Page 31 of Forked (Frenched 2)
“Can I see?”
I hesitated. “I guess so. Sure.” Turning around, I gathered my hair over one shoulder and stood still. He opened the back of the dress again, gently pushing the sleeves and the bra straps down my arms. I felt naked, which was silly, since he’d seen me naked for real probably hundreds of times, maybe a thousand. Actually, it wasn’t that I felt naked. I felt judged—and the verdict was guilty.
Nick’s fingers brushed over the two matching swallows, one on each shoulder blade. “They’re beautiful.”
“Thanks.”
He was silent, and for some reason I felt like apologizing. I’m sorry was on the tip of my tongue, as though I owed him permanent real estate on my body. I don’t, I thought, biting my lip. I didn’t then and I don’t now and this moment needs to be over.
“Mind if I slip into something more comfortable?” I shot him a coy look over my shoulder, dismayed to find him looking pensive and a little heartbroken.
“Huh? Oh, no, of course not.” He replaced his forlorn expression with an impish smile. “You can walk around naked if you want to.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of pajamas.”
“Pajamas?” He looked pained. “That is definitely a distant second to naked, but make yourself at home. I’m gonna start cleaning up the kitchen so we can get that cake made while Noni still has a pulse.”
“I’ll be down in a minute to help.”
Nick headed down the stairs and I opened up my suitcase, dropping onto the bed to pull off my sandals. I had the first one off and the second one dangling from my hand when I heard Johnny Cash and June Carter’s “Jackson” start to blare from speakers somewhere downstairs. We got married in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout…
Laughing at Nick’s sense of humor, I changed into my pajamas, fitted boy shorts and a tank in blush pink trimmed with black lace. I debated putting a bra back on, since the material of the top was pretty thin, but it felt so good to breathe without underwire I left it off. In Nick’s walk-through closet I found a spare hanger and hung up my dress, ignoring the impulse to rifle through his clothes and sniff his collars, or snoop in the upstairs bathroom beyond it for girly items. I didn’t need to care if he entertained girls here, right? I was no longer his girlfriend and had no plans to be.
Pulling an elastic from my makeup bag, I wandered into the bathroom to put my hair in a pony tail. The walls were brick, the sink and subway tiles white, and the fixtures chrome. I checked my reflection in the mirror, my insides tightening a little at the thought of Nick wet and naked in the shower behind me. Is that where he jerked off thinking about me?
For fuck’s sake, Coco. Knock it off and get out of here, you pervert.
At the last second, I couldn’t resist a quick peak in the vanity drawers, which made me laugh. No pink razors or girly deodorant, but he had enough hair and grooming products to sink a ship. They were all manly, though, as manly as ginger and citrus hair wax can be, anyway.
Nick was cleaning the island countertop, but he looked up as I came into the kitchen. He’d put his white tank and blue plaid shirt back on, which was probably a good thing. His bare chest was way too tempting.
“Oh, good. I like a girl who bakes in lingerie.”
I wrinkled my nose. “I’m not much of a baker. Maybe I’ll just watch.”
“No way. You’re here in my kitchen, I’m putting you to work.”
“Slave driver,” I teased. “Got a broom? Or a vacuum?” Nick had picked up the things he’d swiped onto the floor, but the wood felt gritty with spilled sugar and looked dusty with flour. “Did we break the glasses of scotch?”
“No, actually. The broom’s in the pantry over there.” Nick glanced at my bare feet. “I wiped up the scotch
but the floor might be sticky.”
“I can handle it.” I found the broom and dustpan and swept the floor while Nick scrubbed and dried the bowls and measuring utensils. “That was some good scotch sacrificed here.”
“Totally fucking worth it.”
I smiled. “I think so too.” When I’d emptied the dustpan into the garbage, I wet a paper towel, got down on my knees, and began wiping the floor.
“Now there’s something I never thought I’d see. Coco Thomas on her hands and knees washing the kitchen floor.”
I stopped working and looked up at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged as he cracked an egg into the bowl. “Just that you’ve probably had a maid to do that stuff your whole life.”
Sitting back on my heels, I scowled at him. Yes, my parents had always had a housekeeper, something I’d never thought twice about until I met Nick. Everybody I knew had one. Later I learned that Nick’s mom had cleaned houses to supplement the money their family restaurant made when times were tough. But even then, I’d never understood why that should make him uncomfortable around my family. “Really, Nick? Right now you’re going to start that shit again?”
“Start what shit?”
