she protests. “You’re sexy as sin, you’re married, yet here alone talking to me. You’re confident, you’re strong. You’re in the prime of your life. That all sounds very interesting to me. Tell me your story. How long have you been married?”
She sips at her drink again, and this is all very conversational. She’s just a girl and I’m just a guy and we’re just having a chat. That’s all. I’m not wrong. This isn’t wrong. It can’t be wrong because we’re literally talking about my marriage.
I smile back.
“Fifteen years. Since college.”
“So...” Zoe counts on her fingers. “That should make you...what...thirty-five? Thirty-six?”
“Yep. Thirty-six.” I eye her clear skin, and the face that is unmarred by a single line or blemish. “You’re...twenty-five?”
“Bite your tongue, heathen!” She laughs. “I’m twenty-four.”
“That’s a fun age,” I tell her. “I was still eating ramen at that age, I think, while my wife was in med school, but it was good.”
“Your wife’s a doctor?”
I nod. “Yeah. In the emergency room.”
“She sounds very important.”
Somehow, Zoe’s words are complimentary, but her tone is unimpressed, almost droll.
“She is,” I tell her. Because Corinne is important. And smart and beautiful. But Corinne isn’t here right now, and this isn’t about her.
“What do you do?” Zoe asks now, and she’s so interested as she waits for my every word. God, it’s flattering.
“I’m a therapist. Marriage and family, obsessive disorders, depression, etcetera, etcetera.”
“Etcetera.” Zoe laughs. “How modest.”
“I’m a very modest guy,” I tell her. “Just ask me.”
She laughs again, and she’s so enthralled with what I’m saying that she literally is sitting with her face in her hands, waiting for me to speak. I’m trained in body language, and she’s turned toward me openly, tossing her hair every once in a while, her eyes smiling along with her mouth. She’s in this moment, and she’s enjoying it.
I’m her sole focus.
I can’t lie. It feels fucking good.
“Being a therapist must be so gratifying.” She sips at her drink. “You get to help so many people through their issues.”
“Well, I’m not a doctor like Corinne, but I make do.” Now I’m the droll one.
Zoe rolls her eyes. “You’re more important in your own way, I think,” she tells me. “You heal people’s minds.”
“Well, it’s all I ever wanted to do.” And that’s the truth. “My parents wanted me to be a psychiatrist, but I never wanted that. They end up being pill pushers. I wanted to learn to actually help my patients, not just overmedicate them.”
“That’s commendable.” Zoe nods. “You hear about so many people who are just fed antidepressants and that’s the end of it.”
My phone vibrates, and a message pops up. Zoe and I both glance at it.
I’m definitely not gonna make it. I’ll be home later.
Fuck.
Zoe takes a drink and stares at me over her glass. “Are you happy, Jude Cabot?”
It should be a simple question. It really should be. But here I am, talking to this girl while my wife is at work, and suddenly, I don’t know.
“Yes,” I tell her finally. “Of course I am.”
But am I? The question actually makes me uncomfortable, and I want to change the subject.
“Enough about me. What about you?” I ask. “What’s your story?”
I’m surprised to realize that I’m actually interested in hearing it. For the first time in fifteen years, I’m enjoying a conversation with a woman other than my wife over dinner.
Corinne was supposed to be here and she’s not.
I’m not doing anything wrong.
I’m not.