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“Why is that funny?” I ask.
“You’re going to be the fare of some driver’s lifetime,” she ribs.
“No one will recognize me,” I dismiss her comment.
“Oh, it’s not about you per se. You’re a pick-up at the yacht club and could be any rich guy needing a ride,” she reminds me. “Be prepared for a costly tab. They expect you can afford it.”
“I don’t care,” I say, pressing my lips to hers. “I just want to be alone with you. So should we tell Adrianne or just let her figure it out?”
“Take the high road, always,” she says. “I say we kill her with kindness – she won’t know what to say or how to act. Let’s go thank her for sharing her yacht with us.”
Hand in hand, we approach Adrianne, blathering to a couple who look like hostages rather than guests. “Adrianne?” I nudge her gently. “Sorry to interrupt. We’re going to be going home now.”
“Thank you for inviting us,” Brynne says with the poise of an angel.
“You’re leaving?” she says in a smarmy tone. “Was it something I said?”
“No, but you tried,” Brynne replies without missing a beat. “Just kidding. Thank you again.”
I squelch a snicker. Brynne summons the Uber since I don’t have the app on my phone. We walk the swaying plank to waitin the parking lot. Brynne teeters on the unstable surface once again. Finally, I sweep her over my shoulder and, once again, again carrying her fireman style the rest of the way.
She giggles uncontrollably. A couple of times, I thought we were going to go over. “We’re going to be swimming to the parking lot in a second if you don’t stop squiggling around,” I threaten, loving every second.
The Uber is pulling in just as we find solid ground. I slide her down off of me. She clutches to me desperately.
“Oh!” she gasps desperately. “Don’t move.” She fiddles with the front of her dress. “I fell out,” she whispers.
“He can’t hear us,” I laugh. “Step back. Let me see.”
She does, and I shamelessly reach for her neckline. My fingers dip inside on purpose. I toyed with her nipples while the car approached us. Her face is alive with arousal.
“Need me to carry you again?” I muse.
“Maybe,” she says.
I palm a bill to the driver as soon as we climb into the backseat. I barely fit.
“Thank you, sir,” he says.
“I don’t have to give him the address?” I ask Brynne.
“It’s all taken care of,” she says. “All paid for.”
“How did you know my address?” I ask her.
“I have been suing you, silly, since my uncle died,” she laughs. I mail you a copy and have someone else serve you in person. I’ve memorized it by now.”
Her explanation is like a knife to the gut. I have blown off something she has taken so seriously because I know I will prevail. I’m guessing any mail she sent to my home would have been ignored or, most likely, thrown out. I view snail mail as junk mail and pay zero attention to it as I manage everything online or have staff take care of it – also online. We gave up paper records years ago.
I don’t have the heart to tell her I had no idea. It would be an admission of disrespect on so many levels. I draw her close to me. The modest electric car struggles to climb up 22ndStreet to my house. My drive is steep and winds several times up a hill and around several large trees. I can’t help but wonder if the little tin can make it or if we need to get out and walk. But it does. Brynne removes her heels pre-emptively and exits the car barefoot.
“Thank you again,” I say to the driver and wave as he rides off.
I take hold of Brynne, looking past me with her jaw dropped.
“Tell me how much that was,” I say. “I am sending it to you right now.”
“You live alone here?” she asks, her head pivoting.
