Page 9 of Unraveling with You

Gabby nudges me with a bright smile. “You said Remington, didn’t you? I know a Remington!”

A jolt of fear snaps through my chest. Someone as beautiful as Gabriella Ricchetti - with long, sleek hair, plump curves packed with smooth, muscled power, and captivating brown eyes - would be a far better match for someone as gorgeous as Remington.

I stifle the nerves in my voice, turning back to my soup. “You do?”

“Yeah, I do!” The clanking of pots and bubbling soup drown us out, so Gabby leans in close, adjusting to a regular volume rather than having to shout. “He works at the club I told you about. The one I’m into.”

The residual, churning anxiety in my gut explodes like Gabby just threw a match into gasoline. Does that mean Remington is into kink or BDSM? I don’t have a problem with it - in fact, I wish I had more courage to explore it - but that would make Remington leagues ahead of me in terms of sexual experience.

A wallowing, throbbing pain breaks my heart. I guess I didn’t realize how desperate I was to pursue Remington romantically. He probably thinks of me as a weird, innocent little flower.

“Have you, um– Had a good time with him there?” I ask.

Gabby gasps. “Are you interested in finally experimenting with someone?”

“Shh.” I check over my shoulder. “I don’t have any experience, either way.”

“So? I told you I’d show you the ropes!” She nudges me, softening her voice even further. “Literally.”

I shake my head, blushing down my chest. Maybe I shouldn’t have told her I’d be open to trying Shibari with the right person.

Gabby sighs. “You still don’t realize you’re a bombshell, huh?”

I flush hotter, cleaning splotches of soup off the countertops beside the stove as an excuse to turn my back to Gabby. She’s really into big breasts, and I know she’s trying to compliment me, but in no way is my awkward, uncoordinated self a bombshell supermodel. Every time I’ve hooked up with someone, they’ve felt so uncomfortable around my blubbering shyness that they just get off and leave. Attraction to only my boobs doesn’t last long.

But Gabby stops me with a gentle tug on my apron. “Did I say something to upset you?”

“I’m fine.”

When she doesn’t reply, I lift my head to meet her eyes.

She frowns. “You’re a bad liar. I was going to say I’ve never laid a hand on the man, but I think you’d get along well with Remi. He’s the Dungeon Monit–” Paolo rushes past, and Gabby returns to the soup. As soon as we’re alone again, she softens her voice even further. “Well, in vanilla terms, he’s one of the bouncers, so he’s usually looking out for us and making sure everything stays safe and consensual.”

“Oh,” I say. Evidence of Remington’s reassuring, protective force flashes through my mind. “No wonder.”

Gabby does a double-take at my tiny smile before bursting into laughter. “Oh, I see what’s happening. Go for it, Lils. You’re right; he’s sweet. I can totally see it.”

My heart flips. “See what?”

“You two. Duh. Together in general, or at the club.”

On the bus home, I can’t stop thinking about what Gabby said about Remington. My stomach knots over itself, but I keep having to bite back my smile. Gabby saying she could see us together planted an image of me by Remington’s side. I’ve never imagined myself beside someone so clearly, but if he’s into consent enough to mediate between everyone at the club, I find that unbearably attractive. And maybe I might look okay beside him; even if he doesn’t dress as alternatively as his tattoos imply, I still wear all black and love my studded jackets.

Tucking my phone close to my chest, I make sure the other bus passengers can’t see over my shoulders or in the window’s reflection behind me as I open an incognito search tab. I’ve already researched and asked Gabby plenty of questions, but I can’t remember exactly what Dungeon Monitors do.

Within seconds of my search, my stomach plunges. If Remington is the Dungeon Monitor at Club X, he has more experience than I assumed – possibly more than anyone else in the club. And here I am, not only a fresh vanilla bean but also awkward as hell.

Quickly closing the tab, I slump into myself. Why do I care about this so much? We’re just friends, if that. “Gym buddies” means nothing more than acquaintances who casually discuss athletics.

The second I enter my dark apartment, I stumble over Celeste’s cat toy in the doorway. She greets me with the tiniest meow, and I laugh.

“Hello, baby.” I squat at her side as she runs her sleek, black body against my thigh.

The second her food bowl is full, and I’ve shoved a microwavable burrito in my mouth, I flop face-first on the couch. It never hits me how exhausted I am after work until I’m safe at home. I reek like garlic, but I can’t keep my eyes open. I don’t even budge when Celeste’s warm body curls over my back, weighing me into the cushions. She must’ve decided this is where we’re sleeping tonight too.

My alarm clock wakes me with soft, quick smacks against my cheek. I erupt into sleepy laughter, stroking Celeste’s head. “Okay, okay, I’m up.”

She let me sleep in today. Sunlight streams through my sheer black curtains, casting over the cheap TV I won at last year’s work holiday party. Dust dances through the sunbeam, settling over my cluttered coffee table of books, candles, and crusty, old plates.

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