Page 93 of Bridesmaid Undercover
“I wouldn’t tell her anything personal, Hardy. I know we joke around, and I’ve been helping you with making a new connection to her, but I don’t want you thinking I’m telling her your deepest, darkest secrets.”
“I know you wouldn’t. I just want to make sure.” He trusts me. There’s something so satisfying about that, earning another human’s trust. It’s almost as if we’re becoming friends.
Hell, I know we are, and I like it. I might not be able to have him as mine, but friends…I can take that.
“I get it,” I say. “And feel free to not even talk about your shit day today. Instead, we can talk about Whitney Houston and how ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ should never be sung by anyone else but her.”
“I bought the single.” He winces.
“The one that was released on CD and all the proceeds went to the funds set up for firefighters and police officers affected by 9/11?” I ask.
“That very one.”
I pat my chest. “I got it too.”
“Really?” He shakes his head. “I’ve never met another person who bought that.”
“Clearly you’re not hanging out with the right people,” I say.
“Clearly.” He threads another pom-pom on the string while I start making more. “Well, it looks like I’m hanging out with the right person now.”
“You are.” If only he saw that connection as something worth pursuing. But what keeps surprising me is how comfortable I feel with this man. I should feel intimidated. He’s a very wealthy man and has serious street cred. And yet, he’s so down-to-earth. I’ve never felt so comfortable with someone so quickly, whichmakes it even harder to realize that his heart is determined on being with another woman. But I refuse to focus on that right now. He seemed stressed earlier, so it’s my aim to help him get out of that slump. “You should congratulate yourself on making the smart decision to start spending time with me, Henrietta.”
“Maybe I will with a beer later.”
“Ooo, are you a beer drinker? Need to crack open a cold one after a long hard day?”
“Not really,” he says. “I mean, I drink, but it’s not like a routine for me when I get home from work.”
“What is your routine?” I ask.
“Are we getting personal?” he asks with a raised brow.
“We are. We shared our love for Whitney, you’ve told me extensively about your impeccable underwear, the next step is obviously sharing with each other our bedtime routines. So, do you sleep with a stuffie? Yes or no?”
He smirks. “No.”
“Oh yeah, me neither. Eck, gross. Who does that?”
He sits taller, pausing his stringing. “Everly Plum, do you still sleep with a stuffie?”
“No,” I say even though I know for a fact there’s a well-loved stuffed worm named Mr. Pooty Pie on my bed at the moment.
“You do,” he says, finding way too much joy in this. “You sleep with a stuffie.”
“You say that as if that’s a bad thing. Remember, I’m, like, ten years younger than you. I’m still fresh from the crib.”
“The fuck you are,” he says, making me laugh. “You’re a grown-ass woman with a stuffie.”
Holding my chin high, I say, “So what? Do you look down upon those who find comfort in polyester stuffed animals?”
“No.” He shakes his head.
“Because it seems like you’re judging, and for a man who bowled below an eighty with one bowling ball blasting through the ceiling, I don’t think you have any room to judge.”
“How long are you going to hold that over my head?”
“As long as I can.” I wink.
