Page 21 of Quarantine Crush
“Look at this,” Emy says, leaning closer to show me her screen. “It says we’ll be safer if we wear a mask in public.”
“We don’t have any masks,” I point out.
“The article says we can make them with household items.”
I lean closer, praying we really are past all the weird kiss vibes because I’m close enough to smell her now, and it’s a fruity scent that makes me think of summer and bikinis and–
I snicker when I read the first couple of items on the article’s list of suggestions.
“It says you can use socks and bras.” I lean away to arch a brow at her. “You offering your currently worn sock or are you going to take off your bra and cut it up while we ride over?”
I note the curious look from the driver through the rearview and send him a scowl.
“I’ll wear your bra,” he jokes.
Emy opens her mouth to reply, but I cut him a murderous look. “Mind your damn business, dude.”
He looks back at the road.
“For your information,” Emy says. “There is no way I am offering up my undergarments. Bras are expensive as hell.”
“So is emergency medical care if we get infected,” I tease, but she doesn’t budge. I can’t help wanting to know. “How much could you possibly spend on one bra anyway?”
“This one was on sale for sixty-eight.”
My eyes widen.
Up front, the driver gasps.
“You spend seventy dollarsperbra?” I say. “That’s not fiscally responsible. Especially considering you’re the only person who’s going to see it.”
The moment the words are out, I realize I’ve stepped in it.
Instead of snapping back, she smirks. “Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep at night, Jacobs.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Use your imagination,” she says wryly and goes back to her phone.
I blink, at a loss for a response. I know she’s alluding to how many guys have seen–and appreciated–her fancy, expensive bras. And the thought of it does bother me. Emy hasn’t mentioned a boyfriend in years, so why is she making these comments now? Even though the questions swirl, I can’t think past the onslaught of mental images. Images of Emy in nothing except that fancy bra.
She did say to use my imagination, and unfortunately, that’s exactly what I’m doing now.
Shit.
By the time we arrive at the store, I’ve managed to talk my hard-on back down to something I can walk around with. Hopefully, Emy didn’t notice. I work on distracting myself. The moment we step out of the car, I immediately forget about the bra conversation as I take in the crowd.
The parking lot is packed; more proof of how fucking insane this virus and quarantine order really is.
“It’s crazy here,” Emy says as we hurry to snag a shopping cart. “How did we not notice this the last couple of days?”
“We weren’t exactly hitting up places where people would go for supplies,” I say, remembering the pool and the bars we spent time at. Although, looking back, maybe that empty movie theater was indicative of more than a slow day.
Emy snorts. “Good point. Okay, I made a list of all the stuff I need for the dinners I know how to make. That’s one week. The other seven days are up to you.”
I stop inside the automatic doorways. “What?”
“I figured we’re splitting cooking duty,” she says. “It’s only fair.”
