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I chuckle as I tuck my phone away. Maybe it’s best I won’t be seeing Emma tonight. It’s one thing to tease over a text message, but the desire I have to act on that text is overwhelming. To track her down at the ladies’ spa day and slide my hand underneath her robe. I want Emma badly and it’s only a matter of time before my restraint snaps.
CHAPTER24
Emma
“Heels are a helpful tool to help you sink low.” Lydia, the dance instructor, bends her knees to drop her butt to the floor, then straightens her legs to lift it back up. Her legs are spread on either side of the chair she is using to demonstrate her lap dance technique. She looks up at us from her bent position and motions between her butt and the mannequin that is perched on the chair behind her. “You want your ass in their line of vision.” She points to the mannequin’s eyes then her butt. “And then you twerk.”
With a pelvic motion that has me questioning human anatomy, Lydia bounces her butt in the mannequin’s face.
We’re gathered in a small dance instruction studio at Studio Y in Uptown. While I made arrangements for dinner and our late-night activities, Jules, Chloe’s co-worker and friend, scheduled this fun, yet personally challenging activity.
“Good thing I just got waxed,” Jules announces to the group.
A wax job isn’t going to be my biggest issue here.
“When you said dance class, I was thinking something more along the lines of Zumba,” I whisper to Chloe.
She just laughs and threads her arm through mine. “It’s fun, right?”
It’s fun because this is Chloe’s bachelorette party and she’s having fun. That’s what matters.
We take turns having Lydia instruct us on our twerk, the final step in the lap dance routine she’s teaching us. When it’s my turn, I do my best but it’s basically me gyrating against the mannequin’s knees. We all have a good laugh. Lydia attempts to work with me on my moves, only because she doesn’t realize it’s hopeless.
While Lindsay, Carl’s girlfriend, gets her instruction, I join Chloe, Jules, and Chloe’s friends, Lauren, Amelie and Sloane, on the plush sofa positioned against the wall of the small studio room we’re in.
This girls’ day for Chloe’s bachelorette party has been exactly what I needed after the generally hectic week and yesterday’s Kandi Kline interview. A relaxing morning at the spa where we got our nails done, facials, body scrub and massage, and blow-outs. I feel polished from head to toe. And now, an evening with these ladies, laughing and dancing to celebrate Chloe, is what I’m looking forward to.
And a night away from Griffin. Not because I don’t want to see him, but because I need a moment to catch my breath. To sort out if these feelings I’m having are because he’s pretending to be my husband or if they’re real. And if my feelings for him are real, can I trust them? I’ve known him for two weeks. I dated Alec for two years and was blindsided by our breakup. How can I put my heart on the line for a man I’ve known for such a short amount of time?
And while I’d been insulted at first by being friend-zoned by Griffin, now that we’ve ventured into the physical realm, I can see why he insisted. It was safer there. Less complicated.
While his actions at the Kandi Kline interview and the bathtub photoshoot were for appearances, there was nothing fake about Griffin stroking his cock while he watched me masturbate with the shower wand yesterday. But maybe that was just pent-up sexual frustration. He hasn’t had sex in six years. It could be the same reason for the Twister night hook-up, too.
I want to chalk it up to that, but that’s the thing, I don’t think Griffin would do that.
Today, my brain has been working overtime imagining all sorts of scenarios with Griffin. And, peppered in amongst the fantasies of him taking me roughly against a wall or telling me I’m a good girl while I choke on his dick, there are others.
Earlier, when the realtor I’m working with sent me a new listing to look at, I immediately imagined what it would be like if meand Griffinlived in the apartment. His clothes hanging in the closet, his toothbrush and razor by the sink, his tennis shoes by the door and his sweaty gym shorts in the laundry hamper. We’d be snuggled up on the couch—an oversized, mustard masterpiece to be specific—watching an old black and white movie. He’ll make blueberry scones on the weekend and I’ll do my part by picking up lattes at the corner coffee shop.
Then I look at the calendar and the looming countdown to Griffin’s departure. Ten days.
Griffin will leave New York the Monday after Barrett and Chloe’s wedding. I’ve been looking forward to their wedding for months, since they got engaged in December, but now that it’s the marker for Griffin’s departure, I’m begging time to slow down.
Every event leading up to their wedding is only a reminder of how much time is left. Nine days until Griffin returns to Las Vegas. I don’t even want to think about it.
Once everyone has had their personal instruction on twerking, we run through the routine Lydia taught us. By the end of the song, we’re all laughing and a bit sweaty. No wonder Griffin is in such good shape, dancing and making it look good is no easy task.
I’m having so much fun with Chloe and the other ladies that I don’t realize the end goal of this tutorial until it’s too late.
Lydia motions for us to gather around. “Okay, ladies, time to put everything into practice. We’re going to test out your new skills.”
This is intense. I didn’t realize there was going to be a test. Even after an hour of instruction, I’m still the least coordinated one here, so I’m hoping it’s more of a written test than practical.
I lock eyes with Chloe. She’s pressing her lips together, like she’s got a secret and it’s about to burst out.
“The guys are here!” Chloe announces. “We’re going to have them escorted to private rooms where we can show off our new moves.” She bounces on her toes with excitement.
What?! That’s the worst idea in the history of ideas. The lap dance skills I acquired in the last hour were never meant to be seen by anyone! Now, she’s telling me that I’m supposed to give Griffin, my fake husband and a professional male revue dancer, a lap dance? Uh-uh. Nope.
