Chapter 39
LOREN
Meg
We need to talk.
Oh no.
The dreaded “we need to talk.”
Did something else bad happen? I’ve been secretly double- and triple-checking all traffic and haven’t found any errors. What if something slipped through the cracks?
Then again, Meg did tell me to meet her in the break room, not the conference room, so maybe this isn’t dire.
Unfortunately, she’s not here yet, so I’m left waiting and worrying and stewing in that worry until a squeal erupts from outside the break room that makes The Librarian nearly drop his entire bowl of noodles.
Meg bursts through the door, jazz hands high and a grin splitting her face. “Ahhhh! I got the house!”
I leap to my feet, a squeal of my own screeching through my lips as we jump up and down for joy. This is huge! “Which one?”
“The one with the window!”
“That one’s so cute!”
“I know, right?”
“Wait. I thought you didn’t get that one.”
“Turns out, the people who outbid me had issues with the mortgage and backed out before the papers were signed. I’m buying my own freaking house!”
Meg is still beaming as she retrieves our lunch from the fridge—two pepperoni rolls, courtesy of the new café that opened down the street.
“We should go out to celebrate.” The offer isn’t entirely selfless. If I don’t get out of my apartment, I’m going to do something stupid like jump my roommate. Before I can explain all that, the Gray Ghost steps into the breakroom.
Meg claps her hands beneath her chin, startling the poor Ghost so bad he fumbles his gray coffee mug.
“Bowling?”
I shake my head. “I love The Alley, but I was actually thinking of something a little fancier.”
“Ohhh…. You want to go out-out.”
“That’s right.” Tonight, we’re going out-out.
I stand in front of my mirrored closet, checking my new dress from all angles.
The thong I’m wearing leaves underwear lines in the black silk.
Men are so lucky they don’t have to worry about stupid stuff like underwear lines.
If I had my way, I’d be wearing a pair of cotton underwear that covers my whole ass, but no.
Underwear lines are forbidden. Women must be smooth and perfect at all times, from their faces to their asses.
All my other thongs are lacy and will show.
I should just go without.
Imagine me going out in public without underwear. Talk about scandalous.
You know what? I deserve a bit of scandal in my life. I’m going to do it. I slip off my thong and then turn around to check the back. Not a line in sight.
Perfect.
Since smooth is the new theme, I drag my forgotten straightener from one of the boxes I have yet to empty beside my bed.
Thirty minutes later, my hair is as smooth and straight as my skirt.
It’s a fruitless exercise, really, because the moment my hair finds even a hint of humidity it’ll be frizz city, but until then, I am sleek and svelte.
Two words I would normally never use to describe myself.
When I step out of my room, I feel like a million bucks. The men of Nashville are in for a treat tonight. I’m not coming home until I have someone else’s spit in my mouth.
Okay, that’s gross. Let’s try again.
I’m not setting foot back in this apartment until someone else’s mouth has erased the feeling of Elliott’s soft, perfect lips against mine.
Elliott is on the couch, his back to me, Ross and Rachel arguing on the TV screen. He has a glass of water in his hand instead of a beer. Interesting.
Not that I care about the change. He can drink whatever he wants just like I’m going to drink whatever I want.
“Hey,” he says without turning around. “I was thinking about ordering pizza for dinner. Do you want some—” He throws a look over his shoulder and his question dies a slow, quiet death. His eyes widen, blazing a trail from the dress’s square neckline to my red heels.
The answer to Elliott’s unfinished question is an unequivocal yes. I do “want some.” From the way his eyes darken, it looks like he does too. But since that’s not going to happen, I shall get “some” elsewhere.
Slowly his gaze climbs, up, up, up, but his eyes never reach my face. Instead, they’re very clearly stuck on my chest.
“Are you wearing what I think you’re wearing?” he says in a reverent whisper.
“Maybe.” I bite my lip to keep from adding, “And nothing else.”
He lifts his glass to his mouth but never gets that sip because his lips flatten. “And you’re wearing it tonight.”
“That’s right.”
He adjusts his hold on the glass, his knuckles going white. “Is there any particular reason you’re wearing it tonight?”
I wish he’d stop being such a coward and ask me straight out whatever question is in his head instead of dancing around it. But that isn’t Elliott’s style. He’d rather be all cryptic and shit.
Idiot.
I shrug as casually as I can. “I’m going out.”
“On your own?”
“With Meg.” Not that it’s any of his business. I mean, if he wants to make it his business, I’d totally be open to negotiations. But since he tricked—sorry, goaded, me into kissing him two days ago, he hasn’t brought it up once.
It’s like it never even happened.
