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I nod, and she pulls out a pound of weed, wrapped dozens of times over in Saran Wrap. It’s about the shape of a masonry brick.
She “Ooooos” and “Aaaaaahs” over it, and I hold my poker face, even though I want to smile. “I told you I’d take care of you.”
She drops it on her bed and runs her hands over it reverently.
“Smitten?”
Her eyes crinkle as she beams. “It’s my baby,” she croons. “My weed baby. What do I owe you?” She looks a little worried, so I’m happy to tell her, “Nothing. It’s a show of good faith.”
Her eyebrows jut up, and the smile falls off her face. “And if monkey can’t learn math?”
“Then you got lucky. Or your clients will come find my guys when you run through this, so I get all your ex-clients.”
She comes at me, and I’m stunned to feel her arms around me. “Thank you for this!” She presses her cheek against my chest and squeezes me around the waist. “I’ll give you fifty percent at least, I swear!” She releases me, still grinning like a little fool, and I feel a tug in my gut as she turns back toward her gift. “It smells like heaven.”
“So do you,” I say to her slim shoulders. “You smell like tea.”
She turns back around and smiles at me, a mega-watt grin that streams charm through the little room like sunlight. “I wear Green Tea perfume. You’ve got a good nose.”
“Part of the job,” I kid.
“I want to know more about it,” she says eagerly.
“My nose?” I’m surprised to find myself smiling again. I press my lips together, because my cheeks are aching.
“The job, silly.”
I arch my brows. “Does this mean we’re... associates?”
I’m actually thinking of making her my partner, but it’s too soon to tell her.
I fold my arms over my chest and watch her leggings stretch over her nice, round ass as she stashes the brick under her bed. She ignores my ‘associates’ comment as she turns and sifts through the basket. “Snuggly blankets.” She presses her face into one of them. “They smell like fresh detergent.”
“They are freshly detergenterized.”
“By you?”
“Who else?” I ask. For some reason, I want her to think I laundered them myself. “I’m courting you, Cleo. You said you like fleece.”
“When did I say that?” she asks, almost accusingly.
“Last night.” I run my eyes over her bed, and Cleo’s cheeks stain red.
“I don’t like to be embarrassed,” she says. She leans her butt against the mattress and her green eyes peer into mine.
“So don’t be.”
“I was going to do that anyway,” she says softly.
By “that” I assume she means “masturbate,” not “have phone sex.” I can tell she’s trying to be casual and failing. Even her neck is red now. I’m surprised I’m having this effect on her.
She recently got out of a relationship with Brennan. That guy is boring, and a douche. Maybe he just never really did it for her.
I assume she was referencing him; the guy who bound her wrists with his tie. I wonder if it was on this very bed... I grit my teeth. I can’t stand to imagine her body stretched out under his.
Instead I ask, “What else don’t you like? Teach me your mysterious ways.”
Her green eyes blink, wide and more solemn than this moment calls for. “I don’t like surprises.”
