3. Cory
Chapter three
Cory
H uh. Usually I'm the one rushing them out the door, calling them an Uber, intentionally hogging the covers so they'll take the hint and leave. I've never had a woman practically sprint from my apartment after a night together and it feels…weird. I might not remember last night, but we must've clicked if we had sex multiple times, and in multiple rooms . She didn't even want to leave her number.
I head to the shower to rinse off the sting of…what? Embarrassment? I've got nothing to be embarrassed about. Neither of us remembered, and she's right that the two of us hooking up would be a recipe for disaster. But a 6am brush-off is hardly a stellar Yelp review…
I throw on a t-shirt, a pair of athletic shorts, and my black Under Armour kicks, hoping a good hard sweat and some fresh air will clear the uneasiness. This late in the day, I don't have the path to myself, weaving between moms with strollers, tourists snapping pics of the Bethesda Terrace and Fountain, and kids on their way to the soccer fields.
But as I pass the Ladies Pavillion on my jog, I'm still thinking about it. Denise is clearly not my biggest fan, and I'm used to that, but usually people don't like me because of something I did, not because of something I did to someone else. Maybe there's a "bros before hos" for women. Like…"chicks before dicks", maybe?
I check my watch and let out a frustrated grunt. I'm really feeling yesterday's excess. Most days, I run an eight-minute mile; today I'll be lucky if I hit twice that. I dig into my reserves for a burst of speed, but my hamstrings cry out in protest. Last night's sex must have been quite athletic.
Maybe it's bugging me because she's so cute? I can't get the thought of her dark nipples out of my head; I really wish I could remember sucking them, or maybe grabbing a handful of that luscious ass. She's a lot thicker than my usual partners, unless you count Bethany—
Nope. No. I will not think about Bethany. I push myself harder, like I can literally outrun her memory. If only it were that simple.
Back at my building, I'm drenched in sweat that smells a lot like Black Label and panting like I ran a marathon instead of just a few miles. I'm a stark contrast to the elegant marble and leather of the lobby, complete with an ornate blown glass chandelier by Dale Chihuly. I'm not big into art,—that's more of my oldest brother, Henry's thing—but even I had to stop and ask Mike at the front desk who made the piece.
Mike waves as I pass—he's hailed cabs for many of my lady friends and even had to keep a few from sneaking up to my apartment. I doubt he'll have that trouble with Denise…She couldn't get out of here fast enough.
In the quiet of the elevator, it hits me: I'm annoyed because we'll probably have to see each other again. She said it— See you around . And we will, because her best friend is married to my brother. For as long as the marriage lasts, she'll be there for every Halloween or Christmas party. She could show up at Thanksgiving. If Mom has anything to do with it, she might even pop up at the occasional Sunday dinner. This, and my bad blood with Maya, is exactly why I ruled the bridesmaids off-limits when I was sober enough to be smart. Now I'm stuck pretending I don't know what she looks like naked. That I don't secretly want a rematch to see if the sex is as good as I think it was.
I chuck my shirt into the dirty clothes hamper once I'm inside and walk to the kitchen to make my post-workout smoothie when the intercom buzzes. I jog back to press the button.
"Hello?"
"Hey," Mike's strong Staten Island accent answers. "I have a Ms. Jeffries here to see you?" The name doesn't ring a bell.
"Who?"
"A Ms. Denise Jeffries?"
I can't help the smile that spreads across my face. Well, well, well! It looks like I'll get my rematch after all.
"Send her up, Mike."
"Very good, sir."
The intercom cuts off, and I run to grab a fresh shirt before answering the knock on the door. Denise stands in my entryway looking sheepish. I don't bother hiding my smirk.
"Couldn't stay away, huh?"
She pushes past me into my apartment.
"Ha! Definitely not . I got all the way to my apartment before I realized I wasn't wearing my necklace. Have you seen it? It's a butterfly pendant with rubies on the wings on a gold chain."
She actually looks agitated. I guess this wasn't a ruse to sleep with me again.
"I haven't seen a necklace, but I also just got back from a run. I haven't had a chance to straighten up since you left."
She taps her foot impatiently.
"Do you mind if I have a look? I'm really hoping I lost it here and not at the venue last night."
I gesture toward my apartment.
"Be my guest."
