“Are you nervous?”
I tilt my head toward Ollie’s voice, startled by the question.Was it my posture or my breathing that gave me away?
“I’m not very good at waiting,” I admit. Behind the blindfold, the world is a wash of burgundy, like lamplight through wine. Unbidden, memory presses in—my mom at the dining room table, the corners of her eyes growing tight and tired as the bottle of Shiraz empties and the minutes inch past midnight.
After a long moment, the seat sways as Ollie lowers himself beside me.
“I can’t imagine people keep you waiting very often,” he says, and the frank admiration in his voice loosens my shoulders enough for me to lean back into the cushion.
“How’dyouget roped into this, Mr.I just live here? Is Sadie your big sister or something?”
“No, nothing like that. I was mowing out front when she drove by. She pulled over and talked my ear off, freaking out about the garden and the yard and the whole ‘hidden Victorian mansion’ of it all. By the time I gave her the full tour, she’d pitched the shoot and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Made me call Meredith and clear it before she would leave. Meredith’s the owner,” he clarifies. “She rents me a cheap room in exchange for keeping all her plants alive while she’s traveling for work. It’s a big job, in case you haven’t noticed.”
I picture the jungle of houseplants and the lush, rolling grounds overflowing with flower beds. I bet Ollie looks good on his knees in the dirt. Or pushing a mower with his shirt tucked into the waistband of his shorts.
“How come you didn’t sign up for the photo session yourself?” I ask.Don’t flirt with the cute houseboy, Fen. That’s not why you’re here.
“Oh. No. I’m not…” He trails off.
“Photogenic? An exhibitionist? Gay?” Against my better judgment, I knock his foot with mine.
“She’d already booked you guys.”
If I weren’t blindfolded, maybe his expression would tell me more than his voice, but he edges away from me on the bench as he says it, which I guess is answer enough.
I regret pushing it as the silence settles back over us, a little more awkward than before, then chastise myself for giving a shit. It’s hot enough in the August sun without his lanky presence at my side, knee bouncing every thirty seconds or so. Oliver “call me Ollie” Earhart and his weirdly soothing jitters arenotwhat I signed up for when I made myself sound as shallow as possible on the Sadie’s Strangers questionnaire.
My best friend Libby and I have a very specific set of rules regarding men. Rule Number One: Stay away from anyone named “Chris.” This is a direct result of me losing my virginity to Chris Porter the first week of college, only to be spectacularly ignored the minute our lost weekend ended and his friends were around. For Libby, it’s because she showed up to freshman orientation to discover that the guy she’d been long-distance dating all summer—the guy who’d played anotinsignificant role in herdecision to attend Southern Illinois University in the first place—already had an on-campus girlfriend. Turns out,hisname was also Chris.
Libby and I met when I found her crying in the back stairwell of the library, and after I forgave her for usurping my favorite pity-party venue and she forgave me for crashing said pity party, we declared ourselves cured of The Chris Disease and became inseparable.
Rule Number Two: Lingerie is the foundation of fabulousness. This is less of a rule and more of a life motto, but it helps a lot when you’re slutting your way through horny and/or curious college boys from repressed midwestern families while sticking to Rule Number Three: Don’t catch feelings. This last is obviously the most important since it prevents any kind of relapse and a host of other heartbreak- and-humiliation-related diseases.
Which brings me back to Ollie, who, despite thecuriousvibes he’s throwing my way, is not my usual target demographic. Being an easy hole for fratbro fuckbois is one thing. A guy likeOllieis nothing but kryptonite in a hot-nerd package. He’s a broken Rule Number Three waiting to happen. Not evenmyego could handle the sting of that morning after.
So why did I sign up for this photo shoot if I am not, as the ad offered, “open to an unconventional connection”? Because I’m a shameless diva who can’t resist an opportunity to preen in front of a camera. And because Libby and I might have been high on mushrooms when we stumbled across the original post.
I’m shocked I was selected.
And the longer I sit here like an anachronism on this Victorian porch swing, with the growing certainty that I’ve been ghosted before I even get to the hookup, the more I regret the whole fucking thing. Especially once Sadie returns—the reluctant tread of her footsteps and absence of her trademark chatter are all the confirmation I need.
“He’s not coming.” The words escape in a childish whisper, and I wince as Ollie stiffens beside me.“Looks like he’s not coming home tonight, Little Bee. Why don’t you run on up to bed now?”
Ollie stands, and I grip the edge of the seat as the sudden swing echoes the churn in my gut.
“Let me guess.” I peel off the silk blindfold. “I’ve been stood up?”
“I’m so sorry, Fen,” Sadie says. “I confirmed with him this morning, same as with you. Something must have happened.”
“Sure. An emergency. I hope he’s okay.”
“Don’t wait up. There’s been an emergency at the studio. Kiss Fen goodnight for me.”
No way Zachary drove by while I was flustering Ollie out front and changed his mind. Not when I’m dressed as fabulous as always and wearing the silk panties to prove it.
Coral lipstick on the wineglass and diamonds glittering on her fingers.
“It’s fine.” I shrug, climbing to my feet with a casual stretch. The light on the porch has faded, taking on a greenish tinge, and a glance over the lawn shows storm clouds gathering in the distance over the trees. “Looks like it’s gonna rain, anyway.”
