Page 38 of Bittersweet

I flip open another button. This time, the curves of my lacy red bra show, the deep line of my cleavage visible. I pull my shirt down farther still, emphasizing my bust even more. It’s hardly like I’m touching myself while lying on the sofa, but it’s a start. There’s no mistaking that my boobs are open and ready forbusiness.

My hand lingers over the third button when I hear Marc’s feet padding down thehall.

“Sorry about that. I never like to wear the same gear to two sessions in a row in caseI. . .”

I spinaround.

Marc Moretti isn’tnaked.

He’s fully clothed, his tank a navy blue instead of the black it wasbefore.

Turns out “smoothie” really was code for “smoothie” afterall.

I grab at my shirt, pulling it closertogether.

“Did you lose a button?” he asks, concern in hiseyes.

“I . . .”No, I was trying to get ready for sex and seduction, because I thought we were a thing.“Yes,” I rush out, holding my hands over the white button still firmly in place. “It’s a . . . cheap top. Must have just popped off.” I am an idiot. How did I read this sowrong?

“Let me get you a pin,” Marc offers, and disappears back down the hallagain.

There’s no time to waste.I race into the kitchen, jerking open his top drawer. Spoons, forks, sporks—aha!Steak knives. My heart pounds as I grab one out and hold my button as far from my shirt as I can before slicing through the cotton that ties it to my clothing. I carve once, twice, and thank the lord for gym junkies and their obsession with protein and perfectly sharp protein-cutting utensils, because the button pops off and falls to the floor, disappearing under the fridge. I drop the steak knife in thesink.

“Here.” Marc walks into the kitchen, one arm extended, a gold pinvisible.

“Thanks.” I lean against the counter, all casual, calm, and collected. Exactly how I feel on theinside.

He steps closer, and his eyes flick to my chest. “Damn,” he breathes. “Do you need ahand?”

“It’s fine.” I take the pin and turn away from him so he won’t see the embarrassment no doubt staining my cheeks. I won’t misinterpret his signalstwice.

I stab the pin through one side of my shirt and into my skin, wincing.Ouch.Then I push it through the hole on the other side of the material, closing most of thegap.

Finally, I turn back around to face Marc. I need to get out of here before I make an even bigger fool of myself. If he was even remotely interested before, and I’m starting to seriously believe that I was imagining things, there’s no doubt he’s not anymore. “Sorry aboutthat.”

“Don’t mention it.” He turns to the fridge and pulls out a bunch of celery from the vegetable crisper, followed by a few apples, a knob of ginger, and some spinach. “Romy, I’ve been thinking about you. Alot.”

“As a client who needs a serious amount of help?” Because trust me, not only is my body in need of a workout, but apparently, my mind is too. How did I read this situation sowrong?

“No.” He pulls a cutting board out from a cupboard under the sink and places it on the counter, turning to me. His voice softens as he tilts his head to the side. “This is going to sound ridiculous, like I invited you back here to put the moves onyou. . .”

“Ha!” I squawk. “Wouldn’t that besomething.”

“Yeah.” He steps closer to me, his eyes dark with that teasing hint of something that I could have sworn I saw at the café earlier. “But I will make you the best goddamn smoothie you’ve ever tasted. And then, I’m going to ask you out. On a date. And I’d love it if you saidyes.”

“I . . .”

I’m not ready for adate.

I’m in love withElio.

I hateElio.

“Sounds perfect,” Ireply.

After all, it’s just onedate.

What could possibly gowrong?

---