“You heard me, Molls.” He turns in his seat to face me, adjusting himself as he does it, and God, I’m sixteen again. In about three minutes, we’re going to be half naked in the back seat, getting each other off.
“Look, I want you. I’m a grown-ass man and to pretend otherwise is foolish. You want me, too. You’re not ready to deal with it, you’ve got shit to work out, fine. But let’s not pretend that we’re not interested. That’s some bullshit. And I’m sticking around for a while and making this my temporary home base. I still have to travel for work, but I’ll be coming back here in between meetings for the next month or so.”
“Ugh.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Have I mentioned that it also pisses me off when you make sense?”
“No big deal. It kind of turns me on when you get pissed off. And everything I say is logical and sensible, so I fail to see the problem here.” His cocky side is showing and damn if that doesn’t turn me on, too. God damn my need to have sex with this man again.
“Okay, fine. You’re right. We need to get along because you’re obviously sticking around for a while and Simon and Elaine have asked us to do them a favor. A favor I am perfectly capable of doing on my own—-”
“Look, I get that. But she’s my sister. And I’ve got to admit that I haven’t been the best or most attentive big brother. So, yeah, it’s a little late in the game, but I’m here. And I’ll do whatever she asks.”
The seriousness in his tone gets to me. Elaine hasn’t said too much about their relationship, but I definitely know that he’s been distant. Not bad per se, just rarely around. It’s clear that he’s making an effort and if I thwart that for my own selfish reasons, I’d be hurting Elaine. And there’s no way I’m hurting Elaine.
“Alright, so we’re a team for the foreseeable future.”
“A dynamic duo,” he quips.
“But only in terms of this wedding mission,” I caution. “Nothing else, Mr. Sexypants.”
“Mr. Sexypants? You need to work on your nickname game, Molly. And, what the hell?”
“Don’t you raise those eyebrows at me. Don’t you come at me with that smolder. I meant what I said. Do I want to have dirty, raunchy, sweaty sex with you? Yes, yes I do.”
“Great. Me, too—”
“But I won’t.”
“Uhhh...”
“Look, I told you back in December that I don’t do commitment. I wasn’t lying or exaggerating. I don’t. I used to, it blew up in my face a few too many times, so I got wise and stopped. And don’t even come at me with those puppy dog eyes and tell me we could have a no-strings arrangement. That is so much bullshit. There’s no such thing. We’re going to spend the next 4-6 weeks together planning a wedding. If we’re also having sex, that’s going to blur the lines.”
“So, instead, we’ll be friends who’ve had sex, but aren’t currently having sex, and are also planning another couple’s wedding,” he says slowly and methodically, as if he’s trying to reason it all out in his head. There’s no sarcasm, just pragmatism.
“That about sums it up.”
“You’re the boss.” He winks. Mr. Sexytimes fucking winks. And I know he’s teasing me, baiting me, reminding me that he was the boss during our night together. But if he thinks those words, that wink, and that sexy, infuriating-as-hell attitude are going to intimidate me into submission, he’s out of his Goddamn mind.
“Ah, now you’re getting it,” I say, as I gun the engine.
My life has become an unending series of practice in futility.
I feel like I’m on a damn hamster wheel and no matter how fast I run, how hard I push myself, I’m not getting anywhere.
I hate feeling like this. I am not used to being useless.
I’m not familiar with frustration.
I’m the king of getting things done, so I’m out of my element these days.
My job is a fucking nightmare. Nathaniel and I worked tirelessly to tie up a deal that should have been closed weeks ago. Unfortunately, the lead on that acquisition, Joel Peretti, is a complete ass, so the whole thing was botched and nearly unsalvageable. But, I’m good at what I do and Nate’s not too shabby either, so it looks like we’ve got a chance of making it work.
So, we’ll fly off to Chicago to clean up someone else’s mess. And what fucking kills me is that I used to live for this shit. Coming in clutch at the last minute, saving a deal that was fucked up beyond recognition? That’s always been my specialty.
Now, it’s just annoying the hell out of me.
So, I’ll hop on a flight tonight, which is nothing new. Except it is now. For the past eighteen years, I’ve lived at least half of the year on the road, and I’ve always preferred it that way. I earned my MBA at 22 and have been on the fast track ever since. Traveling the country on the corporate dime, enjoying lush accommodations, and wheeling and dealing my way through life proved to be ideal.
And I wasn’t the only one who loved that schedule. My being gone at least half the year suited my now ex-wife just fine. Turns out it’s a lot easier to cheat on your spouse when he’s rarely around.
