Chapter 4

4

L IZ

I never thought his message would wreck me.

I read it twenty times. I practically stared at it for ten minutes before typing and erasing my reply fifteen times.

No word has left my phone.

After going from effusive words, such as…

‘I'm happy you're back.'

"Can't wait to see you.'

‘Are you sure you can make it on time?'

I tested a few cold, dry replies like…

‘See you there.' (As if I knew where ‘there' was)

‘Sure. I may be late, though.'

‘I'll have to check my schedule and get back to you.'

And then I played a little with…

‘I have other plans.'

‘Tonight is not good for me.'

‘Tomorrow before the wedding rehearsal, maybe?'

I was sweating profusely at that point.

I'm not a good player. I've never been one. And it felt like I was playing with him.

But I couldn't be entirely truthful, either. Wagging my tail at him and all that? Telling him he made my day?

No way.

Confessing that a part of me had been convinced he had forgotten about me or that his schedule hadn't allowed him to meet me this evening?

Those weren't real options.

Whatever I tried to say in my replies felt phony.

It's been a few days since we met last time, and we haven't communicated since, so anything is possible.

It's not like we are following a script or are committed to each other.

He came up with the idea of meeting before the wedding rehearsal, but people change their minds all the time.

I was happy he had followed through, but I couldn't get a feel of him. I don't know him that well.

So I ended up not answering but getting ready.

Keeping things interesting by not confirming our meeting.

Playing it cool.

That was so not like me, but I thought it was fitting. We're two adults doing naughty things.

Plus, I wanted to see what he would do.

He didn't send another message.

And here I am now.

Not only did I go back and forth with the idea of sending a reply, but I also spent an hour in the bathroom, doing my hair and shaving my legs and armpits like I was participating in an artistic swimming competition.

I'm smooth like a peach in all the sensitive places, and my hair looks like a fire has broken out over my back and shoulders.

I've never managed to give it so much volume.

The problem is, it's eight fifteen, and I'm in the closet, wrapped in my bathrobe, red lipstick on, nothing underneath.

What in the hell am I supposed to wear?

I wish I could leaf through Rain's book, aka Owned by L. Carter. She had a knack for detailed descriptions.

But even so, my wardrobe doesn't offer much variety.

My eyes move over my everyday clothes and stall on a few dresses.

Nothing is sexy enough.

Nothing.

Oh, my… The clock is ticking, and my palms are lined with sweat as I check every piece of clothing I have in my closet.

It's my fault. Truly my fault. I could've bought something from Maggie's. But, honestly, I didn't want to even think about doing that.

I didn't want to jinx it, and shopping for clothes felt like acting out of a place of weakness.

What if I had bought something new and then sat around and waited for his call?

I yank a hanger off the rack and check the dress.

Now I know why Chloe was mad at me last Sunday when we wore those cute dresses. They're just cute.

They don't have the effect of a fireworks display and are not mind blowing by any means.

In any of them, I look humble and scared, as if I'm looking to make friends or secure a different job.

Which I'm not.

I drop the dress back into the closet, my eyes going to the phone clutched in my other hand as I push out a sigh.

"I'm fucked…" I murmur, sweating, panic creeping up my spine.

If I don't like what I wear. I won't feel confident and won't be able to relax.

Knowing myself, I'll probably act like a fool.

Ughh.

My phone pings with a message, and I'm convinced it's him for a second.

David.

Five minutes ago, I wasn't sure this thing would happen despite my sweating over what to wear, and now I'm back at weighing my options, plus… What??

Terry is texting me?

Please don't tell me she's on her way over.

This is not the time, Mom. Frantically, I swipe the screen with my thumb to read the entire message.

Oh, but she is.

What the fuck?

Why?

I type faster than I could draw breath.

Me: I'm not home.

Come on. Come on. Answer me, please.

A part of me would like to sprint around the house, pick up things, put them in order, do something about my hair––hide it, frankly––and remove the red lipstick from my lips.

My phone pings again.

Terry: Where are you?

Even without an emoji, I can tell she's suspicious. Even if she isn't, it's almost nine o'clock. Where can I be at nine o'clock on a Wednesday evening?

