Page 13 of Wine & Dine

“See? He likes you,” Garrett teases. “He wants you to pick it up.”

“I’m not touching that nasty thing. It’s been in his mouth where he slobbered all over it.” I shiver violently, exaggerating my repulsion. “He’s probably been drinking out of your toilet all day and licking his—”

I don’t get a chance to finish my thought before Garrett grips my wrist, forcing my palm open, and places the ball in it.

“Ewww.” I shudder. I’m so frozen in gross-out horror I don’t consider I can just drop it.

“My dog does not lick his own balls.”

“He’s male. Every guy likes to get himself off.” I squeal. “Or is he like his dog-daddy, seeking pleasure from others?”

Garrett’s eyes open wide. “And what would you know of my sex life? Not that I’m hiding anything. I’m a healthy man.” He pats his stomach, which isn’t the region of his body most healthy, I imagine.

“Oh, I bet. I heard you through the walls.”

His pouty mouth pops open, and his eyes sparkle. “Yeah. What did you hear?”

I don’t think I can repeat it, but with the teasing challenge in his eyes, I give in. “You know, the usual generic sex lines. Right there. Get it, get it. And yes, yes, YES!” My voice accentuates each positive cry, my chest heaving as I grow louder. My eyes close, emphasizing the false pleasure of some woman in his bed. Not that I think of him in his bed. Or a woman with him in it.

When my eyes open, I find Garrett watching me. The mocking gleam is now a flicker of flames.

“I can guarantee no woman sounds like that in my bed, nor do I call out such weak commands.”

When did we step closer to one another?

“Incorrigible,” I mutter. Another retort rests on my lips. What do women sound like in your bed? Only, I don’t want to know. Not really. Not about other women.

“Incredible,” he murmurs with a gleam to his light eyes as he watches me. I bet he is. Do you want to be in his bed? The tone of his voice merges with my thoughts, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s asked me that. Our eyes lock in this weird way like we’re trying to look into each other. Around the mind. Down the hatch. To the heart.

“If you don’t want to hold his ball, just toss it. Don’t tease me by playing with the ball.” Garrett clears his throat. “I mean, him. His ball.” Garrett chokes again. I look down at the nasty, ratty dog toy in my hand. Weakly, I throw the ball forward, and Garrett chuckles.

“Another reason I shouldn’t be handling his ball.”

Garrett’s laughter sputters as he mutters ballbuster under his breath. He’s behind me, and once again, I feel his presence like a warm blanket over my shoulders. He’s close—so close—and I inhale. The salty air mixes with his fragrance. Bayberry and ocean—a heady combination.

He steps away too quickly when Wally returns for another toss. The sexual innuendos dissipate with the throw, falling flat in the wind.

I can’t be attracted to Garrett. I’m not here for a hookup. I have Rusty. The thought makes me sad, though, because I don’t really have him. And I’m no longer certain I want to consider having him. At all.

Garrett seems to sense my thoughts are a thousand miles away, and he begins to chatter as we walk. The weather. The ocean. The Los Angeles area. The sound of his voice and the trivial conversation give me the distraction I need from my thoughts.

After we return to the building, I thank him again for the ride and including me in his walk. He escorts me to Denton’s door, and for half a second, I have a sense of him kissing me, like a good night kiss after a date. I don’t think I’ve ever been kissed at the door, though. The only doors I’ve seen have been opened for me to walk in and follow a man for more than a kiss.

“I’ll see you later,” I say, disrupting my own displeasing thoughts, and Garrett tips his chin without a word. As I slowly close the door, willing myself not to ask him inside, I watch him until he’s nothing more than a sliver behind the wood. He remains in the hall, watching me in return, our eyes locked in that strange manner until I finally shut Denton’s door. Once closed, I lean on the barrier and tilt back my head.

Like a lingering bad dream, Rusty fills my thoughts again. What would he think of my hair? My new clothes? My comparison of him to the man across the hall?

He wouldn’t care for any of it. He wouldn’t even notice my hair. He’d remove my clothing too quickly to note I had new things. As for another man—I was his—although he’d never said as much. He’d never called me his; I’d made myself the label. And he certainly didn’t belong to me. He belonged to many women.

Was that really good enough for me? Why do I think about these things?

You just shared an innocent walk with a flirty man who did something kind for you, that’s why. It’s nothing more, Dolores. Don’t daydream.

I press off the door, shaking away my thoughts of Rusty…and Garrett.

I’m not much of a drinker. In fact, I don’t indulge because of my father, but I find a bottle of wine and decide one glass won’t hurt. After filling a bulbous crystal, I walk out to Denton’s balcony. He explained to me how I could wirelessly connect my phone to his speaker system. With his step-by-step coaching and a frustrating phone call, I figured it out. Now, the rich voice of Otis Redding fills the balcony, telling the tale of a person who left his heart in Georgia and sits on a dock wasting time.

Am I wasting time? I wonder. I stare out at the waves crashing into each other. I have no idea what I’m doing here. It’s been a week, and other than sleep, I’ve done nothing productive. Yet I find I’m content. I’ve never just sat, and for a moment, I feel relieved. Is this what relaxing feels like?