Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
ADDISON
What’s better than a combo ladies’ night-graduation party at your bestie’s suburban home on a warm late-summer evening?
Knowing that at the end of the night, I get to meet up with my smokin’ hot stripper-lawyer of a boyfriend and have scorching sex until we pass out in each other’s arms from orgasm exhaustion.
“Okay, ladies, raise your glasses,” I say as I stand and hold my glass high above my head.
The two dozen or so women—Jane’s family, friends, classmates, and coworkers—dutifully follow in kind, some with less balance than others.
I think Aunt Martha had a couple of starter drinks before arriving with her daughters tonight.
That woman is as wild in her fifties as she probably was in her twenties.
I totally want to be her when I grow up.
“Here’s to our lady of the hour, Janey Wendall, social worker extraordinaire.
We’re so proud of you for finally getting that paper turned in—”
“Master’s thesis,” Jane corrects me ruefully.
“Right,” I say, then continue like I still don’t get it because it drives her crazy, which duh, is why I do it.
“For getting that short essay finally turned in…” She rolls her eyes as everyone laughs.
Once I’ve gotten in the obligatory dig, I let the sappy best friend through for the rest of the speech.
“You worked hard, stayed the course, and now you have an amazing job that you love and that allows you to truly help women in need. We couldn’t be more proud of you. Congratulations, Janey!”
A round of congratulatory shouts ring out, and then everyone scrambles to hug the graduate.
I stand back, waiting for things to die down and the women to reclaim their seats on the various patio furniture and folding chairs set out in Chance and Jane’s backyard.
It’s a gorgeous home, completely remodeled by Chance, who owns his own construction company.
As I stare up at the strings of lanterns that light up the patio and small yard, I wonder if someday I’ll have a house somewhere outside of the city.
A place big enough to host parties for our friends, with a yard for a dog to run around in while we grill out, or where we can cozy up by the fire pit as we heat ourselves up in other ways.
And then I realize I used the words “our” and “we” in that little daydream, and I almost choke on my mojito.
When did I stop thinking of this thing between Roman and I as a mutual enjoy-it-till-the-batteries-die-out thing and start thinking in terms of a mutually owned backyard complete with a puppy?
For shit’s sake, I’m getting sappier by the minute.
I glare at the drink in my hand as though Elizabeth has added some kind of mood enhancer to the alcohol.
Not likely, but I shouldn’t take the risk.
Turning around, I pour the contents—sparing the sugar cane stick, because let’s not be ridiculous—into a potted plant.
“You’d better hope mojitos work like Miracle Grow, or you owe me a plant,” Jane says as she comes up next to me.
“You haven’t heard? It’s all the rage in the agriculture industry now. Farmers are literally crop-dusting their fields with rum and lime juice.”
“Uh-huh,” she says sarcastically. “So what gives? I looked over at you, and you went from doe-eyes and a dopey grin to shock and horror.”
“Oh nothing.” I give a flippant wave. “Just your typical ‘holy shit I think I might be falling in love with my not-sure-for-how-long boyfriend’ thing. You know how that goes.”
And she does. Jane had a moment just like it not very long ago. But Chance Danvers—whose friends nicknamed him Romeo for his romantic personality—is very different from Roman “Ruthless” Reeves.
“Holy shit, are you kidding me?” She adjusts her glasses like she’s trying to detect the truth on my face. I shrug. “You told me you guys were just messing around, like colleagues with benefits or whatever.”
“That’s what it was supposed to be, but then we started meeting up for morning workouts, which led to a joint trip to the GNC, and then we discovered we both play chess, which led to inviting him over for a game night, and then I quoted Mallrats but he didn’t get it, which led to a movie enlightenment mission and several movie-at-home nights…
” I trail off, leaving the “etcetera etcetera” unspoken.
Huffing out an exasperated sigh, I explain, “The more we hung out together, the more couple-y we got, and before I knew it we were buying extra toothbrushes to keep at our apartments and doing silly shit like giving each other keys. Add in the most amazing porn star sex ever, and it’s apparently enough for me to want to have his puppy. ”
“You mean baby.”
“God, no. You know better than that. I’m not the nurturing type.”
“Yeah, well, you also used to say you weren’t the falling in love type, either.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “No one likes a wise-ass, Janey.”