Me: I'm at the gym.

I press send.

Please don't say you're coming to the gym.

Me: I made a new friend. Sandy. And she invited me to her place. I won't be there for long, but it will take a while before I get home.

Hopefully, it sounds truthful enough, and she won't insist on coming to my house.

My heart beats in my throat.

Please, please…

The next message arrives.

Terry: I bought you some groceries and wanted to drop them off. I'll leave them by the door.

Oh, my… That is so sweet of her. And now I feel so bad about being so ungrateful.

But how in the world will she deliver the bag of groceries while I'm still here, waiting for my ride?

Livid, I look around the house, not knowing what to do. Cancel everything? Tell my mom I was lying?

No, I can't do that.

I can't cancel that car. And she'd make the connection between me looking like I'm going out and someone picking me up.

Tell her that I lied about going to that fictional new friend's home?

She'd look at me like I had two heads. I have no reason to lie to her, and she'd want to know more about it.

Rightfully so.

Ugh, Mom.

I don't even know what I want to wear tonight. And now I'm dealing with this?

I type again.

Me: How far away are you?

Thankfully, her answer arrives quickly.

Terry: Ten, fifteen minutes?

I check the time, horrified. They would probably arrive at the same time.

If the car shows up.

And it will.

Now I'm positively sure it will because this is how life likes to mess things up.

Can you imagine?

Getting more traffic in front of my house than the entire neighborhood on a weekend?

I fret a little more before desperation kicks in and realize I need to do something quickly.

I can't stay here frozen while my mother's on her way.

I could let her drop off the groceries and pretend I'm not home.

Or I could put something on and walk to the next block, making sure she doesn't see me while I wait and wave at my ride.

This way, things look all right. The driver picks me up, and off I go.

She does her thing. I'm not home. And all is well.

This sounds like a great plan.

And then I'm back to square one.

What am I supposed to wear?

My goodness. This stresses me out.

I have renewed admiration for what Rain Sexton used to do before she was a Sexton.

‘Move, just move…' The voice blares in my head.

I send Mom another message.

Me: Sounds good.

And then I spring into action.

The first thing I put my hand on goes on my body. A tiny piece of underwear––a thong highlighting my butt cheeks and barely covering my smooth front.

That is no not good.

But there is no time for second guessing.

I will pull a…?Oh.I saw that in a movie.

Lacy underwear and a long jacket. Yes… Yes, yes. I'll do that.

Hopefully, he's in the mood for sex, or I'll look like a call girl out of work.

I frantically search for the matching bra. Can't find it. Give up on it. No bra. The bra won't make a difference.

It's cold to go outside without some nylons or thigh-high stockings or something, but there's no time to search for them.

My racing pulse confirms that.

My heaving chest says that.

Heels, a thong, and my jacket.

That's it.

It's a black wool jacket that hits about mid-thigh. One of the better pieces of clothing I own, it has a nice nipped waist, double-breasted button closure, and a self–tie belt.

Utilitarian pockets, so I don't need a bag.

The smooth lining is cold against my back, and as goosebumps spread across my skin, it dawns on me how risky this business is. Walking around town virtually naked before going into that nice hotel downtown––if it's the one I have in mind, although they're both nice––and meeting him.

I don't have time to dwell since I need to get out of my place as soon as possible.

As in right now.

Go, go, go.

Staggering on my heels, I run around the house, phone clutched in my hand.

I turn the lights off and pull to a harsh stop next to the entrance, panting. The street is dark.

Two more minutes and my ride should arrive.

Terry should be here any moment now.

To avoid a disaster, I lock the door, turn around, and head straight to the back, but I change my mind and return to the kitchen, where I tear a paper towel off the roll and shove it into my pocket in case my heels pick up some dirt across my neighbor's lawn.

That's it.

A nearby car engine noise sends me straight to the back of the house. I don't have time to check whether it's my mother or the driver.

There's still this possibility that the two cars will pull up in front of my house at the same time.

