Page 35 of Flirty Thirty

***

Any given weekday night, I’d have my feet kicked up on the coffee table, an overlarge, holey shirt draped over my braless bosom, and boxer shorts. Tom and Kat would join me as I flicked through my streaming options and gorged on a party size bag of peanut butter M&Ms. This night, however, is far from the norm.

I know I’m supposed to be playing wifey. Not just any wifey, but a longtime wifey. My single life attire would be appropriate in that relationship, because by then the two individuals have seen more than they’ve bargained for, and seeing that would be expected. Maybe anticipated.

It’s why I’m not donning the “vegging” look tonight. Because I believe Mr. Family Man is turned on more by that version of me than the one I actually put an effort into. Thinking back to that first kiss, no wonder he couldn’t keep his hands to himself. I was the living embodiment of frumpy.

I’m not dissing that look in the slightest, or anyone who is attracted to such a thing, I just honestly haven’t met a soul who is, or at least stayed with them long enough to find out. So I pulled out all the stops tonight just to see if he’d find a tight dress, makeup, dolled up curls, and stilettos as attractive as pajamas.

Smoothing my dress down my body, I nibble at my lip and start having second thoughts about the form-fitting attire. I’ve gotten compliments on it before, many times actually. Witnessed blind dates dropping their jaw and then grinning like an idiot the rest of the evening. I even dubbed it my “get lucky” dress at one point, but in the well-lit master bathroom, I start to doubt my sex appeal, especially if I don’t get as epic of a reaction from Cooper as I do from slipping an apron on.

“I look okay, right?” I ask Kat who’s perched on the counter, pawing at one of my hair ties. Since she’s not the best girl to get an honest opinion from, I grab my phone, snap a bathroom pic, and then send it to Holland.

Hawt!

I clack back,Promise??

You have no idea how jealous I am,she writes.I miss lucky dresses.

I send her a thank you along with a reassurance that she looks adorable with her baby belly and fight the temptation to tell her to stop complaining since I doubt she’ll ever find herself buying the same pants size as me, maternity section and all. But as she often reminds me, I got the dream boobs soI’mthe one who can’t complain. The grass really is always greener… but just wait until her pregnancy chest comes in. Then she really will have it all.

Feeling not exactly confident, but confident enough with my choice of wardrobe, I connect my phone to the charger and let my heels sink into the soft carpet as I cross the room. A wave of nervous energy buzzes up and down my spine, causing a warm flush to settle in my cheeks. I imagine this is how girls felt when they walked down the staircase before prom, their dream date waiting at the bottom and their parents at the ready with a camera, and all they can think is, dear god, I hope I don’t fall on my face.

I never went to my prom. Just another one of those things I hoped for that never happened.

The smoke has left the building, now only the soft light of the setting sun filling up the very open concept house. I suck in a breath, not only to hold in my stomach, but so I can concentrate fully on not tumbling face over foot down that intimidating staircase.

I make it to the main landing with zero damages. Glancing around for my “husband,” I let out a laugh at how silly I feel after my anti-climactic entrance.

“Hello?” I call out, wondering if he also went upstairs to change out of his smoke-filled clothing. Even if he had, I doubt he’d take as long as I did to get ready.

“Um… I hate to do this…” his low voice says from the back guest bathroom. Amused and confused, I clack my way over to him.

“Hate to do what?”

He pokes his head out, the bottom half of his face covered with his hand. But his eyes do give me an appreciative once over that, if I wasn’t concerned about what’s going on, I’d take the time to compare it to his earlier reaction.

I raise an eyebrow, and he slowly takes his hand from his mouth, opening wide to show me a very noticeable hole where a back tooth should be sitting.

I jerk backward. “What the…”

“I think I need a dentist.”

A small laugh escapes me. “I’d say so.” I step up to him, touching his face gently to examine the damage. His breath smells fresh and minty, the scent only somewhat distracting me. “Does it hurt?”

He nods, making a grunting sound of assent through his wide open mouth. “Pwetty sure itsa cwown.”

“What was that?”

He relaxes his jaw. “Think I lost a crown while flossing.”

“Nice to know you floss.”

He attempts a face at me, but is distracted by what I assume is a ping of pain over the exposed nerve. His hand shoots up to grab his jaw, and his eyes pinch close for a brief moment.

Having left my phone upstairs, I boldly pat the front pocket of his jeans. He jerks in surprise, but relaxes when he realizes I’m only grabbing his cell. Though, I do run a thumb up a growing muscle accidentally-on-purpose on my journey to extract the phone.

“Do you have a dentist’s number?”

---