“Like a slow jazz number.”
“Are you fucking with me?”
My mouth turned up on one side. “Give us your best Etta James.”
Ophelia rolled her eyes, and even more spectacularly, the butterfly started crawling onto her forehead.
“Oh, fuck. Oh god, I can feel its little feet on me.”
“Fun fact,” I started.
“No, fuck off with your fun facts.”
“Butterflies use their feet to taste,” I continued. “It’s probably sampling your skin juice to find a suitable place to lay its eggs.”
She curled in on herself. “Get it off me, respectfully.”
I reached out to shoo it away, but the bug fluttered and landed on my forearm. “Hey, little guy.”
“There, now it can slurp on your juices.”
I grimaced. “God, O.”
“I know, okay? I knew the second I said it.”
“Can’t take you anywhere.”
We walked toward the exit and the butterfly remained, stuck to my arm hair, legs tangled in the brush. If it stayed, I would stay there all day, too. But at the door, as if it knew it couldn’t keep us company anymore, it took off.
“It was attached to you.” Ophelia smiled. “You should have snuck him out in your pocket.”
“That’s theft, you little klepto.” I pinched her side. “Fun fact—”
“Can’t be worse than the last one.”
We pushed through the doors of the exhibit. “A butterfly's life expectancy is only two to four weeks. So by the time you leave Florida, most of them will be dead.”
O paused in the walkway with a scowl. “Give me that.” She ripped her notepad out of my back pocket, swatting me in the ass with it before jotting down an aggressive note.
I cackled all the way through the rose garden.
20
Hourslaterwehoppedback in the truck and I cranked the air conditioner to full blast. Both of us stuck our faces to the vents, letting out long, satisfied sighs to be out of the heat. Ophelia’s skin was flushed red, her cheeks like apples. A bead of sweat trickled down her neck behind her ear and I didn’t care how hot it was anymore after that.
I found myself imagining what kind of assholes were passing this woman by as we drove through town. She was the definition of a girl you took home to meet the family. So attractive it kept you awake at night, thinking about the way it’d feel to have her underneath you, at the same time so charming you wanted to protect and take care of her just as much as the physical stuff.
If that wasn’t enough, she waschallenging. Smart, funny, effortlessly unhinged. Coy, but never shy. She gave my shit right back to me, which maybe some insecure little boy might find intimidating, but I ate it up.
She wasn’t agirl,though. Maybe that was the problem. Ophelia was dating men that wanted tame and behaved. They wanted low aspiration, stay at home with the kids, have dinner ready when they got home, and missionary sex lasting long enough to get her going but never enough to get her off.
Knowing she’d likely settle for that had me squeezing the steering wheel a little too tight.
In the passenger seat she was studying her notepad with the pen between her teeth. Her dress had ridden up a dangerous amount, tan legs sticking to the leather seats. She had to know how much skin she was showing—she always knew exactly what she was doing.
“You’re certified gold at random butterfly trivia.” She smiled around the end of the pen. “Great location choice, interesting conversation, good humor”—she rolled her eyes—“but could be better.”
“Boo,” I protested.
