31. Arden
31
ARDEN
When I devised the week-long plan, I figured that’d be all I’d need to shore up my skills.
Or, really, to develop the skills, but as I glance at the clock in the store that afternoon, I’m keenly aware that we have only a few days left to knock out the rest of my list.
Theoretically, we could go on indefinitely, but that’s not fair to him, or me. The longer this goes on, the harder it will be to separate heart and head.
Besides, the whole point of this research project is so I have the skills for the next time a handsome man strides into my store and asks me out.
Or the next time I decide to ask a man out.
That’s what I should be focused on—my newfound confidence. Not whether my best guy friend would slide out of the friend zone and into the romance zone with me.
Because . . . THAT WON’T HAPPEN.
Right now, though, the person coming into my store isn’t a potential date, but the next meeting of one group of book club ladies. Miriam wanders in first, saying hello, followed by CarolAnn, Sara, and Allison.
They settle in, discussing a new book this time—Nora Roberts’s Year One , an apocalyptic journey through a ravaged United States in the aftermath of a virus.
“Think about all the skills you would need at the end of the world,” Sara says in her husky voice, peering at her crew over her cat-eye glasses as I reorganize the shelves.
Allison, of the nipple clamps, chimes in. “Exactly. What happens to me in an apocalypse? I'm a painter. It’s not as if there’s going to be any need for painters."
Miriam chuckles. "It makes you realize the value of experience. You actually have to get out and do things. Try things."
I slide some new travel books into the section on Denmark, battling Henry, who seems to think Copenhagen belongs next to Buenos Aires. He paws at Ten Things to Do in Denmark , and I gently remind him to keep his mitts in his own business. “Entirely wrong hemisphere,” I tell the cat as Sara weighs in on this new world order.
“I’d have to learn all the things I don't know. I couldn't fake my way through it,” she says. “I’d have to figure out how to fish. Learn how to catch my dinner in the river."
Miriam glances up and meets my eyes. “Arden, what do you think?”
I point to Sara. “I’m sticking with her in this scenario. Since I’ve no clue how to fish, and she seems determined to find dinner.”
Miriam laughs. “See? Brains matter. Arden has a plan. Glom onto the fisherwoman.”
“Clearly, there won’t be a great need for bookstores or book clubs, but if you ladies are the survivors, I can also cook the fish for our little community,” I offer.
Allison cracks up. “I like that approach. You have to be willing to roll up your sleeves and try all sorts of new things."
CarolAnn stares at Allison with curious eyes. “‘Try new things’ is your mantra.”
Allison smiles like she has a secret. “I do like trying new things.”
CarolAnn makes a rolling gesture with her hands as if to say serve up the goods . “Is this the moment you tell us about how you learned some crazy new position in bed, like you were telling us the other week when you tried the wheelbarrow?”
Miriam slaps her linen-clad thigh, and the book club ladies all slide back into their bawdy style, talking about what they’d do to pass the time at the end of the world. “Allison will be busy trying new things then,” Miriam says.
Sara chimes in with, “After catching the fish and hunting for food, the only thing to do would be sex. There would be no cell phones.”
“Don’t look to me to repopulate though. I’m in menopause,” Allison says, joined by a chorus of Hear! Hear!
As they chat about their apocalyptic sex plans, I take inventory not only of my shelves, but of my own plans.
Is it true that there’s no substitute for experience? Can I really learn how to catch a fish by pretending to catch a fish?
A shiver runs up my spine as I think about the difference between pretending and reality.
I wonder how risky it would be to cross that line tonight.
Maybe it won’t be too dangerous.
After all, if I can continue to keep this —my heart—under lock and key, I should be fine.
Perfectly fine.
* * *
That night, while the dinner I cook for Gabe warms in the oven, I take a shower, then dry my hair, brush some powder on my face, comb mascara on my eyelashes, and spread a new jasmine lotion up and down my smoothly shaven legs.
Am I really doing this?
I look in the mirror and take a deep breath, answering my own question.
I am doing this.
I grab the apron from my bed and wrap it around my waist then over my breasts, tying it at the neck. It covers me, but only barely. It’s sinfully short and hits me mid-thigh. I slip on a pair of simple white panties, since I’m not ready to answer the door with nothing on beneath this scrap of frontal nudity–covering fabric.
I step into a pair of black heels and stare at my reflection again.
You are crazy.
But crazy has never felt so seductive or sensual. That’s exactly how I look and precisely how I feel.
I do something else I’ve never done. I snap a sexy selfie, but it’s not a full body shot. It’s only a sliver of me, enough to show my thigh, the apron, and the tie around my waist.
It’s an appetizer.
Feeling daring and loving it, I send it to him.
Seconds later, my phone pings with a text.
Gabe: It’s now official. Let the record reflect, there is nothing sexier than an apron.
But what’s sexier is the next note he sends.
Gabe: Allow me to amend that. Nothing sexier than an apron on you. And while I’m giving official pronouncements, I’ll just add, so it’s clear: I CAN’T FUCKING WAIT TO SEE THE REST OF IT.
A knowing smile spreads across my face. I can’t wait for him to see it too.
Arden: I’m ready . . .
As I hit send, I let that word roll around my brain. Ready. I feel ready to answer the door. The food is cooked, the coconut bars are done, and now I'm going to live out a fantasy.
I'm not really sure why my fantasy has been to answer the door in an apron and little else. I think it’s the sheer incongruity of the moment. The idea that a woman can be cooking and working and reading, and then do something entirely risqué.
She can completely floor her man.
As I return to the kitchen to check that everything’s ready, I stop in my tracks like a cartoon character whacked into awareness by a frying pan.
Surprise.
I'm missing the element of surprise. I've already told him I’ll be wearing an apron.
I’ve detailed this fantasy. I’ve delineated every step. I sent him a freaking photo, for crying out loud. There’s no more mystery. There’s no gift for him to unwrap.
But that’s the fantasy—the surprise.
I want to witness the shock in his eyes.
I want to experience how his shock sends electricity shooting all over my body, reaching to every cell.
I want to stun him into . . . arousal.
When that stark truth hits my brain, I know I need to change my plans. I’m not sure what to do with all this desire, but I know what to do with the fantasy.
I scurry to my bedroom, untie the apron, and toss it onto the bed.
I slide off the cotton panties, rummage through my top drawer, and find something I bought for myself a few months ago. Something pretty, just for me.
A burgundy lace push-up bra, with matching low-rise panties.
That’s it.
I put them on.
The doorbell rings.