“I had a copy made for her,” he says. “I told you I would.”
“You can’t just make copies of my house key and give them to people I don’t know!”
“Olivia, I’m about to step into a meeting. Is there a real problem that you need to discuss with me?”
“Well…not really. No.”
“Great. So, we’re on for dinner tonight?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“I’ll pick you up at seven. Pack an overnight bag. We’ll be staying at my place tonight. You’ll be in the guest room.”
“Okay.”
“Wear something tasteful and elegant but casual to dinner. Try not to be so attractive that Phil’s wife will feel intimidated.”
“Roger that.”
He hangs up.
Two hours later, I manage to get the flower arrangement home without tripping, running into anyone, falling, or dropping it. There’s space for it on the kitchen counter because Johnny’s housekeeper organized all of our random flyers and takeout menus and magazines and notepapers into lovely, intentional piles. The apartment looks a thousand times better than it did when I left this morning, and I feel like my life is now several levels up from mediocre. Not that it was ever mediocre.
CHAPTER 7
JOHN
SIX YEARS AGO
Idon’t know what to do with the hand towel.
I’m a twenty-one-year-old genius who’s at the top of my class at MIT, and I don’t know what to do with the Montgomery hand towel that I’ve just blasted copious amounts of my semen into. They were kind enough to invite me to Thanksgiving, and now my splooge is all over one of their white Turkish-cotton towels.
At least I didn’t release it inside their seventeen-year-old daughter.
That’s not even funny.
Although sheislegally over the age of consent in Ohio.
But it’s not funny.
I can’t believe I couldn’t even make it through dinner without doing this, but I also can’t believe that Olivia isn’t wearing a bra. At a family holiday. Her very thin cream-colored sweater is so form fitting that I could see the outline of her nipples in my peripheral vision. I suppose it’s a good thing we’ve been seated next to each other, so I don’t have to face them head-on for over an hour.
Except that she smells divine. I haven’t been this close to her for a sustained period of time in ages. It’s like I’ve been inhaling her burgeoning sexuality while trying to concentrate on digesting the first home-cooked meal I’ve had all year. It’s too much to process all at once.
She’s been pretty since she was thirteen. She was beautiful the last time I saw her, although I tried not to look at her. Over the course of a year, she has become a sexy young woman. I am thankful that all her ballet training has not turned her into an emaciated, wispy waif. Although she’d still be hot. She has curves. Bewitching curves. Stunning long, toned legs. That criminally short skirt leaves very little to the imagination, despite the tights. She could do anything with those legs.Icould do anything with those legs. I mean, I shouldn’t do anything with my best friend’s little sister’s legs—but I could.
But what the fuck should I do with this hand towel?
Her hands. Olivia’s hands are so smooth but capable… Shit, it’s starting up again. I have to stop thinking about her. Those long, elegant fingers that would wrap themselves so firmly around my throbbing, rock-hard?—
“Hey! You still in there?” Monty knocks on the bathroom door.
He would kill me if he knew. He would saw off my dick with the turkey-carving knife.
“Yeah. Just a little stomach upset. Took care of it. Be right out.”
“Gross, man. Open the window. There’s no fan in that bathroom.”
