Mac is a great bear of a man who owns a chain of gyms, but somehow, when Paisley suggests “hot and bendy” I don’t think she’s talking about Bikram yoga.
‘Maybe,’ Ella answers. ‘But what I do know is talking about cocktails won’tgetus cocktails. Ladies, let’s get this show on the road!’
As though summoned by her enthusiasm, the waiter appears.
‘What can I get you gorgeous creatures this fine afternoon?’
An address like this would normally dial my irritation meter sky high. I’m not a raging feminist—I like a compliment as much as the next woman. Or man. However, I’m not a fan of flirty waitstaff in search of a bigger tip. Or twenty-year-old’s using overly friendly terms of address. But as I turn to the waiter, my mouth closes with a snap. Dark hair and dark chocolate eyes, he’s pretty. And on the right side of thirty. Which would be theplusside of thirty.I’m so over boys.
He looks familiar. So, of course, I imagine him with his clothes off—for professional purposes—but come up blank. He’s not someone I’ve used in one of my films before.I don’t think. And not someone I’ve sought out from the Adult Actors Guild. I can’t shake the thought of his familiarity, though. Or the way he’s looking at me.
Paisley takes charge of our order—seems we’re all getting mimosas to begin.
‘He was totally into you, babe,’ she says as the waiter leaves.
I watch his retreating form and note the ease and confidence in his stride—okay, his broad shoulders and tight arse—and my mind goes to where it usually does.
I wonder if he has good swimmers?As though a girl can tell just by looking. And yes, I totally mean sperm.I bet Flynn has good swimmers.What a pity a child of his would be Satan’s spawn.
‘What do you think?’
‘I think I’m a little too old to be screwing the waiter in the bathroom.’
Paisley gives me the look—thewhy you got to be so cynicallook.‘I’m not suggesting you screw him. I’m suggesting you get his number.’
‘Why?’
‘Companionship. Friendship. And maybe, okay, a chance to get laid.’
‘I have you two, don’t I?’
‘Sorry, babe, neither of us swing that way.’
‘Besides, we haven’t a dick between us!’ exclaims Ella . . . just as the hot waiter passes by, his footsteps faltering and bringing him to a stop.
‘They really don’t,’ I say, peering over the table as though to make sure there isn’t an actual dick sitting on the velvet banquette between them. I raise my gaze to his stunned expression. ‘Which is a pity, to be honest.’
‘Really?’ he says with a half-smile. ‘A disembodied dick is really no dick at all.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Paisley interjects. ‘Chastity here could probably tell you a thing or two about the phallus.’ I’ll credit her as trying not to snigger. Again. And I suppose she’s referring to the dildos and all manner of sex toys available for sale on my website.
‘Is that so?’
I nod reasonably. I’m told my appearance is misleading. I have the look of an angel which hides the tenacity of a terrier. I can be very persuasive when I want to.
‘I’m a history professor,’ I say with a very straight face. I’m not lying because I’m ashamed of what I do. I just happen to have an aversion to being asked a million questions and becoming elevated to the oddity of the day. ‘Yes, Priapus, the Greek god of fertility is a particular speciality of mine.’ I know a little about him. Enough, at least, to shoot a scene around him. If you plan on googling him, just prepare for an eyeful.
‘Beautiful and smart.’ Oh, man. This guy is slick as well as easy on the old eyeballs. ‘The son of Aphrodite, wasn’t he?’ Slick and good looking and, apparently, well-read.
‘Fun factoid,’ I supply. ‘Priapus the origin of the term priapism.’
‘What’s priapism?’ Ella asks.
‘A pain in the dick,’ I reply. ‘Literally.’
Ella turns pink as our waiter throws back his head as he laughs, flashing a mouthful of pearly white teeth. Strangely, it does nothing for me, not that I’m not a fan of oral hygiene—who isn’t?—I just mean I’m not interested in general. The pretty man doesn’t make me fluttery where it counts, I realise. Sure, I can objectively appreciate his handsomeness, but that’s as far as it goes. If I were to cast him in a ménage, he would be the second guy.
Oh, God, I suddenly think. Maybe this is early onset of menopause? Losing my orgasm and a lack of interest in the opposite sex?But then I’m assailed by another image of Flynn—a sensory memory this time—of his body pressed against mine, his short, choppy breaths in my ear. The sounds he made as he’d come.
