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“It’s fine.” I’m trying to play it off, but I really hope she doesn’t want to dissect this like my dad did all those years ago.
“I feel bad.” She hasn’t moved from the doorway when usually she would sit on my bed and wait for me to finish getting ready.
“Then I guess you have to show me your tits to keep things fair.” I purposely don’t laugh just to throw her off kilter, to change up the awkward energy in the room.
“Ha.”
“I’m serious, Sadie. Have at it.” I cross my arms and lean against the doorjamb of my closet, pretending to wait for her to unclothe.
“Shut up, Jude. We have to talk about songs.”
She’s so quick to change the subject that she must feel uncomfortable with the thought, but I love the flush that’s now all over her body. If she thinks I missed her little grinds and shifting her weight over my dick during the tantric yoga session, she’s sorely mistaken. She might not want me as a boyfriend or husband, but she needs some relief.
“Songs?” I walk toward the door, raising my hand to motion for her to go downstairs.
“We don’t have a song to dance to at the wedding.”
I nod. She walks down first, and my eyes go straight to her ass. How on earth am I going to marry this girl and move her into my house and not have sex with her? It’s a feat made for a stronger man than me.
Once we’re downstairs, she grabs her wineglass from earlier, filling it while I grab a beer. We head out to the porch, and she pulls out her phone, most likely connecting to my Bluetooth speaker.
“It wasn’t that bad, right?” she asks, mindlessly looking at her phone.
“The yoga?”
One thing about Sadie is that if she doesn’t want to discuss something, she has the ability to act as if it never happened. I guess we’re playing the pretend-she-never-saw-my-dick game.
“Yeah. I was afraid she was going to have us do more stretches that I’d fail,” she says.
“You’d fail? I thought my thighs were going to lock in place when she had me lean down with my forearms on the ground.”
She laughs. “I don’t think she cares for your line of business.”
“I got that too.”
“Okay.” She straightens. “I looked up the most popular wedding songs. If we want to convince people we’re a real couple, we need a song.”
“To dance to?”
She sips her wine, tucking one leg under the other and facing me. I love how comfortable we are with one another. One day, she’s going to wise up and discover I can’t give her what she wants and go looking for someone who can. “Yes. To dance to.”
She plays the first song.
“Too fast,” I say. “I did the dance lesson, but I’m not Fred Astaire.”
“Fair enough. Next.” She presses her thumb to the phone.
“Too slow.”
She huffs but presses her thumb on the screen again. Another song starts.
“I’ve heard this at all ten weddings I’ve been to. Too common.”
Her phone drops into her lap. “Okay, Mr. Hard To Please. Let’s try this one.” She presses the screen again.
“Too rock. I’d prefer country.”
Her thumb presses harder on the screen, and she groans. Another song comes on.
