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“Of course it’s yes,” I tell him.
“There’s one more thing,” he says.
“You are Bigfoot.”
“I want to wait to have sex.”
Those words, in that order, take several moments for my brain to process. I’d be less surprised if he unzipped his human suit to reveal an ape-man.
“What?” I finally say.
And then, still baffled: “Until… when?”
Sprucevale is small, southern, and has approximately four churches per capita, so when I hear wait for sex I automatically fill in until marriage, which was very much not Seth’s attitude a few weeks back.
“A month?” he says.
I narrow my eyes and tilt my head.
“You can’t do that,” I say, simply.
“I can’t?” he asks, grinning.
“What, you think you’re God’s gift to women?” I tease.
“Not women,” he says, grin gone feral. “Just you.”
I roll my eyes at him, but my heart beats a little faster, harder.
“You cocky asshole,” I laugh. “Ever seen my tits in a push-up bra? You can’t last a month.”
“Only a month?” he says. “Come on, make it tough. A month and a half. I made you see God at Ava’s wedding.”
At least the dark hides my blush.
“I’m not the one who nearly passed out on the floor after we were done.”
“That was the whiskey.”
“Was it?” I ask, tilting my head slightly.
“The whiskey was a factor,” he admits. “Two months. Bring it on, Bird.”
“You’ll never make it,” I say.
“Only one way to find out. Deal?” he asks, and holds out his hand.
I slide mine into it, and we shake.
“Deal,” I say, as he raises my hand to his lips.
“Friday,” he says, still holding my hand. “Six. Don’t be late.”
“Do I even get a kiss?” I ask.
“Maybe at the end of our first date,” Seth says. He grins at me again, all cockiness and rakish charm. “What kind of floozy do you take me for, Bird?”
“Drive safe,” I tell him, laughing. He walks to my driveway, scones in hand.
I go into my house. Lock my door. Head to my bedroom.
And I fire up my vibrator, who will apparently remain my sole companion for the foreseeable future.Chapter ThirtySethWhen I pull into Delilah’s driveway Friday night, the first thing I see is eyes.
Glowing, beady eyes. Six of them.
Again. They were here the other night, too, and I’m starting to feel like they’ve got something against me.
“Scram,” I tell them, getting out of my car. “Go on, git.”
The biggest raccoon sits down on the bottom step, like it’s waiting for me to entertain it.
“Bastard,” I mutter, and glance around for a stick or something.
Of all the varmints, I’m the most cautious of raccoons. Not only are they bigger than you’d think, I’ve heard Levi’s every single raccoon has rabies talk more times than I care to remember.
I don’t want rabies. I just want to take Delilah out on a date, so I grab a fallen branch and walk toward the porch, waving it.
“Get outta here,” I tell them.
They glare, but when it becomes clear that I will poke them, they waddle off.
I toss the stick away, mount the steps, ring Delilah’s doorbell before I can get nervous.
“Come in!” she shouts, barely audible through the door. “It’s unlocked.”
I obey, glancing back one more time to make sure the raccoons aren’t following me. Sneaky, fearless bastards. My mom once came home to one lounging on her kitchen floor, surrounded by half-eaten bananas. She had to chase it out with a broom.
There’s no Delilah.
“It’s you, right?” she calls, her voice echoing through space, still invisible.
“Do you pay those critters to guard your house, or is this some Snow White setup where they volunteer because you’re a magical forest princess?” I call back.
There are footsteps over my head, and a few moments later, she appears, leaning over the railing on the stairs to my left.
Purple leopard print robe. Wet hair. Holy fuck.
“You’re early,” she says, but she’s smiling.
“I hope you’re wearing that,” I say, and Delilah looks down, as if she’s forgotten what she’s got on.
“Are we going to a pajama party hosted by Andy Warhol?” she asks. “I still don’t know where we’re going.”
“I told you,” I tease, forcing myself to make eye contact. “I’m taking you to a sock hop. I don’t know how to be any more clear than that.”
She puts her elbows on the railing, shifts her hips. The robe is made of something shiny and flowy — silk, do they make robes out of silk? — and it drapes against her in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
“Then I guess I have to go put on my poodle skirt and put my hair in a ponytail with a bow,” she says. “I’ll be out in a few. Make yourself at home, there’s a couch in the living room and drinks in the kitchen, I think?”
I don’t want her to put on clothes. I want to walk up these stairs and pull open her leopard print robe and push my fingers through her damp hair and see what she tastes like right out of the shower, but that’s the whole problem.
