Manwhore +1
Page 57
She tosses it back. “Since, hell, I don’t know.” She shrugs and shoots me a wistful glance. “Maybe I just want my faith in men restored.”
She laughs and shrugs as if this admission is no big deal. But it’s a huge deal.
It’s been so long since Paul, and Gina’s been so determined never to go through that again.
“Our first time falling in love . . .” I trail off as I bring a box of Lucky Charms and a cereal bowl for myself. “It hasn’t been a walk in the park for either of us,” I tell her.
She grabs the pink marshmallows in my bowl before I can add the milk. “More like a roller coaster.” She pops some into her mouth. “But like Tahoe says . . . ’cause he and I are like buddies now. Are you impressed?” Then she chuckles a little. “Anyway . . . walks in the park can get boring.”
CUBS GAME
It’s Cubs game day, and I’m running around in matching black panties and black bra. My stomach is a big jumble of nerves. I feel like I’m watching a horror movie, and it’s at that part where some stupid girl is about to open the closet, which contains some kind of serial killer/psychopath, and I can’t do anything about it. I’m that girl. And I’m about to open the closet door, except it’s Malcolm waiting on the other side of it, and I don’t know what scares me more.
Sin, on the other side of the door. My addiction. My love.
I smell like vanilla perfume and my hair is freshly ironed, feeling warm against my back, silky straight, hitting me just below my shoulder blades. I’m so excited, I feel like a teenager. I check my phone, and his last text is still glowing on the screen:
I’m on my way.
Four stupid little words and I feel like I can’t breathe. But I want to squeal like a little girl too. I haven’t seen him all week; work getting in the way, save for a few texts. As I contemplate what to wear, I’m thinking about what will happen. How I’ll be in his car with him soon, surrounded by leather in a confined space . . . and then I start thinking about whether he’ll come back to my place or not, and I find myself thinking—no, hoping—that he will.
So I pause to make sure that my bed is made, my room sparkly clean.
I finally put on an emerald-green silky blouse and a pair of white shorts that make my butt look good. I slip on some flats, spray more perfume on my neck, swipe mascara on my lashes, a little blush on my cheeks, and a smack of cherry lip stain on my lips. I’m looking in the mirror, deciding I look okay, when I hear a knock on the door.
I focus on my breathing, hearing my ballet flats tap on the floor. No one else is home. The apartment only has a couple lamps on, and I’m just now realizing that somewhere between my getting-ready routine and obsessing, the sun has gone down.
I open the door, and he’s standing there with his hands in his pockets, wearing dark jeans and a long-sleeve black T-shirt that defines his huge shoulders and is pulled tightly against his biceps. Weirdly, the nerves in my stomach subside. He’s looking at me with his green eyes. His square jaw clamped tight. His eyes are roaming from the tips of my toes to the blush on my cheeks.
He clears his throat, and when he finally speaks, I swear to god I almost start crying from how much I like the sound of it. Incredible, how much I’ve missed this voice. How his chest seems to vibrate with the power of it. How I can basically feel his warmth, emanating from his body as he stands there, and all I want to do is get sucked into his force field.
He steps closer to me, so I’m staring up at him and he’s staring down at me, and he says simply, “You look amazing.”
I can’t say anything back. My nerves won’t allow me to. It’s our second official date—after that one night I spent over.
“Mmm . . .” he says, lowering his head slightly so his lips brush the side of my neck. “Smell good too.”
I swear I’m melting right here, and as if he doesn’t even know, the bastard straightens up again and shoots me one of his trademark smiles. “Ready to go? We’ll be late.”
“Yeah.” I take a good breath. Then I look back at my apartment, turn off the lights and take my purse from the stand next to my front door.
“Talking Body” by Tove Lo is blaring on the speakers. The skybox overlooks the field, with several rows of exterior seats to get in on the action connected to the private suite—which is where we are. The moment we walk in, warm golden light fills my vision. Black leather couches, plasma TVs, and a pool table are the first things I see. Then I see a huge window looking out on the baseball field, the lights shining down. I can practically smell the peanuts and the beer. We’re on top of the whole stadium, in a glass box.
