Page 33 of Floored (Frenched 3)
“Wow, you’re so warm,” I said, lifting my chin to whisper breathy words in his ear. His body stiffened, making me smile. “And so big and strong and handsome. And you give such good hugs—I can’t help myself. I’m totally attached to you. I can’t let go! Marry me, Charlie Dwyer! Tonight! I want to have your babies!” As my voice rose I got more dramatic, clinging to him, jumping up and down, dangling from his neck like a baby chimp.
“Very funny.”
Laughing, I straightened up and released him. “Scare you for a minute?”
“For a second, maybe.”
“Good. You deserved it. You can give me a hug, you know. I won’t expect a ring next Tuesday because of it.”
He held up his hands. “OK, OK. I confess, I tend to be uncomfortable with gestures of affection.”
“So for you, physical contact is sexual or nothing?”
“Pretty much.”
I shook my head. “Jesus, Charlie. You’re such an asshole.”
He tugged on my hair. “For a girl who doesn’t swear, you swear a lot.”
“Guess you bring out the devil in me.”
He laughed. “I’d say that’s mutual. So you better get in the car. You have my number, right?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Call if you need help laying the new floor.”
“OK. Night.”
“Night.”
Charlie waited until I pulled out to get into his car, which had been parked next to mine. Not a shiny black Lexus, but a nice enough silver Honda, which did not appear to have litter in the back seat (I checked).
As I drove home, I was torn between being glad we’d agreed on the no-more-sex thing, and feeling a little disappointed I wouldn’t experience the things that Charlie made me feel again. That sense of abandonment, feeling free to do or say wicked naughty things because someone else was prompting me. But that was silly—surely there were other men out there who’d bring out the devil in me, weren’t there? Men with less ego and more heart? Men who were interested in that kind of sex but also a relationship? There had to be. And if he drove a Lexus and took me to the opera and flew me to Paris to propose, all the better.
Yes, I’d say.
Yes, yes, yes.
Which is exactly what I said the following morning in bed, when I fantasized that Charlie came over to surprise me, found my door unlocked, and came upstairs to punish me for it.
Although after the real thing, even the Naughty Rabbit felt a little less impressive.
Damn him. What the hell was I supposed to do about that?
It snowed all day on Thanksgiving—the scattered flurries descending as I drove to the soup kitchen turned to a light fall by the time I left for my mom’s house, making the roads slippery. Cars slid through stop signs and swerved into curbs as drivers struggled to maintain control, as if they’d forgotten that brakes don’t work the same in winter weather. I saw quite a few near-accidents and the aftermath of two actual collisions, and both times I slowed down and craned my neck like a gawker to see if Charlie was one of the cops on the scene. Even though he’d told me last night he wasn’t a traffic cop, I still felt annoyingly disappointed that I didn’t see him. That I wouldn’t see him.
While we ate, the snow fell hard and steady, and by the time I was helping my mom do the dishes, a good three or four inches had fallen.
“It’s bad out there,” my mom fretted, peering out her kitchen window into the yard. “And it’s getting dark. I bet the roads are awful. You should just stay here tonight.”
“It’s beautiful out there, and I don’t need to stay here. I’m a careful driver.” I dried off a handful of silverware and put it back in the wooden case on the counter.
“Well, you better get going sooner rather than later. Want me to pack you some leftovers?”
“You’re busy. I can do it.”
As I piled food into plastic containers, I wondered what Charlie was doing right now. Had he eaten dinner with his grandfather? Was he alone tonight? An idea popped into my head—Charlie’s cell number was on his card. When I got home, I could call him and see if he wanted to come hang out after work tomorrow, watch a movie, eat leftovers with me. If he hadn’t gotten a home-cooked meal today, he might be craving one.
