Page 52 of Every Rose

Chapter Seventeen

Of course, after she’d explained to Matt all about her boundaries, she couldn’t seem to impose them on herself.

She thought about him all day.

She thought about him when she was doing paperwork, and when she changed her sheets and did the laundry. When she found a lone, black, man’s sock under the bed, she sat down and slipped the sock over her hand, and then had an animated conversation with the sock puppet. Basically practicing what she’d say when he called.

But he didn’t call.

When she reviewed the way she’d treated him this morning, which she could see was a lot more related to her own panic than his behavior, she had to accept that she’d been a twit. Unfortunately, the sock puppet agreed.

Finally, she called him.

He answered right away, which she thought was a good sign.

He was panting, which could mean anything. “Catch you at a bad time?”

“Gym,” he said.

“Oh, sorry.”

“No problem. What’s up?”

Her libido, but she didn’t admit that, obviously. She said, “I have something of yours.”

“Really?” his voice turned from terse to much warmer. “Is it something important?”

A single black sock for a guy who mostly wore gym socks or bare feet? She gazed at the black sock folded neatly on her couch. “Vital.”

“Well, I’d better swing by and pick it up then. Is tonight good for you?”

“Very.”

“Say nine or so?”

“See you then.”

He didn’t mention dinner and she was glad he’d got her message.

When he arrived a few minutes before nine, she was ready. Showered, wearing some of her favorite silky body lotion beneath even silkier lingerie, and with fresh sheets on the bed.

He walked in and she could almost feel his arousal shimmering around him. “Hi,” she said.

He kissed her. “Hi.”

“Would you like some wine? Or I also have beer.”

She thought a hint of emotion, maybe sadness, crossed his face, but that didn’t make any sense. She was offering him alcohol and sex. If she threw in a bag of chips she’d be the perfect woman.

“Sure,” he said. “A beer would be great.”

She poured him his beer, knowing that if she left it to him he’d drink from the bottle, and poured herself a glass of wine.

When she returned, he was holding up the sock with a question in his eyes.

“I knew how much you’d need it. All those black tie events you attend.”

“And me owning only one pair of black socks,” he agreed, and then he took the drinks out of her hands and kissed her, more hungrily this time.

---