“You can’t kick me out—I have the first grandchild.” Amy rubs her belly.
“You’re on my side, aren’t you, Mom?” Lauren actually sounds legitimately heartbroken. And I’m sure she is. But…
“Lauren,” I remind her patiently, “we all told you this was going to happen. Kenny cheated on his wife with you. Now he’s cheated on you with Amy. You knew exactly who he was. Amy, take note.”
“I’m not stupid like Lauren. Kenny and I are going to get married.” Amy is haughty.
“I’ll believe it when I see a ring.” I sigh. “But let’s be honest—in five years, we’re going to be right here in this dining room with you complaining about how Kenny left you and isn’t paying child support.”
“That is not true,” Kenny declares. “I love Amy. We’re getting married. Amy…” He sinks down on one knee. “Will you marry me?”
“No!” Lauren wails.
“Yes!” Amy starts crying and throws herself into Kenny’s arms.
Outside, we hear a lawn mower rev up.
“Now you’ve done it!” my mom screams at us. “You’ve upset your father. He’s going to be out there all afternoon mowing the lawn!”
14
SALINGER
It doesn’t go away—my desire for Mandy.
All weekend, when I was working, when I was eating, when I wasn’t sleeping, when I was lifting weights, she consumed ninety percent of my brain power, leaving the rest of me on autopilot.
The problem, I decide, is that seeing her in that dress was so unexpected. She didn’t just look pretty or sexy—she looked fuckable.
Why do I care?
I don’t date or even fuck for pleasure. If I don’t have an ulterior motive, I’m not interested. And there is no ulterior motive with Mandy. There is nothing to be gained by sleeping with her.
I cannot let her dominate my thoughts anymore. This little obsession needs to be killed in itscradle.
Thankfully, the dress is waiting for me in my office Monday morning, and Mandy’s back in her standard shapeless clothes.
She had the dress dry cleaned. I know because I lifted it up to my face hoping to smell her and only got the scent of chemicals. Still, I take it back home with me that evening after another late night of me and Mandy alone in the office, her typing, me pretending to work.
When I walk into the dark penthouse, a small bag is waiting for me on the kitchen island. A note pinned to it says, “Found these in the powder room. May belong to your lady friend.”
I take the pink panties out of the bag, close my eyes, and press the fabric against my face. These have not been washed. They smell like her and something deeper. I want to feel them soaked with her juices, want to see my cum all over the pale-pink fabric. I crave it.
At least I have the willpower left to keep from jacking off into them. That would be desperate—an action for a lesser man.
My whole obsession with Mandy is absurd. I can have any woman in this city I want. Mandy should be at the bottom of the list. So why is she consuming my thoughts, distracting me, haunting me?
In the office, my to-do list is piling up, because I’m incapable of writing more than a few lines of an email before my attention drifts to Mandy on the other side of the glass wall.
Despite her ponytail and the shapeless linen, all I can see is the great tits and curvy figure under all that fabric.
Will she ask me for her underwear? She has to know she left them at my penthouse, right? Is she just going to pretend she never lost them and play dumb? What would happen if Ishow up at her desk with the panties, tell her how good she smells, how I crave her, how I want to bury my face between her legs and fully taste her?
“Salinger?”
Fuck.
Mandy snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Oh dear, am I interrupting your fantasy time?”
