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Brontë: Sorry. I said I would email, didn’t I? Will send an email now so it’s official.
Me: No need for the email, Brontë. Thank you for letting me know and for taking the job.
And because I clearly can’t seem to not fan the flames, I send another text.
Me: I was actually just talking about you.
Brontë: Oh?
Me: With your father.
Brontë: Oh.
I want to read into her response. Was it disappointment that I didn’t say I was telling a friend about a sexy little thing I met at the bar this weekend that has my brain doing all sorts of fucked-up backflips trying to justify wanting to fuck my best friend’s daughter?
Me: He’ll be happy to hear you took the job. Have a good night, Brontë. See you Monday.
Brontë: Thanks again. See you Monday, Mr. Archer.
She doesn’t correct it to Beckham and I don’t want her to because standing here butt-ass naked out of the shower, my cock growing harder by the second, all I want is to see her on her knees in front of me calling me Mr. Archer in that slightly breathy voice of hers.
I look back over my shoulder at the shower, my cock throbbing, begging for release at the images in my head right now.
I know I shouldn’t. It’s fucked up. It’s so wrong on so many levels that I’m pretty sure even Freud would have a field day with me.
“Fuck it.” I reach back into the shower and turn on the water as I step in and begin to slowly stroke myself.
Chapter 3
Brontë
“So you took the job?” Taylor asks, dunking her French fry into a massive pile of ketchup.
She thinks that by ordering a salad and side of fries “for the table,” she’s somehow gaming the system when in reality, she’s the only one who eats the fries because Sylvia and I order our own.
“Yup. I told him that I’d be there bright and early Monday morning.”
“Well, I’m happy for you. I really think it’s the best decision,” Sylvia says emphatically. “Like I said before, you don’t want to end up my age, hating your job but already a decade in so you feel stuck.”
“Have you considered trying something else?” I ask her.
“Yeah, but it’s just not possible right now. Aaron is supportive of me finding my passion but with Lucy still in pre-K, it just isn’t feasible right now. Once she’s in school full-time, I plan to do some soul-searching and figure my shit out.”
Sylvia’s daughter, Lucy, is a ball of energy, just like any other four-year-old I suppose, but sometimes it seems like she’s the Energizer Bunny.
“Speaking of Lucy, what did she think of the children’s museum?” Taylor asks, referring to the outing Sylvia mentioned to us a few days ago. She was so excited to take her to the museum for the first time since we all have such fond memories of going there as children.
“She hated it.” She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “Had a complete meltdown because she got overwhelmed. I should have known when she stayed up half the night before, too excited to sleep.”
“Aw, poor thing. Well, maybe next summer you guys can try again.”
“Anyway,” Sylvia says, “back to the job. I’m so happy for you. Maybe we should plan a little celebratory dinner; it can be for your birthday too. Then after dinner, we get a few drinks in you, some dancing, and maybe you can finally meet someone and break that dry spell.”
Taylor giggles and bounces her eyebrows at me.
“Yeah, that would be fun. Actually, kind of a funny coincidence about the new job.” I run my fingertip around the rim of my glass, both of my friends staring at me, eagerly waiting for me to continue. “You remember that hot guy I flirted with at the bar?”
“Yeah?” they both say in unison.
