The F-Word

Her eyes glitter. Her lips curve in a smile. “I’d settle for pretty.”

“Never settle,” I say and then, only because it’s the right thing to do, I lower my head and kiss her mouth, and hell, even if it’s the wrong thing to do, I’m happy I did it.

* * *

I have a GPS but my ever-efficient PA has Googled directions and printed them out. It’s a great plan. I’d rather listen to Bailey than the robotic voice of my GPS.

We make surprisingly good time once we get out of Manhattan and across the George Washington Bridge. We take the Palisades Parkway for a few miles. I know it from a couple of ski trips. It’s a handsome road that cuts through the trees.. Bailey, it turns out, has never gone this way before. She always takes the

train when she goes home to visit.

“If I’d known how nice this road is,” she says, “I’d have driven. Maybe that’s what I’ll do next time.”

“Or we could drive it for a while some Sunday. There are lots of little towns just off this parkway. I bet they have some pretty nice restaurants.”

I hear myself say this as if planning a future weekend together is a natural thing to do. I tell myself I’m simply getting into the role I’m about to play, but when I glance over at Bailey, she’s doing that teeth-sinking-into-her-tender-bottom-lip routine.

My gut clenches.

The hell it does. Just that fast, what clenches is my dick, except dicks don’t clench. What they do is get hard. And harder…

I shift my weight.

I look at Bailey again. She’s looking at me and there’s a sudden sweep of pink in her face. Has she noticed the little tent that’s formed in my lap?

“So,” she says brightly, “did you ever wonder about that?”

Crap! “Look, I apologize. I mean, it isn’t deliberate—”

“Why they call some roads parkways and others highways? Or expressways. Like the Long Island Expressway. And then in California they’re freeways. Isn’t that right? Whenever I read a book set there, like those Elvis Cole novels by, what’s his name, Robert Crais, he’s always talking about freeways…”

She’s babbling, but I am grateful for the change in subject. Not only is it a diversion, it’s interesting. Turns out we both like the same authors and when one word leads to another, I end up admitting I tried reading War and Peace back in college and never managed to finish it.

“It just seemed dead to me,” I tell her, and she assures me it was that way for her too until she reached this one particular chapter, and—

And, I’m getting to know more and more about my pretend-girlfriend.

And, dammit, I like what I’m getting to know.

So much so that after a while, in the middle of an exchange about which is the better band, the ancient The Who or the equally ancient Rolling Stones, I reach for her hand, thread my fingers through hers and we clasp the gear shifter together.

Wrong move, the voice in my head says.

The voice is Coop’s, and I ignore it just as I ignore it when we stop for coffee and I put my arm around Bailey’s waist as we walk back to the car.

I even drop a kiss on her temple.

Big mistake, Coop says.

I know he’s right. There won’t be any kissing. Not on this trip. Not unless we have to do some convincing for Vainglorious Violet—and this is the first time I have ever even thought that word, vainglorious, in my entire life.

The kissing-touching thing is just practice.

The voice in my head snickers, I tell it to do us both a favor and shut the fuck up.

And, after a while, it does.

* * *