Tell me that doesn’t appeal to you.”
It would have.
A month ago, I would have jumped at the chance.
Three weeks ago, I had.
“You seem nice,” I say. “The thing is that I need to figure out where this relationship is going.”
“I’m here if you make any decisions,” she says with a sexy smirk. “Besides, I have to grant you three wishes. It’s the life-saving rule.”
I come up with a lame excuse and head into the locker room. The entire time I’m showering and getting ready for the office, I think about what she offered and why I’m not interested.
The whole time I am thinking about Sami.
She and I need to talk.
I know we have been talking, as well as doing other things, but my little confrontation with Miss Tits and Ass makes me realize I’m not satisfied with Sami’s and my amended agreement. Sami has just recently earned her freedom, and I don’t want to take that away, but damn, I want more.
I’ve played the field. I know what is waiting on each base.
Well, really who’s on first, what’s on second, and I don’t know is on third—that’s from one of my dad’s favorite Abbot and Costello bits.
In all seriousness, if I don’t tell Sami how I feel, I’ll never know if there’s a chance. If I do tell her, I may lose her as my friend. If I don’t, someone else may offer her forever and always.
The back and forth continues.
Once I’m settled behind my desk at my office, I pull out my phone and send a text.
“Hey. We need to talk. Dinner? Pizza, my place or out?”
Marshal
I wait for Sami's text message like a high school kid. Shit, I've never waited for a response even when I was in high school. Not even for her.
Why?
Because back then, I knew she'd eventually respond.
She always did.
Always.
Why the fuck am I nervous about it now?
Did I think she'd really let me down?
I didn't want to think she would.
And then it happens. The simple chime and there it is on my screen.
Text message from Sami:
“Talk? Sounds ominous. Food, though, sounds great. Your place is good. Not pizza. Grill?”
I don’t want her to think ominous.
“Not ominous. See you at six.”
At ten minutes before six, I have my apartment all set.
I stopped at the store on my way home from work.
The steaks are marinating and ready to pop on the grill, charcoal is warming, wine is chilling in the refrigerator with salads, and there are potatoes in the oven. The small table on my balcony is set with two place settings, and there is even a candle in a jar.
It’s as I stand half in my apartment and half on the balcony that I realize the pansy I've become.
A candle.
I have a fucking candle on the table.
It wasn’t planned. I just saw it. The grocery store had candles on an endcap thing. And the moment I saw it, it seemed like a good idea. That was then.
Now the stupid candle doesn't seem like a good idea.
Now it screams desperate.
Hell, I’m no better than tiny-dick and his roses.
Is Sami allergic to candles?
Fuck!
As I run my hand through my hair, I glance down at my button-down shirt, the way I have the sleeves rolled, and my jeans hanging loosely from my hips.
How and why am I nervous?
When have I ever been nervous about a woman?
This is Sami, my Sami. We've had dinner together thousands of times.
Shaking my head, I decide I should change into shorts and a t-shirt when a knock on the front door stops me.
I don't even look through the peephole. I know who I want to have on the other side. And damn it, I'm Marshal Michaels. I need to get my shit together. If I want this thing with Sami to be more than what we have with our new agreement, if I want Sami to see me as more than a friend, then I need to act like the man who's been sweeping women off their feet for over ten years.
Not like some lovesick schoolboy.
I take a deep breath and open the door, flashing my biggest and brightest smile. "Sami..."
My lips slam shut. It's not Sami. It's Miss Tits and Ass.
"W-what are you doing here?" I ask.
She takes a step forward, her perfume engulfing me as she shakes her tits, barely encased in some tight, stretchy top. I fight to breathe through the overwhelming stench of sweetness while noticing how the skinny straps of her top dig into her shoulders. Poor things.