She charges into the living room first, getting on her knees to look under the couch. I tear my eyes from her ass when she's on all fours and make my way to the kitchen to get started on the smoothie.
Over the rim of my blender, I can see her movements are almost frantic; she looks distressed. She takes off towards the bedroom and I instinctively follow her.
Without asking, I start helping her look, checking in the sheets, on my side tables, under the bed. There's still no sign of the necklace, and I whip my head around when I hear a sniffle from her side of the room. She's kneeling by my desk, clearly trying to hold back tears. I'm across the room in an instant.
"Whoa, Denise. It's OK. I'm sure it'll turn up." I'm not used to an emotional woman, let alone a crying one, so I have no idea what to do. She slumps into my desk chair, her eyes welling up.
"The necklace is…important to me. I really can't lose it," she whispers.
I'll do anything to keep those tears from spilling. Panicking, I put my arms around her shoulder.
"It's OK. We'll keep looking until we find it. Please don't cry."
She wipes her eyes and glares at me.
"I was not crying. I'm just a little emotional because I'm still hungover."
I look at her doubtfully, but her face is unreadable now. She jerks out of my embrace and nearly runs to the bathroom. Even with the door closed, I can hear her throwing up. Gross.
I knock softly when ten minutes pass and she's still barricaded inside.
"Denise? Do you…need something? Advil? Pepto, maybe?" No answer.
I drink my now lukewarm smoothie and pace the kitchen. Maybe I should call someone .
As soon as I have that thought, the door swings open, and Denise emerges. She's washed the makeup off her face and she looks…younger? Maybe not younger, but more innocent. Between that and the crying, I'm feeling strangely protective of this woman I've known barely ten minutes, half of which I was drunk.
"Sorry about that," she says, her brown cheeks pink with embarrassment. "I can be a bit of a weepy drunk."
"It's cool," I answer, concern thick in my voice. "Should I order a pizza or something to help settle your stomach? Hair of the Dog, perhaps?"
She drops her head into her hands.
"Oh my God. You heard that?"
I shrug.
"Throwing up after drinking too much is nothing to be embarrassed about. You just need a little grease in your stomach."
I can see her wheels turning. We just hooked up, and I'm supposed to be the enemy.
"Or you could risk throwing up on the train," I offer. "It's up to you."
She sighs and walks over to my couch, dropping onto the cushions with an unladylike plop.
"Bacon and pineapple, please. And buffalo wings."
I grin at the back of her head and pull out my phone to order.
Thirty minutes, an extra large pizza, and over a dozen wings later, and both of us are feeling more human. She's not tearing up anymore, at least. Aside from splitting up the delicious bounty when it arrived, neither of us has spoken much. The pounding in my head lessens with each bite, and I put on the Mets game to fill the silence.
She ate with gusto, taking multiple slices of pizza and licking her fingers after eating a particularly saucy wing. Since most of my dates order a garden salad with a side of water, her appetite is refreshing, though I know enough about women not to mention how much she eats. Not that this is a date, but—
"I should maybe leave my number," she mumbles around a bite of crust, cutting off my train of thought.
I raise an eyebrow.
"Isn't that going against the 'never come over again' plan we agreed to earlier?"
"It's not like that," she says, her cheeks flushing again. I suppress a smile. "If you find my necklace, like if you're cleaning or something, you need my number so I can come by and pick it up."
"Right." I hope she can't hear the disappointment in my voice.
"Also, with Maya and Adam together, we're going to run into each other from time to time. We might as well have each other's contact information for, you know… whatever ."
Something about the uncertainty in her voice makes me less wary. Thank goodness I'm not the only person unsure of what to do in this situation.
"That makes sense."
After we trade phones and contact information, she stands up awkwardly.
"Well, thank you for the meal. I'm heading out. For real, this time."
My lips quirk, and I'm struck by the uncontrollable urge to get under her skin.
"Oh yeah? Sure you won't be by tomorrow looking for something else? An earring, perhaps? Maybe a hair tie? There's no shame in wanting another taste."
Irritation blazes behind her eyes and I realize now why I provoked her; she's hot when she's angry. She stomps to the door in a huff, swishing her ass with every step.
"Just call me if you find the necklace, OK?"
I give her a small salute, and she gives me the finger before slamming the door behind her.
I chuckle to myself. Yeah. I'm definitely going to enjoy riling her up.