CHAPTER 3 #2
“Look, Mar, I’m not interested, okay? Yeah, I mean, he accidentally came close to the money shot.
” Touched the money shot directly. Caressed the money shot with perfect pressure and managed to pull an orgasm out of me that I still can’t believe was possible.
But whatever. “I was embarrassed, that’s all.
I ripped my jeans while diving after Mr. Mittens, and he scooped me up as I was falling off the branch. End of story.”
“You know that Pete and Darla are going to be setting you up tomorrow night? That fish dinner is going to be extra fishy. They’re going to be throwing out hooks to try to net you both together.”
“Yeah, though I think your metaphors are a little off.”
She waves her hand. “Whatever. You’re the writer, not me.”
For all the good it does. I’m still on the hook, pun notwithstanding, for dinner with the guy I hate more than I hate liver.
I sigh and look around my living room, as if, somehow, I’m going to find a way out of the invitation. But nothing in the white walls, pink and cream rug, white furnishings, and collection of bric-a-brac gives me an answer.
Shit. Sampson Dean entered my pink lair.
He’s going to be judging me on my stylistic choices and wondering why a dark vampire romance author chooses to decorate like she believes in unicorns and moonbeams. If he’s thinking about taking me to his Red Room, the avalanche of pink is going to make him reconsider.
Though, fuck him. I’m single. I can decorate how I want. Mr. Mittens doesn’t care.
But Sampson Dean might. He had to duck under the door frame, didn’t he?
My ceiling is, what? Nine feet? He was wearing those big, heavy fireman boots that have small heels, but even so, he came pretty close to bumping his head when he straightened.
Plus, he looked ridiculous among the flowery objets d’arts and feminine colors.
He took up all the air and space in the room.
I can’t even imagine how he’ll fit in my queen-sized bed.
He’ll… as in he will. When did I start picturing the jerk in my house? In my bedroom?
What the hell is wrong with me?
“You know, he broke up with Susan over a year ago,” Mari says, thankfully distracting me from thoughts of Sampson on my bed. “Plus, I mean, we’ve all heard the stories of the triplets and whatnot, but I don’t think there’s been anyone serious in his life since Susan.”
“Who’s Susan?” My attention is definitely diverted.
“Susan Crabtree? She lives over in Sunderland, in the valley?”
Sunderland is Mossburg’s arch-rival. While the Town of Mossburg perches on a flat part of a mountain top, a little village out of some fairytale book, replete with narrow Victorian homes and a downtown filled with cheer, Sunderland hosts factories, big businesses, and megamalls.
They think we’re quaint and stupid. We know they don’t have two brain cells to rub together, because who’d choose to live in a valley that floods when the snow melts every winter and would prefer traffic to idyllic charms?
I sniff. “Must not be very bright.”
“No, she was. Is. She’s a professor at UNCSU. Teaches ancient history.”
“Really? I love ancient history. Did I tell you about the chapbook of poems I’m working on that idolizes ruins?
Not that a chapbook will pay the bills, nobody buys poetry anymore, but you know how I’ve been wanting to write something serious, something meaningful.
” Plus, diving into deeper topics helps me gain some distance from vampires and dark sex.
With a stalled love life, I’ve been getting too wrapped up in a fictional world with fictional men.
Mari rolls her eyes, and is about to respond when the door to the basement slams against the frame.
She springs to her feet, and one second later, Nicholas appears, a full orange mustache on his face, and a bottle half-filled with soda in his hand.
“Oh, shit. Gotta run. I mean, shoot.” She sends her son a look before covering his ears with her palms. “Shit. Brownies. For the bake sale at the school tomorrow. Shit. I’m going to have to make another pan.
They’re burning as we speak. You sure you’re okay, Nina? ”
“Sure. Fine. Peachy.”
But she’s already pushing Nicholas through the door. He turns and waves before he disappears with her.
I flop my head back on the couch. Okay, fine, and peachy are relative terms. I mean…
The thing is, I’m not sure if I should be offended that I just allowed my enemy fireman to get me off, or gratified that I finally had an orgasm without the benefit of my trusty vibrator.
And did Sampson take advantage of me? Did I take advantage of him?
Am I supposed to be upset? Is he? What the hell are the social rules around a fireman’s rescue of a non-maiden from the desert of her dry spell and a tree?
I search my feelings, but all I can come up with is that he didn’t mean to touch me where he did, but when he noticed my reactions, he didn’t hesitate to make me happy.
I’m pretty sure if I had said anything, he would have removed his hand, but I didn’t.
I said yes, because I was enjoying the experience.
I didn’t say stop because I’m a horny bitch.
But did I force him to continue by not stopping him? The fine points of the morality in this situation are eluding me.
Next time it’ll be on purpose. You just tell me when.
Is it too soon to shout when?