"Fuck," I mutter, slowly opening and closing the back door. I look for the key under a potted plant, lock the place up, and quietly tip toe around the house.

The car is still there with the lights on.

It's probably my ride.

I inch closer to the front, my heels sinking into the soft ground, and take a peek when I hear my mother's voice.

Talking on the phone, she makes a beeline for the main door.

Oh, oh… My phone.

I pull it out and turn off the volume.

Wouldn't it be weird if she called me and my phone rang next to my place?

I glance down the street. The road is empty while streetlights cast a glow over the trees, front lawns, and quiet houses.

My mother is only a few feet away from me, delivering a bag of groceries while I feel like shit, sneaking out of the house and hiding from her.

Frustrated, I look for a footpath to the street that allows me to walk away without being seen.

The bag of groceries meets the wooden threshold, and that's my chance.

I veer to the left and sprint across my neighbor's lawn.

Hopefully, they don't have motion sensor lights.

What a spectacle that would be. My bare legs shimmering from the lotion I have slathered on, my heels having cuffs of mud around them, not to mention the marks on my neighbor's otherwise beautifully manicured lawn, my hair carmine red, waving like a flag.

The only thing missing is a cop car and me wearing shackles for trespassing.

But none of that happens.

They don't even have a dog.

Panting like crazy, I hide behind a tree to catch my breath and clean my heels before disposing of the paper towel in the neighbor's trash bin.

My mother lingers for some reason, and I'm still too close to her. If my ride arrives, she'll catch sight of me, and what an embarrassing scene that would be.

I walk quickly to the next tree and the next, with each step moving away from my place.

Eventually, I reach the first block when a car veers left at the nearest intersection, heading my way.

I hope that's the driver.

If not, well, that would be another embarrassing scene because I'd have to wave at them and stop them before entering my street.

And then they'd realize I was a crazy stranger.

Hopefully, it's the driver.

I walk to the edge of the sidewalk, shoot my arm up, and do just that. Wave at the vehicle. The car rolls past me like I'm invisible.

That worked well.

If that was the driver and he just ignored me, well… I doubt this evening will ever happen.

It's probably one of my neighbors.

Good thing they didn't stop.

Something tells me to look in the distance and make sure the car moves past my house.

It doesn't.

The car, a black town car, slows down and comes to a stop behind my mother's ride.

What are the fucking chances?

Stunned, I watch a man walk out of the car, heading straight to my mother.

This can't be happening.

They actually exchange words, and I'm breathless.

What does he say to her?

‘I'm looking for a redhead who's supposed to meet my boss for a few hours of sex in a swanky hotel downtown?'

Nice.

This thing seems to be doomed from the start. I knew it wouldn't work.

I fucking knew it.

So, um… What are they chatting about? It can't be about me.

Narrowing my eyes, I take it all in.

He's holding something, like a small box.

Is he truly the driver who was supposed to pick me up? If not, who is he?

I haven't ordered anything.

Besides, exceptions aside, deliveries come during the day.

My knees are about to give out.

Folding my arms over my chest, I lean into the thick trunk of a tree.

The two seem cordial while she's pointing to the entrance. He walks that way, leaves the box by the door, turns around, tilts his chin down as if saying goodbye, and off he goes.

He slides into the driver's seat and leaves.

My mother seems just as baffled as I am.

Fuck. That was my driver.

He moves away before exiting the neighborhood while my mother goes back to the house––I know her so well––and ensures the bag of groceries and box sit neatly next to each other, and are not visible from the road.

She snaps up and brings her phone to her ear when my phone vibrates.

I ponder whether to take her call.

I choose not to.

She's texting while claiming her seat behind the steering wheel, and the car lights shine brightly as she rolls her ride away.

Her message arrives.

Terry: I left your food by the door.

Good mother.

Bad daughter.

Terry: And someone else delivered a package. Some books and stuff. The guy was nice and polite.

The guy?

Books and stuff?

Who was that guy, after all?

And was that a mistake?

Did he leave the wrong package at my door?

The voice in my head starkly disagrees, and I can't blame her. My gut tells me the same thing.

The guy who was also my driver brought me a present––the box my mom is talking about.

