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“No, it’s your tits. They’re gorgeous.”
Isabelle actually felt her cheeks go pink. “Shut up,” she said halfheartedly.
“Did you show him that painting?”
“He doesn’t like my work.”
Jill snorted. “He’ll like that. Now get out of my way so I can finish the pastries.”
Isabelle moved quickly to her bedroom to put on her party clothes, waving at Marshal Jones through the window before shutting the blinds. Thank God she didn’t have any neighbors. She could rarely be bothered with closing curtains, and she often ran around in nothing but panties and bedhead. It was only her, after all, and half her day was spent remembering something she’d left in the other room or forgotten to do. Sometimes it took her two hours to finish getting dressed.
But not today. Today was easy, since she’d already laid out her clothes, mostly because she’d just taken them from the dryer. Black leggings, a long sage-green tank top that covered her ass and swooped low over her breasts, heeled boots and her nicest black cardigan. The cardigan would come off once the sangria kicked in.
She smiled as she wrapped a long silver chain around her neck three times. The longest loop dipped to touch the rise of her breasts. She hoped Tom would notice. She hoped he’d look at that warm metal touching her skin, and he’d want to touch it himself.
Thank God Tom’s story had turned out to be true, or she’d never have let herself feel attracted to him. Not that sex with Tom was a sure thing at this point, but it was nice to have the interest. To look at a live, in-the-flesh man and feel her body say, Yes. The last time had been over a year ago and that had been more of a Sure—why not?
She hadn’t been this casual about sex in her youth, but she’d been a very different girl then. As the only daughter of an overprotective, anxiety-ridden mother and a father who was a cop, Isabelle had walked the straight and narrow.
She’d done well in high school. Really well. She’d spread her wings a little in college, taking all the premed classes she’d meant to, but using all her elective hours on art. She’d saved her virginity for a boy she’d fallen in love with during her sophomore year of college. She hadn’t quite waited until they’d gotten engaged, but that had come soon after. Her world had been knitting together into beautiful conformity, the way the bones of a child’s skull slowly grew into the perfect protection.
During her junior year, she’d come to a realization that she could combine her love of painting with her love of medicine, but it had terrified her. She’d always known that she would be a doctor. Her parents had always known. Her fiancé, by then an up-and-coming attorney working for the state prosecutor, had considered marriage to a doctor a perfect match.
She hadn’t wanted to let him down. She’d been afraid to shake things up.
Yes, that had summed her up nicely back then. Afraid to shake things up. And then an earthquake had hit her life and shaken everything to pieces.
Isabelle traced a hand down her collarbone then onto the warming silver and down to the tops of her breasts. Yes, she’d changed after that, thank God. She’d had her first orgasm, and it had been with a drunken one-night stand, of all things. She’d needed a man to show her what her body could do. A stranger. That had horrified her. She’d been so passive her whole life that she’d waited for someone else to reveal her own body to her.
That had been the end of passivity. It had been the end of a lot of things, and the beginning of so much more.
She knew it was a bad idea to sleep with Tom Duncan. It was a bad idea to even draw his attention. But she resented her fear and caution. She wanted to kick and scream and push against it. She wanted him.
After a quick brush of her hair, she pulled it up in a French twist that she hoped would hide any pigment she might’ve gotten on the ends during today’s marathon painting session. Shampoo wasn’t exactly effective on oil paint.
By the time she came out of the bedroom, the smell of butter and cheese had bloomed through the house. Isabelle turned on the stereo, got the first pitcher of sangria from the fridge and smiled at the sound of a car door slamming. A woman’s laugh preceded the knock at the door, and Isabelle was laughing in response before she even opened it.
Girls’ night was here.
* * *
SOPHIE LOOKED THE SAME. Somehow Isabelle had expected her to return looking like Sandy at the end of Grease: leathered and eyelinered and big-haired. But she still looked like a postwar librarian, her red hair curled under in an elegant chignon and her little black glasses doing their best to hide her naughty thoughts.
“Where’s your bike?” Isabelle asked after giving Sophie a third hug and pressing a glass of sangria into her hand.
“We left the bikes in Texas for now. Alex has a quick contract in Alaska, and I decided winter in the Alaskan oil fields was not the adventure I’m looking for right now.”
Lauren dropped onto the couch beside them. “Does that mean you’re home for a while?”
Sophie winced. “For a little while.”
“Shit,” Isabelle groaned. “Just spill it.”
Sophie cleared her throat. “I’m turning in my resignation,” she said softly, reaching out for Lauren’s hand. They worked together at the library, or they had before Sophie had taken a leave of absence four months before.
“You’re really leaving,” Isabelle whispered.
“I’m leaving. Finally.”
