Page 4 of Working For Her Curves

“Sounds good.”

I don’t know how I’m going to manage working with this man and not jump his bones, but I’m going to have to figure it out real damn fast.

“Rate the apology,” Maggie says. “One to ten.”

“It’s not about rating the apology.” I pull my knees up on her couch and grab my glass of wine.

“You described a man who stopped mid-sentence, examined his own gender bias, and asked for a do-over. Minimum seven.” She waves her nail polish brush at me. “Was there eye contact?”

“Why does that matter?”

“A man who apologizes to your forehead doesn’t mean it. A man who apologizes and looks you in the eye is a gentleman. Was there eye contact?”

My neck goes hot. “Yes.”

“Eight. Possibly nine,” Maggie looks up from painting her toenails. Her cat, Macavity, watches me from the arm of the couch, yellow eyes unblinking. Macavity is a rescue that Maggie adopted recently, and this is the first time we’ve met. He hasn’t decided if he likes me or not, and I’m not interested in meeting his claws if he decides he doesn’t. “Did his voice get quieter?”

“Maggie.”

“I don’t make the rules.”

“Every other man on that site looked at me like I was lost. Like I’d taken a wrong turn on the way to a nail appointment.” I curl my fingers into the couch cushion. “Marty looked at me like that for about five minutes. Then he adjusted. He didn’t try that alpha bullshit most men try.”

“What does he look like?”

“That’s not—”

“I will pour this nail polish on your foot, Poppy Briggs.”

“Tall. Broad. Built like a construction worker, which he is. Blond hair, amazing jawline.” I take a sip of wine, but I don’t taste it. All I’ve been able to think about is how my body has been humming since I met Marty, and it hasn’t gone away since I left the site. “He has this focus. When he looks at you, nothing else exists.”

“Oh, Poppy.”

I stare into my glass because if I look at Maggie she’ll see how badly I’m lusting after him. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him since we met, and the fact that I am pressing my thighs together right now on her couch like a woman who can’t control herself. “It’s an observation.”

She caps the polish and swings to face me. “You’ve dated men with MBAs and five-year plans who never once made you lose your train of thought. Now some guy in work boots makes you forget what you’re saying, and you want to tell me it’s just an observation? Why not just have a summer fling and get it out of your system? You’re both adults.”

I shift on the couch. I’m starting to get annoyed.

“I don’t do casual,” I say. “You know that. And the plan is too important to—”

“The plan. The five-year plan that has gotten you how many orgasms in the last year that you didn’t give yourself.”

“Oh my god.”

“Am I wrong?”

The terrifying part is that she’s not wrong. I spent two years dating men who looked perfect on paper and kissed like they didn’t care who they were kissing, and I gave up and focused on school. Then this afternoon a man in work boots brushed past my body and all I could think was that I wanted to strip the clothes off his body in that cramped trailer and ride him until I’d caught up on all the non-solo orgasms I’ve missed in the last two years.

“Am I wrong, Poppy?”

“I’m going to need more wine.”

“That’s not a no.” She pokes my knee. “You don’t have to marry him. You just have to admit that something happened today.”

“Nothing happened.” Ever since we said goodbye, I’ve been feeling the ghost where his thumb touched my palm, and missing it.

“Your neck is splotchy.”