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“I admire your creativity, but let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
We spot the Range Rover waiting at the curb at the same time. Hanging out the window, he’s signing autographs for two young dudes who look like they can’t believe their luck.
“Your chariot awaits,” Amber drawls.
“You want a ride?”
“It’s warm out. I’m hoofing it.” Calvin glances up and when he catches us standing there, his eyes hold mine. “Too bad you can’t use him for sex. He’s hot as fudge.”
“I believe the expression is ‘hot as fuck’.”
“Why is that a thing? There must be a lot of optimistic virgins out there using this verbiage because at best the odds are fifty/ fifty when in reality it’s closer to seventy/thirty in favor of it not being hot at all––” There’s no stopping her once she’s on a rant. “Where as fudge is almost always hot.”
“Duly noted. Hot or not, he’s the last person on the planet I would use for sex. Even if that was even remotely on my mind, which it isn’t.”
“It will eventually. You’re too young to be alone.”
“Doesn’t matter. Everything south of the border is dead. My cooch is broken.”
Snorting, Amber replies, “Your cooch is not broken. It’s just…taking a refreshing nap, waiting for a hot as fudge babymaker to come along.”
“No thanks. Any kids that man manages to spawn will be mini Shreks.”
“Grumpy and cute?”
“Yup.”
“I like Shrek.”
With a huff, I grumble, “So do I.”
Before heading off, Amber narrows her eyes at Calvin, lifts a finger to her neck, and ever so slowly drags it across her throat. I have to give him credit––Calvin doesn’t so much as bat a thick black lash.
Chapter Twelve
The next morning we leave for the Hamptons bright and early. I’m elated to learn that Sam is coming with us. Both the bride and groom have a couple of kids from prior marriages, as well as the ones they share, which means there will be plenty of kids in attendance for him to play with. Sam seems to have a hard time communicating with other kids, something I noticed at the playground, and frankly it’s been bothering me for a while.
When I asked Calvin what the dress code for the wedding was, he magically produced a number of garment bags from Barneys and handed them to me without a word of explanation. There are so many things wrong with that I don’t know where to begin, however, I wasn’t going to spend money I don’t have to dress the part of a fugazi girlfriend. Hence, I accepted the clothes without complaint.
The weather is unusually temperate for early May, the road to the Hamptons clogged with traffic. While Sam is busy watching Minions in the back seat, my gaze strays to the make believe boyfriend sitting in the driver’s seat.
A long, muscular arm is extended, his wrist sitting on the wheel while his large mitt hangs down. His sleeves are rolled up and I spot the intricate scroll of a tattoo on the inside of his arm. I’d noticed it a while ago, and even though I’m insanely curious, I’m still not brave enough to ask about it. He got a haircut. Hallelujah. It’s not too short or long, and I determine this suits him.
“What are you staring at?”
“Your haircut looks good.” I inspect some more. “What happened? Did you run out of razors?” The bottom of his face is covered with scruff, though at least it’s neat. For this, I get a grunt. Then my eyes skim over the pale, lavender shirt he’s wearing––clearly no issue with his masculinity––and designer jeans. I just can’t help snickering. Personally, I like his clothes, but I’d rather pull all my teeth out with a monkey wrench than admit that to him.
“You got a problem with something?” The inquiry is delivered with a bit of an edge to his voice, his eyes trained on the road ahead.
“Seriously, what’s with the clothes? When I met you, you looked like someone scraped you off the bottom of a moonshine barrel and now you’re Derek Zoolander?”
After a long, long pause, he says, “I like clothes.”
“You don’t say.”
Another decade’s worth of silence, and he adds, “I never had any growin’ up…other than what we got from church.” His twang is more pronounced than ever. Lord have mercy. Why didn’t he just kick me in the teeth? It would’ve hurt less. My poor, poor bleeding heart can’t take it. I’m a pathetic sucker for a hard luck story and his are beginning to pile up.
“And what is the deal with the beard,” I question, desperately trying to lighten the mood.
“People don’t recognize me.”
“You mean women.”
He shrugs, his face as still as death. It’s so easy for me to read him now, to make his gorgeous ass squirm…like fishing with dynamite. When did that happen?
