Chapter Nine Remi #2
Oh, but we were ignoring that night because it never happened. It didn’t exist.
The entire thing was a fever dream, best banished to the dark, scary part of my brain where I kept algebra and laundry best practices and how to iron clothes and all manner of things that were pointless.
No, today, we were focusing on the fact that I was proud of my body.
“Not bad, Sinclair,” I muttered, brushing through my wet hair and then twisting it up onto the top of my head.
While I slathered lotion over my legs and arms, Archer kept trying to elbow his way into my thoughts.
Talking to him. The sound of his voice. The way he’d watched me.
The way he’d touched me. My hands slowed, goose bumps lifting along my arms. Ness joked about my impossible standards and the eight-date rule attached to them, but that list came in handy.
Hadn’t I learned that in excruciating detail with my didn’t-really-happen run-in with Archer?
He was the antithesis of my list.
Too good-looking.
Too rich.
Too successful.
Arrogant.
Sex on legs.
Eyes on him all the time.
Nothing about him was quietly average, and that was why he was a big ol’ no for me.
Only one person in the last five years had gotten past dates five and six. He’d met every criterion on the list, and still I was reminded why it was best to proceed with caution.
I wanted a partner. A best friend. I didn’t want someone else to take care of, an overgrown man-child who needed another mom.
I also didn’t want an easy lay, because holy hell, was a vibrator a lot less hassle.
That was collecting dust in my drawer too.
By the time I hit my mattress at the end of the day, just reaching for it felt like more effort than I could spare.
I wasn’t even sure who I’d think of if I did.
Liar, liar, sensible panties on fire, a voice whispered in the back of my mind. It sounded an awful lot like Ness. If she was the voice of my conscience, I was in so much trouble.
Unbidden, a face slipped into my mind while I ran my hands over my shoulders and chest to rub in the last of the lotion. A strong jaw and blue eyes. Firm lips. Unsmiling mouth.
He sure didn’t look at me like I was a messy, tired single mom, but I didn’t know what his looks meant either. Eighty percent of the time, I wished I’d never met him.
Another ten percent didn’t necessarily regret what had happened. I just wanted him to go away.
Unfortunately, the last ten percent never should have seen the light of day. Blame it on hormones, blame it on a dry spell—whatever. It was there, and only when my life quieted down enough that my mind could wander away from to-do lists did it land on questions that I never should have been asking.
As you got older, it was easy to let certain parts of your personality fade, caught in the cycle of routine and just trying to get through each day.
What faded in me over the last ten years was that slightly rebellious girl, the one who’d snuck out when she was supposed to be asleep, and allowed the curious part of her nature to crank the engine and stomp on the gas.
The inquisitive, rebellious girl wasn’t gone, but it was only with Archer that she’d come out to play. She asked questions. She wanted to know things. She’d take a list meant to restrict potential partners and burn it to the fucking ground.
Even though I’d allowed her to fade, the questions remained.
What if I’d let him take me home that night? What would he be like in bed?
My hands trembled slightly as I rubbed lotion underneath the strap of my tank, because I knew. He’d be bossy. Demanding. Relentless.
Unwelcome desire curled through my veins, spinning heat through my stomach before I could stop it, and I squashed it like a bug.
Archer was the kind of man who’d have a veritable buffet of sex at his disposal, whenever he wanted it.
Maybe he didn’t look at me like I was a tired single mom, but that didn’t mean he was having naughty thoughts either.
His looks probably fell in the category of What’s wrong with her hair?
and Why isn’t she throwing herself at me like the rest of the Straight Female Under Fifty demographic?
Because I had standards. Because I had no time for playboys or Neanderthals or idiots who decided to drink and drive. No matter how big their muscles were. Or their hands. Or feet.
He had really big hands. And really big feet.
My eyes slammed shut.
Professional thoughts only, I scolded myself, my hands moving more briskly than they had been before. No thinking about Archer while hands were moving anywhere near my nipples.
I glared at the mirror because they had perked right up at the shift in my thoughts.
“Traitors,” I murmured, then flipped the light off and left the bathroom.
Halfway through putting away Gavin’s laundry, my phone rang again, and I wondered what would happen if there was a blood pressure monitor connected to my body.
That shit would probably jump so high every time I heard the ring.
The shelter’s number flashed across the screen.
“Ness, I have ninety minutes of freedom left. This better be good.”
“It is. You need to get over here.”
“Now?” I whined.
“Remi.”
“Ness.”
“Get your fine ass to the shelter.”
“Is it one of the dogs? Is Bandit all right?”
“That dog is so obsessed with me already. He’s not ready to show it, but I can tell in his eyes.”
“So what is it?”
“I’m not telling you shit, I want to see your face. Now, get over here.”