“There’s nothing under there I haven’t already seen hundreds of times.”
The comparison to other women, the reminder of his experience, grates on my nerves. I should
drop it, but I black out briefly instead. It’s the only explanation for what I say.
“Really? I mean, I’m sure I have the same parts as any other ladies you’ve been with, but I can
guarantee you, you’ve never seen an ass like this.” Then, to complete my moment of madness, I turn in
profile and attempt a twerk. “Huh. It’s a lot harder than it looks on TV.” Zach’s coughing and I rush
over to pat him on the back, but he waves me off with wild eyes.
“You don’t have to look so scared. I’m not naked under here or anything.”
He presses the palms of his hands into his eye sockets. “Thank Christ for small favors.” That
should hurt, but something in his voice is…longing and rough. It makes the tips of my fingers tingle.
Rubbing them with my thumbs, I drop into the velvet chair opposite him and try one more time to
convince him to give this up. “I promise, the dress I have for events is perfectly suitable. I wore it
many times at my old job, and no one commented on it.”
“You know the saying, Maya, if you don’t have anything nice to say…” he says, smirking at me.
“Have you considered the possibility that it’s fine and you’re just a snob?”
He crosses his ankle over his knee and flexes his foot. “You’re implying that because I care about
appearances, I’m a snob?” He shakes his head. “Maya, I don’t know how to break this to you, but
everyone cares about appearances. Tell me,” he says, dropping his elbow on the wide arm of the
chair and rubbing his chin with his fingers, “has anyone ever complimented an outfit you were
wearing? In the last decade, I mean?”
I search frantically through my memories, nearly crowing in delight when I come up with one.
“Yes, actually, I have been. By a woman at the park.” It must have been five years ago, with Birdie at
the dog park. Had to have been there because that’s the only place I ever stood around and spoke to
other people.
He doesn’t look defeated, merely smiling and leaning his cheek on his hand. “I see. And tell me,
how old was this woman?”
I break off eye contact with him and stare up at the ceiling. “Um…let’s see…she…um.”
He laughs, a true laugh that crinkles up the skin on the side of his eyes. It’s compelling and
beautiful. “Don’t bother. I’m sure she wasn’t a day under seventy.”
“Probably closer to eighty,” I admit, amusing myself by making patterns in the velvet with my
