8
“ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY?!”
Oscar is not impressed. He thinks I’ve gone insane. And I don’t blame him. I’m having dinner with the enemy.
“What can I say? He’s my future bro.”
He rolls his eyes. “Then why do you care what you look like?”
The man does have a point. I’m standing in front of a door length mirror, and I’ve tried on three dresses so far. I’ve finally settled on the tight sexy red one. I wish I could borrow Maeve’s red Louboutins — too bad she lives so far away now. I’ll have to settle for the red Nine West pumps I treated myself to on my twenty-fifth birthday.
“You don’t understand women at all, do you?”
He lies back on my bed and smirks. “Oh, I do,” he argues. “I know what gets them off.”
Well, he’s right there. The man definitely knows what he’s doing in bed. “I mean, you don’t know how our minds work.”
He props himself up on his elbows. “Enlighten me.”
“Okay, well, I admit… yes, I want to look good for Matt. I want to look damn good. Hot. Sexy. But that’s not because I like him. It’s because this is a boy who made fun of my weight and looks for years, and now I want to show him that I’m fucking hot.”
He shakes his head. “Well, yeah, you are. But why do you care what that ass wipe thinks? You should be past this by now.”
My stomach drops. He’s absolutely right. I stare at my reflection in the mirror; straightened hair, lash extensions, tight dress, tall heels, and Mac Ruby Woo lipstick.
I care because I’m fucked up. Matt Moore fucked me up good. I crave his approval. It’s human nature to crave the approval of those who won’t willingly give it to you.
“You say this is about closure,” Oscar goes on. “But it’s really about you wanting Matt Moore to want to fuck you.”
I jerk my head around. “What?!”
“You want him to want you. You want him to get hard at the sight of you.”
My mouth drops. How dare he.
“You’ll probably get what you want,” he says. “Because I’m hard right now, just looking at you.”
I hate him right now, but the thought of Oscar hard for me always gets me going. I don’t know if it’s the sight of his long body sprawled on my bed, the five o’clock shadow lining his jaw, or just the wicked way he’s looking at me, but I’m horny as hell.
A slow delicious grin traces his lips. “Come over here.”
I join him on the bed. He wastes no time in hiking up the skirt of my dress, and slipping off my lace panties. The shoes stay on, and I climb on top of him.
“I’m going to get you off before you go on your date,” he mumbles against the swell of my breast. “So you won’t be tempted to fall into his bed.”
“It’s not a date,” I point out. “And I would never. Never in a million years.”
He does as promised, and gets me off. Then we cuddle for a few minutes. He traces the contour of my cheek with the tip of his finger, and tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “Don’t let him hurt you again,” he says, “and if he does, let me know.”
I smile. “Why?”
“So I can kill him, of course,” he deadpans. “Orange is a good color on me.”
* * *
Casa Arabellaisthe kind of restaurant you might expect in heaven. I’m surrounded by shades of white; crisp white linens and sleek white leather chairs, white washed wooden floors, rustic brick walls, painted white, of course. Giant light globes hang from the white ceilings. I feel like I’m floating on a cloud.
I’m sitting on a not-too-comfortable seventies-style white leather sofa, by the hostess podium, waiting for Matt. He’s not late, I’m the one who’s early.
