The F-Word

She’s going to change into something suitable for a quiet evening with a boyfriend.

I let my thoughts run wild over the possibilities: Silk pj’s. A silk caftan. A slinky silk T and silk pants. Yes, I like silk. The way it feels, the way it clings…

Then I remember that this is Bailey and I roll my eyes, find the kitchen, and unload a dozen containers of food on the counter.

There’s a noise behind me.

I turn around.

It’s Bailey. And, goddammit, my jeans are suddenly tight.

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No silk. Certainly not. She’s wearing what I think women call yoga pants. Gray ones. And a T-shirt. It’s gray too and it says—it’s really washed out so it’s hard to read, but I think it says Unions. The People Who Brought You Weekends. It’s also small—must be all those washings—so it’s a little snug across what I am now absolutely, positively certain are breasts and when she inhales, the bottom of the T rises a little, just enough so I can see that she has, oh man, she has a little innie of a belly button.

Her feet are bare. She has pale pink polish on her toes.

And her hair is loose.

It’s a long cloud of soft, dark curls.

She doesn’t look sexy; she looks adorable. She looks like a woman you want to scoop into your arms. What I’m trying to say is that, yeah, she looks sexy, sexy as hell in her own way, and…

Fuck.

It’s hard-on time again.

I swing away from her. Fast. “We need plates,” I say briskly. “And silverware.”

Drawers open and shut. Cabinet doors do the same. I hear things being put on a little table behind me. Uh oh. Maybe put is the wrong word. Slammed is more accurate.

I take a deep breath, think about icy fjords and snow, and then I turn around.

“Something wrong?” I ask, very carefully.

“Why would anything be wrong?”

The better question is, why would a woman try to form words through her teeth?

“Bailey. I should have said you look fine.”

Her back is to me. Her spine is a rigid line. So are her shoulders.

“I told you this wouldn’t work!”

“Of course it will—”

I wince as a handful of forks and knives hit the table with the force of a tornado.

“Put on what you’d wear for an evening at home, you said.”

“Right. A quiet evening with a boyfriend.”

She spins towards me. Her eyes are flashing. I never knew my PA’s eyes could flash and now that I do, I see that I was right the first time. Her irises are brown, not black, but it's such a dark brown, an espresso brown…

“What did you expect, Mr. O’Malley? Something from a Victoria’s Secret catalogue?”

“No. Of course not.”