Page 29 of Pink and Country

I sat across from Paul in the restaurant, a glass of Chardonnay in hand. Everything about this night felt forced. Even my smile. Paul wore a light blue sweater and beige pleated pants. He parted his light-brown hair on the side. Why did Mrs. Mayers, the old lady living down the street, match me with her nephew? We had nothing in common. He sat there with a stick in his ass and a cocksure grin. The pants only should’ve been a hint to run away.

Before I even finished my appetizer, I texted my girlfriend.

Me: 9-1-1. It’s HORRIBLE. Please, please, please, get me out of this.

Saunders: Coming. Hold on. You’ve got yourself a blighter?

Me: YES. Hurry. Dying here.

My best friend entered the restaurant less than five minutes later. How? Had she been waiting in her car all this time? Saunders stalked into the upper-end Italian restaurant, ready to create a diversion.

In perfect Saunders fashion, she caused a scene to remember. Our gazes met for half a second, the fire already burning in her hazel eyes. The one telling me my date was in big trouble. My best friend put her best game face on, grabbed a glass of red wine from an adjacent table, walked toward us, and started yelling at my date.

“Paul, are you kidding me right now?” My date’s eyes widened, and his forehead wrinkled. “You’re cheating on me with this—” Saunders pivoted her head to face me, “—this skank. I hate you.” In one epic motion, burned into my memory forever, my best friend threw the drink in the guy’s face.

“Miss, I think you’ve got me mistaken for someone else,” Paul protested, wiping the dripping red liquid from his chin with a cloth napkin.

“No. You’re a bugger. A cheater. A womanizer. Get out of here.” Saunders took a step back and pointed at the entrance. My date wasn’t brave enough to butt heads with a crazy-acting Saunders. He lacked not only balls but decency too. He put his napkin on the table, and without even excusing himself, he pussyfooted away with his head hanging low, under the stares of the entire restaurant.

I felt bad for the guy. Not really. Paul kept depreciating women like we were still living in the nineteenth century. “Women shouldn’t work.” “Women shouldn’t vote.” I expressed my point of view, but he cut me out every time with a flick of his hand, his opinions ingrained in his fundamental values. Jerk. I could’ve picked up my purse and left, but I preferred to let my best friend give this guy a run for his money. He deserved a lesson in humility.

Saunders dropped in the seat facing mine and smirked my way. “So, what are we having for dinner, girl?” I pursed my lips to avoid chuckling.

Soon after, things took an unexpected turn.

The man Saunders stole the wineglass from neared our table, sat next to my friend, and offered her a fresh glass of wine. He had light-brown, almost gold, hair, and bright blue-green eyes. He must have been a little over six-foot tall and was lean, his shoulders not wider than his hips. He looked handsome in his black slacks and silver-gray button-up shirt rolled to his elbows, with the three top buttons undone. A silver watch with a thick black leather bracelet adorned his left wrist. The guy had a smart, successful, no-nonsense look in his eyes.

“Here. You deserve this. I think I’m in love. Do you believe in love at first sight?” He cocked an eyebrow at Saunders. “You were amazing. A superhero, sexy and kickass, coming to your friend’s rescue. This guy was a dickhead. No offense. He deserved each drop of the wine—my wine—you threw at him. I forgive you.”

They clinked their glasses and forgot all about me. The guy held out his hand. “I’m Reed, by the way.”

“Saunders,” my friend said with an enormous grin, almost Joker big.

“Woman, you can throw your wine at me any day if you let me take you on a proper date. I promise your friend will never have to barge in and save you.”

The rest was history.

* * *

When I hung up the phone, my head and heart had reached a new level of insecurity. Saunders was wrong. I wouldn’t make a move on HN.

For the rest of the day, I busied myself writing, and in just a few hours, I’d written four more chapters. Being angry and sexually frustrated helped my focus, and it made my creativity bubble inside my head. Who would have thought? My fingers typed on their own, and I got lost in the words popping up on my laptop screen. No time to reread anything, too busy trying to not miss a scene, an expression, or a line of dialogue.

After dinner, scared to lock myself outside again—the locksmith guy HN called hadn’t come yet—I ended up in the giant freestanding bathtub instead of the hot tub.

Small candles flickered around the room, plunging the bathroom into semi-darkness. The moon, half-full, shone outside through the window. The trees danced under the winter breeze.

I added bubble bath and two drops of blood orange essential oil to the warm water and soaked my body.

With all my attention centered on my breathing and my eyes closed, I tried to put my mind to rest.

My lips mouthed the lyrics of the song playing on my phone.

My mind swam between Saunders and HN next door. I wondered what HN’s deal was. The other day, he barked at me in the woods because of a stupid picture, and last night, he cared for me like I belonged to him. This morning, HN did everything to push my buttons, then he ate me up like he’d die without a taste of me.

Like I was the oxygen he needed to breathe. Even his broodiness played with my hormones. Was I that sex deprived? Maybe. Yeah, no doubt I was.

The tip of my index finger contoured my mouth, reminding me how perfect HN’s mouth felt on mine. How intoxicating his kisses were. I parted my lips and licked my finger, my tongue circling the tip slowly, making me ache in all the right places. I sucked on my finger while my other hand traveled down my body. Stopping at my breasts, I rubbed a stiff nipple between my fingers, fancying Mr. Hotshot’s hands playing with my skin. My hand lowered further, and I spread my thighs to make room for my hand.