Page 9 of If the Suit Fits
“Running will be hard, though, because he knows where you live.”
“I’m not banging him! I’m not running. I’m hiring him, just as I hired Mr. Tanner to fix my gutters and reattach my downpipes. It’s a business transaction and nothing more.”
“Earl Tanner is seventy-years-old, told you to call himUncleEarl, and already has a wife. A business transaction with him is not the same as a business transaction with that Latin king who just walked out your door. You’ve jumped into shark-infested waters, and unfortunately for you, you don’t know how to swim.”
“There are no sharks!”Why did he touch my face? Why did I let him?“There’s no water. There’s no issue. We have a contract and a seven-day arrangement. Stop stressing me out and turning this into more than it is.”
“You’ve invited a stranger to sleep in your home for a week! Woman, you don’t even letmesleep here!”
“Because you have a perfectly good home of your own.Three doors down! You don’t need to sleep here any more than I need to sleep at yours.”
“But Hot Stuff Ramos gets a seven-day pass,” she teases. “You’re gonna bang by day four, the contract will be severed anhour later, Ramos will be kicked out so fast, he’ll have forgotten his pants, and you’ll go to the wedding alone, just like we knew you would. Or better yet, you’ll listen tomybrilliant plan and cancel on Saturday morning, citing appendicitis. It’s so last minute you’ll ruin their plans, but it’s a medical emergency, which means they can’t get mad at you. Not out loud, anyway.” Fast as a viper, she lunges forward and snatches my contract so the pages audibly whip through the air, then flicking to the third, she snickers. “Nicolas Ramos must attend a suit fitting on dayfivewith the groom.” She drops the papers again and cackles. “This whole situation is insane.”
Yeah.I tip my wine bottle back and drink a little more.He thought that part was insane, too. “He signed. It’s done, and you’re leaving. I need to drink and rest before this thing begins tomorrow.”
“You’re so lucky.” Falsely whimsical, she stretches her legs and sets her feet on the floor before flouncing away and circling my couch. “You just bought yourself ahotseven-day hire. Get laid. Have fun. Forget Puny Peepee Pete. Turn up to the wedding,if you must,with a hickey on your neck, stubble rash on your thighs, and the sexiest guy on your arm. Skank bitch Karla will want what you’ve got—again—and Nicolas—” she rolls his name across her tongue just smooth enough to piss me off, “—would be in breach of contract if he returns her advances. It’s the perfect setup.”
“You make it sound like I’ve just hired a prostitute for the week.”
“You have! Did you not hear where I called you Richard Gere?” She leans over the back of my couch and stretches around until I see her blinding smile in my peripherals. “For such a smart, non-impulsive, educated, good girl, you surecalled my bluff on this. I was so sure you wouldn’t have to cojones to follow through with the deal.”
“Anna—”
“Cojonesis Spanish for balls,” she teases. “You’re bilingual now.”
“You’re a pain in my ass.”
FOUR
NICK
The next day, I pull up outside Melanie Hamilton’s rundown rancher in my equally rundown truck. Makes us a good pair, I suppose, except for the fact I don’t give a fuck about my truck. She, on the other hand, cares about her home but completely lacks the time or know-how to re-hang the gate that dangles from a single, bending hinge. Or the overgrown garden filled with weeds and, between those, an explosion of poppies just dying to break through to the sunlight. Her shutters are broken, her fence isn’t keeping anyone in or out, and her front door lacks a functional lock.
Which is why the crazy best friend can let herself in whenever she pleases.
Climbing out of my truck onto dusty gravel, I head to the bed and snag my bag, swinging it over my shoulder as I cast my gaze along Melanie’s street. This used to be farmland, back before gentrification and subdivision took over. What used to be acres ofgrazing land is now dozens of family neighborhoods, new houses and old, comingling in relative harmony.
Mel, obviously, purchased one of the original ranch homes. A fixer-upper, which was probably cheaper at the time before factoring in the cost of fixing everything that is broken.
Silly girl.
I glance toward the neighbors on her left, and again to the right, but the street is relatively quiet. Most folks who live here probably work a standard nine-to-five and require a forty-minute commute to their office further in the city, so weekends are for catching up on chores inside. Laundry. Dishes. Searching for their sanity, perhaps. There are cars parked along the street, but few that drive by. No Nosey-Nellies peeking through the curtains, but a handful of kids playing ball on the road.
Patting my shirt down and checking the soles of my boots to ensure I’m not carting anything more than dust, I push away from my truck and navigate the broken gate, the shrill squeak of rusted metal like a burglar alarm better than anything money can buy.
And yet, the best friend got through unannounced…
I measure my steps by the twelve-inch steppingstones placed at uneven intervals, eating up the pathway quickly as I study daisies working just as hard as the poppies, fighting against the weeds and taking up residence in the oddest of places. I eye the rotting porch and the busted step at the bottom—if it gives way, at least it’s closer to the ground—and just as I stop by the front door, I peer back to my truck and ponder bringing my toolbox inside, too.
I could fix a few things and consider them my good deed for this year. Hammer in a few nails. Repair a hinge. Replace the lock, at the very least, for safety.
“You’re here.” Mel slings her door open before I get thechance to knock, her flowery perfume sliding through the broken-wire door and hitting my senses like a Mack truck I have no desire to avoid. So, instead, I pull the rickety wire door aside to reveal the woman who looks just as fantastic in Daisy Dukes as she did in a blinding red dress and lipstick. Her legs are sinfully long despite her lack of height, and her thighs are toned just enough to hint at a treadmill hidden in her bedroom.
Or a Stairmaster, maybe.
No way she uses a public gym.
She wears her hair in a high ponytail, the ends tickling her shoulders, and a tank top that wraps her up like it’s Christmas morning and I’ve been a good boy all year long.
