nice to get together like this,” he says. “Without Charmaine and Bernadette and all them sad saps.”
I laugh. “Well, it is a grief group,” I point out. “They’re allowed to be sad.”
“You know what I mean… it gets depressing,” he goes on. “Yeah… your husband died. He was eighty! Get over it!”
I’m a little taken aback by his attitude. “Why do you go then?” I ask, playing the devil’s advocate.
He downs a sip of his frozen Margarita. “Because of you… mostly,” he confesses. “I like hanging out with you.”
I’m not too keen on his answer. I’ve already told him this was just friendship, and I’m hoping he understood. “Oh, I see. You’re trying to slowly extract us from the group by inviting me to dinner,” I joke. “I’m on to you, buster.”
He laughs. “Something like that.”
We chit chat for a while, and the fish tacos are amazing. I’m having fun until his questions become slightly inappropriate. He asks me if I’d had sex since Donovan, and I tell him the truth. No. I don’t mention the spankings or my boss.
He also asks me about Donovan’s passing, and I tell him he died in a car wreck. I don’t elaborate. Only my most closest friends and family know the exact circumstances of Donovan’s death. It’s not something I talk often about. And if I were about to confess all my sins, it certainly wouldn’t be to him.
He confesses that he often feels guilty about his daughter’s suicide. He regrets not being there for her, being too harsh with her, too impatient. I feel for him. I can’t imagine what he must be going through, and I want to be a good friend. I tell him not to blame himself. She was clinically depressed and wasn’t taking her medication. He and his wife did what they could at the time. They got her the help she needed, but unfortunately, it wasn’t enough.
The evening ends well as we fall back into an easy camaraderie. Turns out, he’s a very funny guy. He insists on walking me to my car, and he lingers a little too long before giving me a goodnight hug. His embrace is a little more familiar than I would like, but I let it go, because we’ve shared a lot, and it’s completely normal for us to be close.
I hop into my car. “See you next week.”
“I’ll be waiting with bated breath,” he says, and I’m not sure if he’s joking, or if he’s serious.
17
The feels. I totally have them. Last night, I picked out the green dress quickly, dabbed on a bit of makeup, and was out the door in a flash. Tonight is a whole other scene. I’ve changed my outfit three times. I’ve spent thirty minutes curling my hair. And now I’m curling my lashes.
I care. A lot. I want to be pretty for him.
Ethan studies me curiously as he works on his wooden puzzle on the floor of my bedroom. “Does Mommy look pretty?”
His adorable grin is as wide as can be. “Pretty!”
“I decided on the pink dress,” I tell him. “It’s more fun. The red dress was too fancy. I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard. This is just dinner out with the boss.”
The door buzzes, and I’m a pile of nerves. I’ve spent all day tidying the place, hoping to live up to Boss Man’s very high expectations. His place is like a furniture showroom or a museum, not a thing out of place. I really don’t want to scare him off with the mess that is my life.
My knees buckle a little when I open the door. He looks amazing in slim pressed pants, a paisley button shirt, open at the collar, and a cool brown leather jacket.
Damn, the man knows how to dress to impress.
His eyes linger over me, and he smiles sweetly. “You look lovely,” he says. “I love that dress.”
“Thank you. Please, come in,” I urge. “I want you to officially meet Ethan.” He’s seen him around, in the elevator, but I’ve never officially made the introductions.
Ethan is a little guarded when Weston approaches and kneels down to him. “Hey, little man,” he says. “How are you?”
Ethan smiles. Thankfully, he’s a very friendly boy, and he’s over his playing shy phase.
“What have you got there?” Weston asks. “A forklift?”
Ethan looks down at his yellow toy, and then back up at the beautiful stranger.
“You’re a Caterpillar man, I see,” Weston goes on. “I’m more of a John Deere