Page 25 of Wanting the Winger

A skimpy pair of black satin undies slips out of the pile.As I pick them up, I imagine Lainey wearing them.The contrast of the dark fabric with her milky skin has to be sexy as fuck.

I wonder if she has a matching bra?

Shaking off the mental image that conjures, I take the laundry and leave the room.I’m supposed to be helping her, not sniffing her panties like a fucking creep.

Not that I did sniff her panties.And not that I’m thinking about it.I’m just washing her clothes, like the good friend I am.

ChapterEight

Lainey

By the timemy surprise colon cleanse is over, I’m tired and thirsty.I always am.

From the toilet, I posted in my online IBS support group about what happened, dubbing it “the fon-doo-doo incident.”Several people told me they’ve been there.Only people who have IBS really understand how awful it can be.The memes and funny stories in the group always make me feel better when I’m down about it.

I like a meme in the group about spraying air freshener post-dump and making your bathroom smell like shitrus, then close out the app.I’ve already washed my hands and left the bathroom—I was just lying down for a few minutes before heading back downstairs for some water.

“Hey.”Bash stands up from the couch.“You okay?”

I’m not used to someone being so concerned about me.When I tell Shane I’m having a flare, he leaves me alone and waits for me to get in touch with him when I’m myself again.Sometimes that takes days, but usually it’s just a few hours.

“Yeah, I’m fine.I knew better than to eat that fondue.”

“Who can resist a cheese fountain, though?”

I chuckle.“Clearly not me.Suki and her friends must think I’m insane.I made up an excuse about turning things off at the lab.”

“They won’t think anything of it.There’s some stuff in the kitchen for you.”

I furrow my brow because I wasn’t expecting any deliveries.When I get into the kitchen, my eyes widen as I take in the things lined up on the island.

There’s a case of Sprite, a case of 7-Up, a bottle of Pepto-Bismol, a box of Imodium tablets, bath salts, bubble bath, a six-pack of Gatorade, a bunch of bananas, a bag of brown rice and a container of probiotic supplements.

When I turn around, Bash is leaning against the kitchen counter, giving me a sheepish look.

“I Googled what might be good for you and Door Dashed it.It’s okay if you don’t want any of it.”

I open my mouth to say something but close it again.I can’t believe how open he’s being about my condition.Most people find it uncomfortable to talk about uncontrollable shitting.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I say softly.

“I did it because I wanted to.I read that lean proteins and rice are a good meal after a flare, so I’ll whip that up whenever you get hungry.”

Tears fill my eyes and I turn away, hoping he didn’t see.I spent all day replaying him calling meperfect in all the ways that matter.And the way he described what love should be...something thattakes your breath away, takes over your life and makes you question your sanity—is going to live rent-free in my head forever.

I should still be pissed at him over the way he treated Shane, but instead, I’m swooning like a lovesick teenager.He’s making me feel like my IBS isn’t shameful.He looked up ways to help me.

“That’s really nice, thank you.”I open the case of 7-Up, not letting myself look at him.“I think I’ll just have some of this for now.”

The song his dryer plays when its cycle is finished sounds out from the laundry room, which is off the kitchen.He leaves to get the clothes, and I use the opportunity to get myself together.

Shane doesn’t want to talk about my IBS because I’ve never talked to him about it.He leaves me alone because that’s what I asked for.I should appreciate it.Idoappreciate it.But it’s hard not to compare him ignoring me when I have a flare to the way Bash is treating me now.

There’s no reason to compare them, though.I knew who Bash was when I made a play for him seven years ago, and he turned me down.I started dating Shane because I became a realist.He’s not perfect, but that’s okay.He looks at me and sees a woman, and Bash looks at me and sees his best friend’s kid sister.

Bash carries a small pile of laundry into the kitchen and sets it on the table.

“We can watch a movie if you want,” he says as he starts folding clothes.

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