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Kyleigh
The waitstaff takesaway our plates, and people get up from the table. It might have been the weirdest dinner I’ve ever sat through. Everyone was acting as if Rowan Landry wasn’t at our table, and he was engaged in regular conversations regarding weather and the best places to eat in Chicago.
“It’s weird that everyone is acting like you’re a regular Joe,” I whisper as the last couple gets up and heads over to another table to chat with some other guests, leaving us alone.
“I think Jack is paying them under the table.”
“Really?”
He turns toward me, as he has every chance he’s gotten—his arm slung over the back of my chair, his body facing mine. His strong thighs are snug in a pair of slacks.Just get me to room 1498.
“I was apprehensive about coming, but Jack said he’d take care of it. I didn’t ask many questions.”
“Who is he? A mob boss?”
His lips tip into a smile. “More like an executive at a cheese company.”
“One of the top cheese companies.” Every fitting, Mila went on and on about how he works at the biggest cheese manufacturer in the world.
“I think Jack prefers it to be called a dairy company.”
Both of us look over at the newlyweds.
“They are a cute couple,” I say.
“They’ll make the perfect suburban couple who will find happiness in an affluent neighborhood and raise their two kids who will want for nothing except for maybe a dog.”
“Can’t dirty up their perfect house.”
“Maybe they’ll eventually cave after the kids do some cute presentation begging for one, but it will be one of those golden doodles?”
I shake my head. “Definitely not a mutt from the shelter.”
He chuckles. “Or heaven forbid, a stray.”
“They’ll live the American dream.”
“Date nights every Saturday,” he says.
“Home by ten. She’ll get ready for bed?—”
“And he’ll go down to his man cave and watch?—”
“Porn,” we say in unison, facing one another and laughing.
I used to think that could be me someday. I’ve had a few friends over the years say they’re city girls who will raise their kids in the city, but they’ve all slowly migrated to the suburbs. Now, instead of Sunday brunches with mimosas, I’m hitching a train to attend baby showers and first birthdays.
“The kids will get older, and she’ll resent him for not picking up his socks,” he says, distracting me from twirling my wineglass and wondering if I’ll ever trust in the sanctity of marriage again.
“He’ll try to grab her boob when they get into bed, thinking that will turn her on.”
He leans closer to me, lowering his voice, and I can’t help but inhale the woodsy masculine scent of his cologne. “I promise to tweak your nipples, too.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” I laugh.
He continues our game. “She’ll stop giving him blow jobs.”
“He’ll never have perfected getting her off with his tongue.”
