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“Daytime what?”
“Focus group testing. Kitchen demonstrations. Small corporate training retreats. Not overnight, not vacationers. So the privacy element is a little different. If that idiot Spatula had read the rental contract, he’d have known,” he informs me, his voice a little too soothing, like a kid who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but before he took a bite.
“What if I had been undressing?”
“Then I would have been extra glad I’d installed them,” he says with a short sigh at the end, voice husky.
“What if I—” I halt. Back up. Those words he just said… Is–is Will Lotham flirting with me?
He laughs. “Besides, why would you undress in a client’s living room?” He pauses. “Unless you really are a porn actress?”
I choke.
“What? No!” I cough out. “What if I’d needed to adjust the girls?”
“The girls?”
“You know.” If he’s watching, might as well. I reach in with my non-Fluff hand and adjust my headlights, if you know what I mean.
He goes dead silent.
“That’s a thing?”
“What’s a thing?”
“Adjusting–women reach inside their bra cups and do that?”
“Of course we do! Haven’t you ever had a girlfriend? Or a live-in lover?”
“Lover? Who uses the word lover? That’s like calling pants slacks. And yes, I’ve had plenty of girlfriends. No live-ins.”
“Wife?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“No. Look, Mallory, I’ve had plenty of girlfriends and none of them are secret girl adjusters.”
“That makes me sound like a guard in a women’s prison.”
He laughs again, then makes a sound of consideration. “It makes sense, when I think about it.”
OMIGOD WILL LOTHAM IS THINKING ABOUT MY GIRLS.
“Guys adjust, too,” Will adds, his voice casual.
“Guys adjust… what? Unless you magically sprouted moobs in the half hour since I last saw you, Will, you have nothing of importance to adjust.”
“You know.” He clears his throat meaningfully.
“Oh! Those!” I gasp.
“Last time I checked, I still had those. No girlfriend or lover has stamped ‘property of’ just yet.” Pause. A strange breath. “Yep. Still here. Just checked.”
“You… touched your… those while talking to me?” I squeak.
“Seems fair. You touched your breasts. Now we’re even.” His voice sounds like every cranberry cosmo I’ve had in a bar, all while waiting for transformation in the form of That Guy. You know. The guy who miraculously picks me out of a crowd, one out of a million, and tells me I’m the answer to all his questions.
That Guy.
Will sure sounds like That Guy, if That Guy ever actually existed. But he doesn’t, because he’s a fantasy I’ve conjured in my starved imagination.
