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Preach that.
Lil sighed. “My name is Lillian Fradley-Park, I’m eighty-one years old, and I couldn’t give a damn about anything other than Mr. Wesley and his nipple clamps.”
Good old Lil.
“All right. Imogen?”
All eyes turned to me.
“What? I’m not doing that. I’m not a part of this club. I’m here to supervise,” I said.
“You’re drinking our wine,” Evelyn pointed out.
“I’m drinking my wine,” I retorted.
“Oh. Never mind then.”
Grandma shook her head. “Imogen.”
“Fine. My name is Imogen Anderson. Despite my grandmother’s protestations, she lives in my house, I’m an artist, I run an art store, and I have to look after four drunken, kinky-book-loving pensioners once a week because they can’t be trusted by themselves. Is that okay?”
“A little brusque,” Kathleen replied. “But it works.”
“It was fine,” Lil answered. “Politer than mine.”
“Everyone is politer than you, Lil,” Evelyn offered.
“Mason.” Grandma nodded at him. “You’re up.”
He cleared his throat and looked around the room. “Uh. Hi. I’m Mason Black. I’m twenty-eight, I have a three-year-old daughter called Maya, and I’m a lawyer. I also have a Shih Tzu puppy called Dolly that I was coerced into adopting by my daughter.”
“And you used to sleep with Imogen,” Lil offered brightly.
Mason coughed. “That’s not usually how I introduce myself to people, but sure.”
My cheeks flamed bright red.
Why the hell had I been a part of the conversation that ended up with him at book club? I should have known better. I should have known that at least someone would bring that up.
I lifted my wine glass and finished the rest of it in one. “Look at that. I need another drink. Anyone else?”
I jumped up and darted into the kitchen before anyone else could answer. Gripping the edge of the counter, I stepped back and dropped my head forward, closing my eyes for a brief second.
This was just going from bad to worse—and then some.
I pushed off the counter, refilled my wine, and headed back in once I’d taken a few deep breaths. The ladies were now discussing the book, and Mason looked like he wanted to be anywhere other than here.
You and me both, I thought.
I took my seat and put my feet up. Mason caught my eye, and I hide a smile behind my glass.
“Can we please discuss the nipple clamps now?” Lil asked, waving her book around. “We’ve already discussed the words used to describe his penis.”
Mason paled slightly.
“I’m not sure ‘bulbous love wand was a favorite of mine,’” Evelyn mused. “It made me think of the bulbs I have to plant this fall.”
“Not really the kind of excitement the author was going for, huh?” I replied. “What was your favorite description, Mason?”
He went even whiter. “Uh, they were all so good I can’t possibly choose.”
“I bet it was the ‘pulsating cannon,’” Kathleen said. “These penis analogies are awful. Why do we read this BDSM stuff?”
“Because nobody ever screwed us on a sex swing, Kathleen,” Grandma responded.
“Speak for yourself,” Lil said, getting up. “Bobby Thornberry was a real sexpot back in the day.”
“Him? A sexpot?” Evelyn raised her eyebrows. “I doubt that. I went on one date with him, and he had the sexual skills of a kitten.”
Lil patted her silver curls. “Maybe he just needed a real woman, Evelyn.”
This was not how I’d expected the gossip portion of the evening to go.
CHAPTER TWELVE – IMMY
The Great Escape
“Dear fucking God, that was enlightening.”
I looked up from my sketchbook and grinned as Mason stepped out onto the back porch. “I told you it was interesting.”
“I think I know more about their sex lives than I do about my own.” He ran his hand through his hair and sat on the chair next to me. “I’m sorry, but I think I have to break up with the book club.”
I laughed, setting the book down on the table. “Lucky you. I can usually work while they yammer on, but I wanted to experience your reactions the first time.”
“How did you get away?”
“I went to use the bathroom.”
“That was forty-five minutes ago.”
“I know.” I smirked. “I figured you could look after them until their cabs all showed up.”
“Thanks for that,” he said dryly, leaning right back in the chair. “Like I haven’t looked after a child and a poop-happy puppy all day already.”
“You come to the madhouse; you’re responsible for the madhouse.” I shrugged and put my pencil on top of the pad.
“What are you drawing?”
“Whatever comes out of the pencil. Just letting it run free.”
He leaned over and turned the pad so he could see. “Flower garden?”
I shrugged. “Probably. There aren’t any squirrels, though, wonky-eyed or otherwise.”
He met my eyes, a smile tugging at his lips. “Shame. Your squirrels are the best squirrels.”
I pursed my lips and grabbed the sketchbook, closing the cover over it. Partly to protect the drawing, but also to protect me. My sketches were such a part of me that were so personal, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to open that part to him yet.
