What the fuck?I become conscious of the bartender’s straining ears as he sets my beer and whiskey chaser on the bar. So I take her wrist this time and move us a few steps away, ignoring how my hand looks giant sized on her.
“You mean, like, an escort?” I ask quietly.
“No, like a plumber,” she snipes, still with the volume as she snatches her arm back. Though I will note the tiny contradiction in the pink flush across her chest.
I rub my hand across my mouth, mainly to hide my amusement. It’s none of my business what she gets up to. But also, no fucking way! Why the hell would a woman as gorgeous as her need to hire a man for ... whatever she’s hired him for.
Even if it is a testicle stomping.
“You think that’s funny?” she demands, placing her hand to the curve of her jutted hip, full of piss and vinegar anddon’t fuck with meattitude. “Of course you think it’s funny. Becauseyoudon’t live in the real world, bless your heart.” She points an accusing finger over her tiny clutch. “You cuddle housewives for a living and pass it off as therapy!”
“I ...” I didn’t even know that was a thing.
“I should’ve listened to my gut, not Ava. ‘It’ll be cheaper,’” she adds in a breathy whine, presumably impersonating whoever Ava is. “‘Carl says he’ll give you a discount on the Cuddle Collective hourly rate. He’s a decent guy.’” One dark, elegant brow lifts, full of derision. “But what Ava failed to mention is that Carl is unreliable, that he isn’t really Spanish, that he lives in fucking Bushwick, and that he doesn’t even own a suit!”
“Thisismy suit.” Out of all the charges laid against me, I’m not sure why this is the one I choose to answer.
“Then why did I Venmo you money while you were standing in Abe’s Formal Wear? You know what? I don’t care. Carl from the Cuddle Collective might be cheaper, but if I’d hired an escort,at least I might get fucked at the end of the night, instead of just fucked over!”
“True story.”
“Excuse me?” comes her combative retort.
“Always hire the right man for the job. That’s my motto.” I temper my amusement, entertained beyond belief. I can’t remember a conversation I’ve found quite so ... engaging. Or a woman I’ve found quite so fierce. Especially for one so small. After the day I’ve had, I’ll take enjoyment where I can find it.
“Really?” she snipes.
“I can see the benefits, especially for a woman. Discretion springs to mind. Safety. Pleasure.” And apparently, I have a motto now. “As for Carl ...” My words trail off as I give my head a sorry shake. I am kinda sorry I’m not Carl right now.
Her eyes move to the bar behind, maybe noticing my drinks, her words turning hesitant. “You’re really not Carl?”
“And this isn’t a suit from Abe’s Formal Wear.”
Consternation knits her brow before her gaze moves over my tux. When her eyes eventually lift, I see the wind has been knocked from her blustery sails.
“My name’s Matt.”
“Shit,” she says, bringing a hand to her forehead. Her eyes moisten, and she goes from angry to upset in a couple of blinks. “This cannot be happening. Not today.”
“I’m sure Carl will be along,” I offer, because here’s the thing: I can’t deal with tearful women. I don’t mean that in the emotionally repressive, übermasculine bullshit way. Crying women just happen to be my kryptonite—being around them turns me inside out.
If a shrink ever got their hands on me, I’m sure they’d find the root cause is my three sisters and a horde of female cousins. That lot seemed to work out very early on that if they teared up in frontof me, I’d give them anything they wanted. My Spider-Man figures to marry their Barbies, a live model to practice their makeup skills on, the last gingersnap in the jar, as well as the lifelong blame for smashing the TV screen with a hurley.
“Carl isn’t coming,” she says as her bottom lip sets to wobbling. “He’s almost an hour late already. I can’t believe I’ve been scammed by a jerk who cuddles housewives for a living!”
“I wonder if they’ve any vacancies.”
“This is the worst,” she says, appearing not to hear me. “All because I didn’t want to hire a professional.” Her watery eyes rise to mine. “It felt like a step too far. Too skeevy, maybe?”
“Right.” I give a solemn nod and try to ignore the hollow sensation in my chest. No way anyone as lovely looking as her should need to hire a bloke for ... whatever she was hiring him for. Not that I’m offering. As pretty as she is, all sad and interesting, and as hot and fiery as she was a few minutes ago, she might still be a few Cheerios short of a full fuckin’ bowl!
“Oh, my God, what a mess. What an absolute disaster.”
“I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that,” I find myself offering as a tear slides down her cheek.
Ah, now. Don’t feckin’ cry!
“It’s worse. Worse than you could ever imagine,” she answers pitifully.
