Page 7 of The Seven Month Itch
“I’m not here for him or his parts,” I say with a sigh and an eye roll for good measure.
Fool yourself all you want. You‘re the one breathing like you sprinted from the desert to get to the center of his Tootsie Pop.
Her nail taps against a glass of clear liquid. My guess is vodka. She studies my face and smiles. “Lie to yourself all you want, sweetheart.”
Oh, who am I kidding? Terrence has a face and body made for sin. Dirty, sweaty sin. He packed on more muscle since his college football days and could arouse the dead with a wink. Most men over six feet are lanky, but not this one. His thick thighs and that backside are juicy enough to bite. I speak from experience.
He has the abs, the biceps, the pecs, and—
“Wipe your vagina and go unpack! We have to leave in one hour.”
Did this woman teleport through walls to yell at me? I swear she has vampires for ancestors the way she slips in and out of rooms.
After I unpack, I stand and take in the suite that will be our home away from home for the next seven days. Our bedrooms are on opposite sides but have the same French doors with wood blinds for privacy. Rich earth tones add an extra layer of warmth against the knotted wood flooring. There’s a cozy fireplace and views of the valley from the balcony, which has a jacuzzi. This place looks like one of those destinations you bookmark that costs a kidney and a rib on the black market.
A pamphlet on the coffee table catches my eye. Tonight is the last chance to register for the week’s events. A red streak snatches it before I get the chance to open it.
“Hey!” I shout to the trail of jasmine perfume.
Emma heads back to the kitchen, her robe a cape of silk fluttering through the air. Her thick mane is now in an updo that looks like it took more than the minutes I spent fantasizing about my ex to craft. “It’s handled.” The ghost of a smile lifts her crimson lips. “We didn’t come all this way for you to toast s’mores. At least, I didn’t.”
Here we go. I fold my arms over my chest. “Okay, Mom. What events are on my schedule for this week? Do you need to sign a permission slip?” I swear to goodness, if this resort has a see-through sex room…
“Relax. I didn’t sign you up for anything that will require smelling salts to revive you. Your virtue will remain intact, Sister, Sister.”
Ha. Ha. Ihatethat nickname, and she knows it. Wear a few bucket hats and overalls in high school, and it’s a license to poke fun at my “incorruptible character” for a lifetime. Is it a crime to look like Tia and Tamera and love a good Hallmark story? Christmas movies are addictive, damn it!
Emma exudes seduction, a pheromone that brings men to their knees—and a few women in college. That kind of sorcery isn’t one of my factory settings, no matter how much she tries to take me under her wing.
But don’t let this good girl fool you. I let my hair down during my marriage. A sister can bend.
I glance into her room, and my eyes land on sheer black fabric. The thing is the size of a prayer cloth, with a plunging neckline that stretches down to the belly button.
Emma is on the hunt tonight.
She appears from the bathroom with a cocktail in hand. Amber skin bronzed from years of California sun glows against ivory silk, exposing hints of lacy black lingerie I’d pop two ribs trying to fit into. “You’re welcome to wear one of my dresses if you can handle the attention that comes with it,” she says with a grin.
I stifle a snort. Target boy shorts are more my speed. Comfort over style for under thirty bucks. “You know that’s not me.”
“It could be.” Her arm wraps around my shoulders. “Jay, I love you as you are, but you need to stop holding yourself back.”
Am I such a prude?
It’s not like I grew up in a convent or wear ruffled blouses up to my neck. Okay, I do own a couple. The point is, my version of sexy is under a few layers of cotton and nerves. I can be seductive if I want.
You organize your panty drawer by color and giggle when you wear sheer bras.The Golden Girls are less vanilla.
Fine. I’m an erotic killjoy.
What the heckamI doing? I played by the rules, and where did it get me? A first-class ticket to a singles’ retreat with my estranged husband. And future legal fees.
“I’m thirty-freaking-four!” The look on Emma’s face questions if my outburst is the start of a nervous breakdown. Maybe it is. “I haven’t lived. I can wear something”—I motion to the dress on the door—“like that.” I won’t be able to sneeze, cough, or bend over, but I’ll look good standing.
Her lips curl as if we’re about to steal all the presents from Whoville. I gulp down the contents of her glass for liquid courage and gag.
Vodka. Yuck.
That’s okay. New year, new experiences. Some savory, and others pure evil. Like this drink. “Here comes the new Justice!” I call over my shoulder on the way to her closet. Hangers scrape against the rod on my quest for the perfect look.
