Ethan, not Boen. I have no idea what Boen would be like in bed. Nor will I be finding out.
But still…
Those thoughts deserve my spicy margarita.
This will be a three-drink night because that’s how many are needed to push things back into the phantom zone where they won’t bother me anymore.
I woke up this morning with my stomach twisted into knots. For a while, I thought it was because of the leftover Thai I ate the night before, but the antacids didn’t help. I kept drifting away from the new pages of the children’s book I’m illustrating, which is always a time and attention sucker, and one of my favourite things to do, until I finally realized the twisted stomach was because I felt bad.
About a lot of things.
I’m not about to tell Biba and Demi this, because God knows they’ve had earfuls about my thoughts and emotions over the years. Long, drawn-out discussions about Liv, Bartlett, Bartlett and Bandy…I don’t need to get into any of that.
Nor will I be admitting I feel bad about Boen stepping in the poop last night.
Not that it was technically my fault, but still. It wasn’t nice.
I order another margarita, relieved when Biba asks for another vodka soda. Demi has barely touched her spritzer because she’s rhapsodizing about something Ethan said and I look across the bar—
Is that Boen? I sit up straighter, noticing the pressed khakis. He’s wearing a white button-down instead of the too-tight T-shirt from last night, which is too bad, but the hair is still good.
What would it feel like to run my fingers through that hair?
Where did that come from?
Why am I thinking about fingers in hair? Or how those khakis somehow mould his ass, unlike most kinds that make guys look like they have no bums.
“Rachel?” Demi asks, noticing she’s lost my attention.
“I think my neighbour just walked in,” I say, then duck down as Boen’s gaze tracks across the bar like he heard me.
I’m safe from his sight with Biba sitting ramrod straight and stunning across from me.
“Is it Mrs. Gretchen?” Demi squeaks, turning in her chair to look.
“No,” I hiss. “The guy…”
“What guy?” Demi whips back around and joins Biba with an expression of bewilderment. “Mrs. Gretchen has a guy?”
“No. Maybe. I think so, but no… You remember that Evelyn woman who lived on the other side of Mrs. Gretchen? The one who walked like she had Rusty’s favourite stick up her bum.”
Biba looks curiously at me. “How do you describe how I walk?”
“You flow like the waters of a rushing stream,” I enthuse. “Graceful and proud.”
“There might be a stick involved as well,” Demi adds with an impish smile.
“At least I don’t flop around like Rusty’s rag doll,” Biba snaps.
Demi shakes out her arms. “It’s called relaxing. You should try it sometime.”
“Back to guy next door,” I urge.
“Whatguy next door?” Demi demands. “I don’t understand how this is the first we’re hearing of this. Unless you’ve already heard about him?” Demi scowls at Biba.Onetime I told Biba something without sharing it with Demi and she’s never forgotten it. The one good thing—possibly only thing—about Ethan is that he tolerates Demi’s jealous streak.
Biba ignores her and motions for me to continue. I glance up, confirming that it is Boen who walked in, and see him sitting at a table across the floor with a blonde of undetermined age and attractiveness because she’s got her back to me.
“Evelyn moved out. Boen—I think that’s his name—moved in. Last night was the first time I’ve laid eyes on him, and he did his best to carve me a new one.”
