Page 7 of Merry Little Mishap

I nodded approvingly.

“Your wording is a little harsh, but I think he’d get the point.”

Tiffany disagreed.

“Listen, I’m not giving that man the satisfaction of knowing I’m upset.” The sound of wine poured through the phone, followed by chugging. “This is a moment to show off my killer culinary skills, somethinghistits with legs probably doesn’t know a thing about. We’re having bacon-wrapped tenderloins with mushroom chutney.”

“Mushroomwhat?”

“Ch-ut-ney…” she repeated slowly. “Don’t worry. It’s delicious. But the boys are gagging at it. Nick, you know I can’t have Hank bring his secretary, slash, blowup-doll here without me trying to show off how happy I am without him. Even though that’s not true. God… I just hate seeing the two of them together at work.”

Tiffany’s dreaded office romance plagued every family gathering since they split up three years ago. It wasn’t just messy, it was a relentless tug-of-war that pinned my nephews in an all-out battle over whose affection could be won first.

Could you imagine if I ever made the same mistake?

Sure, I didn’t work with anyone in the building, but the tenants were essentially my customers. I saw them every day, sometimes multiple times in a single day.

Marty barked at the oven, tail swishing back and forth on the floor. I gave him a quickshush.

He was already in trouble after this morning, and damn it, I couldn’t believe he actually chewed up Elena’s package today.

No. Not just chewed it up… but soaked the damn box with all his slobber! My palms started to sweat the moment I saw those pink balls slipping out of her sticky parcel, my heart beating double time when I pried it out of Marty’s growling mouth in a fit of panic. Shit… actually, it wasn’t just my palms that sweat, but my temples and nose, too.

Had Elena noticed the embarrassing amount of collected beads running across my forehead, dripping down onto her wooden floors? Okay, maybe it wasn’t that bad, but my mind conjured up a much crueler memory than what most likely happened.

My face felt so flushed just thinking of it, my stomach a warm pool of adrenaline that swirled at the thought of Elena ever playing with that inadequate pink dildo.

Was it wrong that I found it so incredibly hot that she had a sex toy shipped to her house? She made it clear that it was just for work—whatever that meant—but that didn’t stop me from imagining all the ways she’d use it; moaning in her wrought iron bed, her thighs spread open with her panties yanked down to her ankles.

Did she like it fast?

Slow?

I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to get ahold of my senses, but was overwhelmed with the thought of Elena’s perfect little tits, shaking in an orgasm, her back on that cute yellow couch of hers—a couch I wanted to pull her down into and kiss her just how Mrs. Caporali probably wanted me to kiss one of her granddaughters.

I’d kill for that moment.

I’d kill for less!

I’d take Elena right into my mouth, and bite that sweet, puffy?—

“You like em’ tan, don’t you?” Mrs. Caporali popped up again, my ladder rattling from how hard she made me jump.

“Jesus!”

“Dorothea is fair-skinned. Is that a deal breaker?” she asked, her hand cupped over a phone, cord stretching all the way back to the kitchen. Marty was tangled in it.

“Are you talking to your granddaughter right now?” I asked, bewildered.

“I have her on hold. She can get a spray tan by twelve if you want to come over for dinner at seven?”

“Tell her you already have plans!” Tiffany panicked on the other line. I’d forgotten she was on the phone, because all I could think about was Elena.

I hated being pulled in every-which-way, my nephews screaming, Tiffany cussing over spilt wine, and Mrs. Caporali looking up with hopeful eyes.

It was pure insanity.

And to make it worse, despite all these invitations, a part of me felt guilty, because I wanted none of them.

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