The F-Word

“Don’t cook,” I add. “I’ll bring dinner.”

“I never cook,” she says. “I believe in Lean Cuisine.”

“And I believe in take-out. See? We’ve learned something new about each other already.”

She gives me a look filled with doubt. Then she sighs, climbs down from the truck and stands there looking at me through the open door.

“Are you sure you want to do this, sir?”

“Matthew.”

I can see her swallow. “Are you sure you want to do this…Matthew?”

A million billion people have said my name in my lifetime. Well, not exactly. I always introduce myself as Matt. I have no idea why I just told Bailey to call me Matthew. I also have no idea why the sound of her saying it made the hair rise on the back of my neck.

“Absolutely,” I say.

She nods and shuts the door. I wave. She steps back and I roar off in the traditional cloud of dust, except I don’t feel like the Lone Ranger.

I feel like a dude in desperate need of a shrink.

6

I drive around for a while. I take a look at the hilly four acres. I walk it and I know that I was right. It’s waiting for a builder who isn’t me. I’m into open-plan contemporaries, not colonials. That’s why my clients come to me.

These people need a different builder even though I’d love to put a house here. The view is forever, and there’s wildlife. Deer. Foxes. Fishers. Birds. The land has everything I’d want if I were buying and building. Which I am not.

I get back into my truck, take out my phone, and send myself a note.

Normally, I’d have texted Bailey. For some reason, the idea of contacting her now makes me, I don’t know, uncomfortable. Have I done the right thing? Can we make enough progress to pull off this charade?

More than that, how will it be to spend a long weekend pretending she and I have something going?

What happens the following Monday, when we see each other in the office? Will it be back to Mr. O’Malley and sir? How will that feel? How will it feel to discuss blueprints and kitchens after I know what she feels like in my arms? What she tastes like? Because, son of a gun, though I made a couple of lame jokes about sex, how come it didn’t occur to me that I can’t spend the weekend standing stiffly beside her? Do that, and we won’t convince Cousin Violet of anything. I’m surely going to have to touch Bailey. Her hand. Her waist. I’ll have to kiss her. Okay, maybe not on the mouth but on the temple. The cheek. And—who am I kidding? Of course, on the mouth! Boyfriend. Girlfriend. One generally shows affection for the other.

I remember the feel of Bailey’s hair curling around my finger. The feel of her lips under mine. The whisper of her breath, the slightness of her body hidden inside those overalls, the sudden realization that she has all the right female parts…

Crap.

She has the right female parts. And I have the right male parts. One inside my pants, for sure. The one that’s just come to immediate attention.

I have a hard-on. A massive one. And that’s saying something because among my other attributes, I am what you would call well-hung. No, I’m not boasting. I’m the guy who buy

s those extra-large size condoms not to impress the drugstore clerk who rings them up but because I need them. And sometimes, at urinals…I know you’ve probably got this vision of an endless line of dudes taking peeks while they take leaks, but we do not look. Never. Except sometimes a guy’s eyes stray, only by accident, and when they stray to me, well, I know what that little start of surprise means.

So this hard-on cannot be ignored.

Nor can the fact that thinking about my PA caused it.

Hell.

She’s my PA. My assistant. I’m going away with her for the weekend to get even with Cousin Violet Who Once Killed A Doll Named Suzy, not because I have the hots for Bailey. I mean, Bailey’s good people. She’s sweet, she’s smart, and she’s efficient. What she isn’t, is hot.

I close my eyes. I think of her in one of her suits, her hair yanked back, and I carefully rearrange myself.

There you go. No more hard-on. No more worries. Time to head home and get ready for our date. Our appointment. Because that’s all it is.

* * *