She laughs and shrugs as if this admission is no big deal. But it’s a huge deal.
It’s been so long since Paul, and Gina’s been so determined never to go through that again.
“Our first time falling in love . . .” I trail off as I bring a box of Lucky Charms and a cereal bowl for myself. “It hasn’t been a walk in the park for either of us,” I tell her.
She grabs the pink marshmallows in my bowl before I can add the milk. “More like a roller coaster.” She pops some into her mouth. “But like Tahoe says . . . ’cause he and I are like buddies now. Are you impressed?” Then she chuckles a little. “Anyway . . . walks in the park can get boring.”
CUBS GAME
It’s Cubs game day, and I’m running around in matching black panties and black bra. My stomach is a big jumble of nerves. I feel like I’m watching a horror movie, and it’s at that part where some stupid girl is about to open the closet, which contains some kind of serial killer/psychopath, and I can’t do anything about it. I’m that girl. And I’m about to open the closet door, except it’s Malcolm waiting on the other side of it, and I don’t know what scares me more.
Sin, on the other side of the door. My addiction. My love.
I smell like vanilla perfume and my hair is freshly ironed, feeling warm against my back, silky straight, hitting me just below my shoulder blades. I’m so excited, I feel like a teenager. I check my phone, and his last text is still glowing on the screen:
I’m on my way.
Four stupid little words and I feel like I can’t breathe. But I want to squeal like a little girl too. I haven’t seen him all week; work getting in the way, save for a few texts. As I contemplate what to wear, I’m thinking about what will happen. How I’ll be in his car with him soon, surrounded by leather in a confined space . . . and then I start thinking about whether he’ll come back to my place or not, and I find myself thinking—no, hoping—that he will.
So I pause to make sure that my bed is made, my room sparkly clean.
I finally put on an emerald-green silky blouse and a pair of white shorts that make my butt look good. I slip on some flats, spray more perfume on my neck, swipe mascara on my lashes, a little blush on my cheeks, and a smack of cherry lip stain on my lips. I’m looking in the mirror, deciding I look okay, when I hear a knock on the door.
I focus on my breathing, hearing my ballet flats tap on the floor. No one else is home. The apartment only has a couple lamps on, and I’m just now realizing that somewhere between my getting-ready routine and obsessing, the sun has gone down.
I open the door, and he’s standing there with his hands in his pockets, wearing dark jeans and a long-sleeve black T-shirt that defines his huge shoulders and is pulled tightly against his biceps. Weirdly, the nerves in my stomach subside. He’s looking at me with his green eyes. His square jaw clamped tight. His eyes are roaming from the tips of my toes to the blush on my cheeks.
He clears his throat, and when he finally speaks, I swear to god I almost start crying from how much I like the sound of it. Incredible, how much I’ve missed this voice. How his chest seems to vibrate with the power of it. How I can basically feel his warmth, emanating from his body as he stands there, and all I want to do is get sucked into his force field.
He steps closer to me, so I’m staring up at him and he’s staring down at me, and he says simply, “You look amazing.”
I can’t say anything back. My nerves won’t allow me to. It’s our second official date—after that one night I spent over.
“Mmm . . .” he says, lowering his head slightly so his lips brush the side of my neck. “Smell good too.”
I swear I’m melting right here, and as if he doesn’t even know, the bastard straightens up again and shoots me one of his trademark smiles. “Ready to go? We’ll be late.”
“Yeah.” I take a good breath. Then I look back at my apartment, turn off the lights and take my purse from the stand next to my front door.
“Talking Body” by Tove Lo is blaring on the speakers. The skybox overlooks the field, with several rows of exterior seats to get in on the action connected to the private suite—which is where we are. The moment we walk in, warm golden light fills my vision. Black leather couches, plasma TVs, and a pool table are the first things I see. Then I see a huge window looking out on the baseball field, the lights shining down. I can practically smell the peanuts and the beer. We’re on top of the whole stadium, in a glass box.