But it did happen, and my vibrator has been getting a serious workout these past few nights as a result. Like the wise Meg once said: If he wanted to be my boyfriend, he would have said so. If he wanted to date me properly or for us to be exclusive, he would have said so.
Instead, he chose to say nothing.
Which brings us to this moment.
“Is that okay with you?” I ask.
He finally takes that drink, a big gulp that makes his Adam’s apple bob. Why is that so hot? It’s just a lump in his throat, but for some reason, I have this crazy urge to lick his. I’d lick all of him if he’d let me.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” he mutters.
Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because we kissed each other’s faces off and he hates the thought of me doing the same with someone else.
Men.
His loss.
Except as I hurry to answer the knock at the door, it feels a lot like my loss too.
Meg is smoking in a tight blue dress and a pair of nude stilettos.
“Damn.” I whistle through my teeth. “My best friend is hot.”
Her long layers fall over her shoulders when she laughs. “You’re one to talk. Turn around and let me see your ass in that dress. Fabulous. Just fabulous. I need you to know that I am one hundred precent borrowing that next weekend.”
With her boobs, she would absolutely slay in this dress. “Oh! I haven’t even shown you the best part! It has pockets. See?” I don’t know why it’s a requirement to stuff your hands into the pockets and flap them around to prove the existence of said pockets, but it is.
“Convenient.”
“So convenient.” And they’re big ones, too. Not like those Thumbelina pockets in most women’s clothing. I could fit both our phones in these things—not that I will since I’m trying to avoid unnecessary lumps.
Elliott is watching us from the couch with a scowl that would be scary if I cared about what he thought.
Meg glowers right back. “Oh, hey, idiot.”
Elliott blinks at her, his scowl transforming into this confused little furrow between his brows. “Did you just call me an idiot?”
Meg’s maniacal laughter makes me jump. “What? Of course not. I said Elliott.”
I bite my lip to keep from bursting out laughing. “Bye, Elliott.”
He twists back to the TV, telling me to have fun. I tell him that I will. And then I add, “Don’t wait up,” for good measure, kinda hoping he waits up anyway.
Meg said she wanted to come check out her new neighborhood. It’s trendy and cute with tons of little bars and restaurants. Who would’ve thought that all of this existed right across the river from honky-tonk central?
We had the twenty-minute drive to gush over my kiss with Elliott and commiserate over her woeful love life. But ever since we stepped inside the bar, Meg and I have been reduced to communicating via hand signals. I like loud music as much as the next girl, but it’s not conducive to conversations.
Maybe we should’ve just gone to The Alley.
As we push our way through the crowd, she curls her hand like she’s holding an imaginary glass and tips it toward her mouth.
I nod. A drink is exactly what I need.
She grabs my hand so we don’t lose each other and together we squeeze between everyone, snaking our way to the bar.
Five minutes later, Meg already has hearts in her eyes.
When the dark-haired guy she’s chatting with looks away, she glances over her shoulder at me, gesturing to her own toned arms and waggling her brows.
She’s an arm girl, and the guy she’s snagged is cut.
Since I didn’t hear a word he said when he introduced himself to us, I’ve lovingly named him Timmy Triceps.
“You wanna dance?” someone shouts into my ear, rattling my eardrum.
I shake my head at the stranger in a pinstriped button down.
He’s left the top four buttons undone, exposing a very tanned, very toned chest. Unfortunately, he looks like he loves himself a little too much to entice me.
Plus, I could never take a man seriously when his eyebrows are more groomed than mine.
“No thanks.” I need at least three more drinks before I feel like finding some lucky guy to grind up on.
A vision of Elliott in the kitchen flashes like a strobe light. If he were here, I wouldn’t need any drinks at all.
Idiot is right.
While Meg works her magic on “Timmy,” I sip my gin and tonic and pull out my phone.
My stomach flutters when I see a text from Elliott. He sent a screenshot of a red bra with a question mark.
I snort so hard, my drink goes right into my lungs.
9:15 PM
Not even close
Three dots pop up and another photo comes through. A silky brazier my grandma would have worn.
Warmer
What am I doing? I’m not supposed to be on my phone flirting with my roommate when I should be making eyes at someone who wants me as much as I want him.
I’m sick of being in one-sided situationships with guys who don’t even deserve to have my number.
This time, when my phone buzzes, I ignore it.
Who is this new Loren and where did she get a backbone?
I think I love her.
Moving to Tennessee might not have worked out the way I hoped, but I’m still here, aren’t I? I’m finally supporting myself; I have a job I enjoy, and one of the best girlfriends I could ever hope for.
All in all, it hasn’t been so bad.
At least that’s what I think until I look up and see Josh waltz through the door.