Page 46 of Man Hands
“It does, does it?” he asks, and I realized I’d said thatoutloud.
I need to take an Ativan. Air travel, hot man, fake engagement, tabloid pictures, and New York have made my hormonesspike.
Tom picks up my bag and carries it to the truck for me. His arm muscles flex as he lifts it into thebackseat.
Oh.
Wow.
I could get usedtothis.
* * *
On the wayto the airport, I indulge in thoughts of hotel sex with Tom. The truck hums along the highway, and I’m humming right with it. Maybe it’s all thathorsepower.
Or maybe it’s Tom. He’s flipped some kind of sexual switch in me that I can’tshutoff.
“What are you thinking about so hard over there?”heasks.
“Hotel sex.” There’s really no point inlying.
“Mmm,” he says, and his toneapproves.
But then it occurs to me. “You’ve probably had lots of hotel sex.” For me this will be exotic. But if I understand his job correctly, he must be in hotels allthetime.
“Mmm,” he says again, and the sound vibrates in my chest. And other places. “But I haven’t had any hotel sexwithyou.”
There are lots more vibrations now.Yowza.
Tom parks the Big Shiny Truck in the parking garage at Gerald Ford International Airport. You can’t actually fly outside the country from this airport, but the name sounds better than Gerald Ford Small PotatoesAirport.
I’ve already got my door open when Tom grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze, stopping my progress. Right away I’m thinking,Why not a quickie in the truck?I closemydoor.
“Brynn,” he saysquietly.
“Yes, Tom?” I breathe.Take me. The wrap dress will make this easy.Just one little pull and I’ll unravel atyourfeet.
“This is your last chance to bail out of the fake engagement before it starts making headlines. I’dunderstand.”
Oh. “That is very considerate of you. But I’m along for the ride, okay? I’m not exactly famous for my good decision making. But here we are outside a fake international airport, and I’ve painted my toenails for this occasion so let’s be fakeengaged.”
He grins at me like I’m hilarious. “Okay. You’re going to need this, then.” He pulls something out of hispocket.
Oh, fuck. It’s aringbox.
He’s doing this. He’s doing this now right by the curbside check-in and a woman saying in her thick Michigan accent, “Oh, fer sure, I hope the plane ride doesn’t make me nauseous,dontchaknow?”
“Brynn?” he asks, and suddenly everything else around ussilences.
Something goes a little wrong with my breathing, because this part is weird. There’s no denying it. When you get out that little square velvet box and hand a ring to a girl, it’s supposed to mean something. It’s supposed to be amoment.
I’d forgotten how it felt to see that box. It feels likepotential.
“Breathe, honey,”hesays.
Right.
I breathe. It’s more of a hiccup, really, but then I try again. He holds my gaze, and his eyes tell me that he knows this is weird. “I hope it fits.” He opens the box andsighs.
