Regan. When I got fired from V&E and not even my brother in law would have lunch with me, who invited me to be her plus one at every single event and paid my legal fees when I thought they were going to cost me everything I’d managed to hold on to?”
Giving Charlie the benefit of my social credit when he was fired was one of the few times, recently, that I’ve felt useful. I roll my eyes and flush at the naked gratitude in his eyes. “What good are friends if they’re not there for you when you actually need them?”
He grins. “Exactly. I’m just glad you’re ready to make you the most important person in your life. And let me add that your body is one of the great wonders of the world. Everyone wants to fuck you. Even a few straight women I know.”
I laugh out loud, “Oh shut it, flatterer.” I chide through a fond smile. Charlie’s a better friend than I deserve.
“I only speak the truth. Call me when you’re back in Houston. We’ll get the kids together, throw some steaks on the grill, and catch up. And since I didn’t get caught, I’ll thank you for a peek at that very fine ass.”
He winks and then hangs up.
I turn back to the full-length mirror on the back of my bathroom door and my humor fades as I give myself a critical assessment.
My mother jokes that we hail from the same gene pool that produced Naomi Campbell. It’s true that genetics have been kind and spared us cellulite and stretch marks, Naomi didn’t test the bounds of that generosity by carrying and giving birth to three children.
When I told my mother I was pregnant, the first appointment she insisted I make was with a plastic surgeon. Between him, my personal trainer, and my Weight Watchers sponsor, I’ve managed to keep my stomach flat, my tits perky, and my ass firm. I believe Charlie when he says it’s generally appealing.
But there are places on my body that haven’t been restored to their original glory. I run a hand between my thighs and wrinkle my nose at the soft, plump, looser than it used to be, flesh I encounter.
My handsome stranger’s not co-ed or anything, but he doesn’t look older than thirty.
Has he ever seen a vagina that’s given birth? Much less three times?
I sigh and draw my hand away. Does it matter that my pussy’s not so pretty anymore? He’s going to fuck it, not look at it.
I wash my hands and startle at the unfamiliar sight of my ringless left hand. Taking it off for the first time in a decade was fraught with a whole host of emotions. Not one of them is shame or regret.
I pour myself a shot of the exceptional clear tequila and throw it back without any ceremony. I glance at the clock. It’s been more than twenty minutes since I left that bar. What if he’s not coming.
Like a divine reminder that everything is happening exactly as it should, my pang of doubt is followed by the sweet sound of knuckles rapping on my door
“Remember, you deserve to feel good,” I tell myself as I reach for my robe. As soon as I slip my arm in, I hesitate. Why am I bothering? I look good and if this turns out to be my once chance at something like this, then I’m going all in.
I lay it across the back of the chair, stride to the door, and fling it open. And feast my eyes on the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. He’s leaning against the frame- – looking like he just walked out of a magazine called “Men Who Make Women Thirsty: The Dick Trap Edition.”
There’s too much character in his face for him to be described as classically handsome. His mouth is too broad, his lips full, the top slightly more so than the bottom. His beard is close cropped but fuller than a five o’clock shadow. The smirk tugging up the left side of that sinful mouth widens.
“Are you gonna come in?” I ask him after the third time he opens and then closes his mouth without saying anything.
He nods but doesn’t say anything. But if the bulge in his pants were a word, that word would be “yes.”
We stand there like that, like a couple that just ended a dance with a dip.
I grab the front of his shirt and give him a firm tug.