I pull up his pants, and he reaches for my hand, bringing me to my feet.
“I think I’m in love,” he says, his voice lazy and loose.
“You’re not. That’s just your post-orgasm high talking. You’ll be fine in a few minutes.”
I move away. How many times has Dice tossed around the L-word like it doesn’t cost a thing?
“Hey.” He catches my fingers before I can get far. “What just happened?”
“I blew your mind.”
“You did. But not that.” His tone shifts, now laced with concern. His eyes search mine. “You seem pissed.”
“I’m not pissed. Enjoy the high, Jones. I gotta go.”
I spot Queenie hiding under the couch. All that moaning and groaning must’ve driven her into exile. I coax her out with a treat.
“I’ll just grab her stuff,” I say. “Don’t wanna be in your way while you get ready for work.”
“You’re not in my way.” He pauses. “I want to get you off too.”
“No need. You took real good care of me last night.”
“I’m not keeping score, Web,” he says, a little agitated.
“I know. I didn’t mean it that way.” I pack up Queenie’s snacks.
“Why are you in a rush to go?”
“I’ve got a client project that’s due. I probably won’t make it to Docks tonight.”
“Since Queenie’s stuff’s already here,” he says, “why don’t you grab some clothes and stay the night?”
“You want me to stay another night?”
“Yeah. We’ll hang out when I get home. It’s not that deep, Lot.”
“You’re right,” I say, keeping my tone breezy, matching his casual vibe.
I’m not that same girl I used to be, holding onto any romantic illusions. Sex and hanging out—those are the rules.
And I intend to stick to them.
Chapter Fifteen
Lot
Apparently, she liked his scrambled eggs.
The front door opens, followed by the low thump of a satchel hitting the floor. “I’m home!” Rayne calls out, kicking off her pumps with a sigh. “I’m not even going to pretend I love my job today.”
“Wine or something stronger?” I offer, scooping Queenie off my lap to get up from the table, where I’ve been working on the album cover for a hip-hop artist who wants something nineties retro.
“Wine… to start.” She leans against the counter as I grab a bottle of Pinot Grigio from the fridge and uncork it. “Whoever coined the term ‘hump day’ hasn’t spent Wednesdays in back-to-back meetings. One with Diablo. He claims he supports making the waterfront protected, but has he done a damn thing about it? That’d be a big, whopping no.”
“There’s your platform,” I say, handing her a glass and stickingwith water for myself to be alert for the night ahead. “You’ve got all the receipts to prove your commitment. Let him keep dodging.”
“You’re right. It’ll help my campaign.” She plops onto a chair and props her stockinged feet up on another, circling her ankles. “But the campaign manager I interviewed warned that a young, single woman going up against a popular incumbent and family man won’t be easy.”
