The Lucky in Love Collection - Lauren Blakely Page 0,51
fish and hunting for food, the only thing to do would be sex. There would be no cell phones.”
“Don’t look to me to repopulate though. I’m in menopause,” Allison says, joined by a chorus of Hear! Hear!
As they chat about their apocalyptic sex plans, I take inventory not only of my shelves, but of my own plans.
Is it true that there’s no substitute for experience? Can I really learn how to catch a fish by pretending to catch a fish?
A shiver runs up my spine as I think about the difference between pretending and reality.
I wonder how risky it would be to cross that line tonight.
Maybe it won’t be too dangerous.
After all, if I can continue to keep this—my heart—under lock and key, I should be fine.
Perfectly fine.
That night, while the dinner I cook for Gabe warms in the oven, I take a shower, then dry my hair, brush some powder on my face, comb mascara on my eyelashes, and spread a new jasmine lotion up and down my smoothly shaven legs.
Am I really doing this?
I look in the mirror and take a deep breath, answering my own question.
I am doing this.
I grab the apron from my bed and wrap it around my waist then over my breasts, tying it at the neck. It covers me, but only barely. It’s sinfully short and hits me mid-thigh. I slip on a pair of simple white panties, since I’m not ready to answer the door with nothing on beneath this scrap of frontal nudity–covering fabric.
I step into a pair of black heels and stare at my reflection again.
You are crazy.
But crazy has never felt so seductive or sensual. That’s exactly how I look and precisely how I feel.
I do something else I’ve never done. I snap a sexy selfie, but it’s not a full body shot. It’s only a sliver of me, enough to show my thigh, the apron, and the tie around my waist.
It’s an appetizer.
Feeling daring and loving it, I send it to him.
Seconds later, my phone pings with a text.
Gabe: It’s now official. Let the record reflect, there is nothing sexier than an apron.
But what’s sexier is the next note he sends.
Gabe: Allow me to amend that. Nothing sexier than an apron on you. And while I’m giving official pronouncements, I’ll just add, so it’s clear: I CAN’T FUCKING WAIT TO SEE THE REST OF IT.
A knowing smile spreads across my face. I can’t wait for him to see it too.
Arden: I’m ready . . .
As I hit send, I let that word roll around my brain. Ready. I feel ready to answer the door. The food is cooked, the coconut bars are done, and now I'm going to live out a fantasy.
I'm not really sure why my fantasy has been to answer the door in an apron and little else. I think it’s the sheer incongruity of the moment. The idea that a woman can be cooking and working and reading, and then do something entirely risqué.
She can completely floor her man.
As I return to the kitchen to check that everything’s ready, I stop in my tracks like a cartoon character whacked into awareness by a frying pan.
Surprise.
I'm missing the element of surprise. I've already told him I’ll be wearing an apron.
I’ve detailed this fantasy. I’ve delineated every step. I sent him a freaking photo, for crying out loud. There’s no more mystery. There’s no gift for him to unwrap.
But that’s the fantasy—the surprise.
I want to witness the shock in his eyes.
I want to experience how his shock sends electricity shooting all over my body, reaching to every cell.
I want to stun him into . . . arousal.
When that stark truth hits my brain, I know I need to change my plans. I’m not sure what to do with all this desire, but I know what to do with the fantasy.
I scurry to my bedroom, untie the apron, and toss it onto the bed.
I slide off the cotton panties, rummage through my top drawer, and find something I bought for myself a few months ago. Something pretty, just for me.
A burgundy lace push-up bra, with matching low-rise panties.
That’s it.
I put them on.
The doorbell rings.
32
Arden
My nerves skyrocket, but they’re not only nerves. They’re fluttering hummingbirds, zinging around inside me. They’re desire, my desire to catch a fish rather than paint a fish.