“Maybe not, but sometimes a hard-ass like you needs a wise-ass like me.” Jane threads her arm through mine and leans her head on my shoulder.
An overly affectionate Janey is a significantly buzzed, and consequently über-adorable, Janey.
I tilt my head to rest on hers and can’t help the small smile that lifts the corners of my mouth, despite this troubling topic.
I love my best friend. “So what’s Roman’s position on all of this? ” she asks.
If I only knew. We’ve had the conversation about Roman’s views on happily-ever-afters, namely that they don’t exist, and I’d been so focused on my career that until I met Roman I’d always assumed I wouldn’t get serious with a man for years yet, much less fall in love with one.
Damn it. My heart’s going rogue, off book, off script, off goddamn whatever, and I have no idea how to stop it.
The worst part? I don’t want to stop it.
I’ve never felt about anyone the way I do about Roman.
He challenges me, pushes me, supports me.
Instead of getting pissed off and complaining that I only argue for the sake of arguing, he revels in our debates, which are always settled eventually with a rousing session in the sack.
Or on the couch. Or against a wall. The point is he’s my perfect match in almost every way, so it’s not hard to see why my heart is all wonky over him.
But, just like my cousin Sam is fond of saying when I bitch about something, my logic is telling me, “That sounds like a you problem.” And it is.
It’s absolutely a “me problem” because I know for a fact that Roman doesn’t suffer from this same affliction.
So I’m going to do what any normal girl does with her unrequited almost-love.
I’m going to stuff it down deep, do my best to forget about it, and cherish every minute I have until those damn batteries die out and the fun comes to an end.
And because I’m a mature, grown-ass woman, I’m not going to let it affect my job or the professional relationship I have with Roman.
Though, I can’t guarantee his Audi won’t suffer a couple of slashed tires around the time an unruly teen suddenly has fifty bucks for no apparent reason. Hashtag broken-hearted honey badger.
“Career-wise, I think he has a twenty-year plan in place, probably laid out in a spreadsheet or PowerPoint somewhere. But I get the feeling Roman is a very in-the-moment kind of man when it comes to…well, everything else.”
“That’s pretty typical of most men, though, isn’t it? Not many are prone to pick out china patterns in the beginning. Even Chance played all ‘disconnected tough guy’ when what he really wanted was to find someone to share his life with.”
I almost tell her that the odds of Roman following in his best friend’s footsteps are pretty much nil, but then I realize how much of a downer convo this is becoming, and the last thing I want to be is a parade rain-er on-er at Jane’s party.
So I lift my head and smile wide at her, saying, “Anything’s possible, right?
At the very least, I’ll have a story for your future grandkids about that time Great Auntie Addie got in touch with her kinky side thanks to a stripper named Ruthless. ”
She laughs hysterically, whatever drink she’s sucking on through a straw making her actions nice and loose. I’m suddenly jealous of her blood alcohol level and decide I need to catch up, pronto.
But just as I’m about to drag her over to the outdoor bar, the Pandora station we’ve been listening to through the killer stereo system Chance has throughout the house and backyard cuts off.
Some women start booing and laughing while some of them are looking around as though they can find the problem and fix it in their inebriated state.
“Don’t worry, everyone,” Jane says, holding up a hand. “I’ll go fix it.”
That’s when a deep voice comes through the speakers. “Sit your cute ass down, Jane.”
“Chance?” Now we’re all turning in circles, confused as hell, whether sober or drunk.
“That’s right, sweetness,” he says from wherever he is. “I’ve got a surprise for you and your guests, but you all have to find a seat first. Oh, and I brought a few friends.”
Instantly, female screams rend the air as we all find a place to put our rears because we know if Chance’s friends are involved, we’re in for one hell of a show. God bless his ex-stripper soul.
A new song comes on, sending the women into a tizzy all over again.
I recognize it within the first few notes as Wet the Bed.
Not the sexiest title, but it makes up for it with the incredibly arousing lyrics about the state of his lover as he goes down on her.
Definitely explicit, and perfect for simulating fucking a bunch of fun-loving drunk women.
Since the party is being held outside, the interior of the house is dark, which means we can’t see the men until the sliding door opens and they spill onto the patio like half-naked presents from heaven.