I guess David had a plan B in case I wasn't home.

This is what I get for playing it hard to get and not getting back to him to confirm our meetup. Keeping it a secret and making him guess.

Well… He guessed all right.

He guessed I might have different plans for tonight, so he sent a gift. Or whatever else is in that box.

It may not only be books.

Or maybe it was ‘books' because he had to lie to my mother.

I'm sure she told him who she was. That's why he was so friendly and behaved so nicely, and she was so charmed by him.

By all means, Mom, let's invite these people over to our house for dinner.

David Moore and his chauffeur––I couldn't even tell if it was the same man I saw in the coffee shop the day I met David.

Maybe he sent someone new who hasn't even seen me before.

Maybe. Maybe…

What am I doing now dressed like this?

All I need is a pointy black witch hat and a Halloween pumpkin jack-o-lantern candy bucket, and I go trick-or-treating.

I push off the tree and walk back.

Tonight won't happen.

I scoop out my phone from my jacket and almost tap David's name to call him, but something stops me.

I'm curious about that hotel.

He must've booked a room downtown if he had sent the car to pick me up.

And if he booked a room downtown, I can still go there.

Maybe I'm making the trip downtown for nothing.

Perhaps he's changed his plans for the evening… Now that I'm not coming.

I only wanted to be a little mysterious, and look how it all turned out.

I have no cash on me, but I have my phone. I could use the app, get a car, and pay for it with my phone.

I stop in front of my house and look at the door.

It's a bit ridiculous to come up with such a plan while freezing my butt off with only a narrow piece of fabric up my butt, but what kind of aspiring writer would I be if I didn't have a shred of adventurous spirit in me?

Less frantic, I go to the door and check the threshold.

Since I'm here, I open the door and put the groceries on the table by the wall before picking up the other box.

It's a gift. A beautiful gift wrapped in vintage looking printed paper done in tones of white and light caramel with a pattern of old postcards and iconic sites.

Paris. Rome. New York.

It's a nice touch.

I unwrap it swiftly and reveal a brown box with a lid and a few letters embossed across. It must be the store he'd bought it from.

My eyes go wide, and my nostrils fill with the unmistakable smell of freshly printed books as I retrieve a foiled hardcover special edition of ‘Owned' by L. Carter and two more romance books by bestseller authors.

I hope he didn't inspire those two authors to write their stories as well, or I'd be royally pissed.

One is a fantasy romance. The other is a romantic comedy.

I smile.

I don't know why, but I do. I find his gesture touching.

And I chide myself for being so easy, but the truth is, I don't remember getting a gift from a man who put so much thought into selecting it for me.

Maybe he was just lucky when he selected those. Or maybe he thought about what I would truly like.

Or maybe he had someone do it for him.Maybe I'm blowing it out of proportion, and his assistant picked these for him. And ultimately, for me.

I'd hate to get all emotional over nothing, but my eyes stall on the beautiful covers as my fingers trace the spines.

They're pretty, and they'll look fantastic on the shelves.I even glance at the wall.

Or maybe they can go on the coffee table. I could keep them there for a while.

They give such a nice vibe.

I put them back when something swishes beneath my touch. I lift the last book and notice a cookie tin.

"No way," I murmur, opening the box.

Individually wrapped chocolate cookies sleep in the tin. I pick one up and taste it.

It's delicious.

All right.

Still chewing on my cookie, I close the box and set it next to the grocery bag before ordering a cab and walking out.

I quickly change my mind, go back, and grab a second cookie. I forget about the cold air swirling around my legs and how late I am.

It's practically a toss-up whether I have the slightest chance to find this man tonight.

Focusing back on my phone, I check my mother's message and send her a reply.

Me: Thank you. I was waiting for that delivery.

Another lie.

Another cookie.

I'm now rewarding my lies with delicious cookies.

My finger hovers over his name.

But David hasn't called me.

He already knows I wasn't home. I should text him, though. And I'm about to do that when my cab inches closer.

"That was fast…" I murmur to myself, sliding my phone into my pocket and walking to the car, deciding against sending that message.