Stout (Men of Lovibond 2)

Shit. Did Oliver tell her what happened last night? Are they close enough he would confide in her? Would he betray me so easily?

“Did she say why she’s here?”

“You have a scheduled meeting. You smokin’ crack, girl?”

“Oh, right.” I can’t believe I forgot. We’re working on Oliver’s party today. Bad timing. “Send her back.”

I get up and smooth my pencil skirt and blouse, nervous to see Lawrence. It’s Monday. Not even twelve hours since the incident. There’s a chance she hasn’t even spoken to Oliver about last night.

But my gut tells me otherwise.

I greet her at the door, and she initiates a hug. Not the sign of a sister who’s upset with me over a kinky sex encounter with her brother. “How are you?”

“Good. Good.” Total lie. Nothing about me is good. “Come around and grab a seat. Let’s talk about this birthday party we have coming up.” I open the file I started for Oliver’s party. “I’ve been in touch with Iron City. It’s available so we’re good for the venue.”

“That’s fantastic. I just know it’ll be perfect.”

“I agree. Very industrial chic.” I actually did some brainstorming last week for Oliver’s party. Good thing since my brain is shit today. “I’m thinking Stout themed since that’s what his friends call him. We incorporate stout in everything. Believe it or not, I found an adult birthday cake recipe that uses a stout beer in the cake batter. And it’s topped with a whiskey coffee glaze. How fantastic does that sound?”

“Yes. Ollie will absolutely love that.”

“I believe so too. Do you think we can get friends and family to contribute photos? I’d love to do a balloon chandelier.”

“What is that?”

“Photos are stringed to the end of helium balloons. It’s like floating memories over the guests’ heads. A fun way to reminisce.”

“That sounds incredibly cool. I definitely want to do that.”

“Dirty thirty photo booth? Or is that asking for trouble since there will be booze?” Photo booths tend to go over really well for birthday parties, but they often get out of hand after the alcohol kicks in. Boobs and boners come out for photobombing.

“I like that idea a lot. Sounds fun.”

“What about guests? How many are you thinking of inviting?”

Lawrence hesitates. “Can we put the party planning on pause for a minute?”

“Sure.” And here we go.

“What happened?” She doesn’t need to elaborate. I know exactly what she’s asking. But how the hell do I answer that question—so I don’t give away too much—when I have no idea what Oliver told her?

She continues when I don’t reply. “I saw you and Oliver together on Saturday night at the grand opening. He was very into you. And you were into him as well. I saw it. Did something go down?”

Oh, no. Something went up. It was shit, and it hit the fan hard. “Things didn’t go as expected.”

“You’re being as vague as him.” Oliver didn’t betray me. “Don’t you like my brother?”

“I like Oliver very much. But . . .” There aren’t words to explain what happened without giving away too much.

Lawrence finishes my sentence. “Things didn’t go as expected.”

“I’m more comfortable with leaving it at that.” And apparently Oliver is too since he didn’t tell her what happened.

“Got it. I’ll stop being the meddling sister.”

“Thank you for not pushing.” I look at my notes. “Number of guests?”

“Let’s go with two hundred for now. I’ll let you know if that changes.”

I’m certain I appear robotic as I go down the list of questions I’ve asked clients hundreds of times. My head isn’t in this meeting. It’s stuck replaying the scene with Oliver last night.

I’m coming again. So fucking hard. That’s the place where I stop the scene in my head and hit rewind. Because everything happening after that point was unpleasant. Unfortunate. Unbearable.

And I’m afraid that’s how it’s going to continue.

* * *

Where did that stick come from? I squeal at the top of my lungs when that-ain’t-no-fucking-stick skids in a wavy motion across the top of the water in my pool.

“Holy-bat-shit-man.” I go to high-stepping out of the pool, pretty sure I nearly accomplish the impossibility of walking on water. Jesus would be impressed.

I stand on the decking and look over into the shallow end at my swim mate. I hate snakes. Despise them. “Oh, no, you don’t. This is my much-needed relaxation after a horrible week, you little son of a bitch. I want to enjoy my pool, and you’re not going to stop me.”

He doesn’t listen. Rude bastard.

This is man shit. Yes, getting snakes out of the pool is man shit. Tommy always did this kind of thing for me.

I miss him so much. When will that ache go away?

Maybe I can call Maurice. Nah. He’d jump into my arms and tell me to protect him.

No choice. Gotta man up and get the reptile out myself.

I grab the skimmer and extend the telescopic pole so I have enough distance to haul ass when I skim him up and dump him in the grass. I shudder because what I’m about to do is giving me the heebie-jeebies. Again, I hate snakes.

I lower the mesh paddle into the water and scoop it under his body. But he swims off the paddle. Dammit.

I make the same attempt a second, third, and fourth time. “Come on, snake. This is your eviction notice. It’s time for you to go.”

I make a fifth attempt under its slithery body. Finally. Success.

I lift the skimmer from the water and quickly move with it toward the grass. And the wiggling bastard falls off, hits the decking, and slithers back into the water. “Nooo,” I yell until a fresh coat of rawness covers my throat. “Get out. I don’t want you here.”

I jolt when Oliver bursts into my backyard through the gate. Carrying a big wrench. “What is it? What’s happening?”

My face pulsates with heat. “There’s a snake in my pool.”

“You should have called me.” No way. I’d swim with the snake before I did that. “Where is it?”

It’s been two weeks since our sexual-encounter-gone-wrong. I was starting to get over what happened. But now he’s standing there all-sexy-as-fuck wearing a smile that makes my wet bikini bottom sizzle. That night, and the embarrassment it caused, comes rushing back.

I wish he’d stayed at his place. I prefer the company of the snake.

“I don’t see it now. I guess it swam into the skimmer basket.”

He goes over and lifts the cover. “Little garter snake. Probably more afraid of you than you are of it.”

“I highly doubt that.”

He reaches in, grabs it by the head, and pulls it out of the basket. “Harmless.”

My

shoulders have a mind of their own and break into a jerk. “Oh, Thorn. Get rid of that thing.” I can’t stand to look at it wiggling in his hand.

“What would you have me do with it?”

“I don’t care. Just make sure he’s departing from my property as he slithers.”

I squeal and bolt when Oliver walks toward me. “I’m not going to throw it on you.”

“My brother totally would have. And often did. I think that’s why I’m the way I am about snakes, and lizards, and stuff like that. It gave him a huge thrill to terrorize me.”

He goes to the fence and lowers the snake into the grass on his property. “All gone.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

“Any time. Just give me a holler. Or a panicky scream and obviously I’ll come-a-runnin’.” Oliver hesitates a moment. For a split second, I think he’s going to bring up the incident. Maybe tell me I’m not as vile as he thought.

“Enjoy your swim.” Or maybe he’s only going to tell me to enjoy my swim.

God, I miss his smile. His laughter. The way I felt when we were together.

I. Miss. Him. Does he miss me?

I’m so tempted to ask him to stay. But I don’t want to hear him tell me no. And I don’t want to see the look in his eyes that confirms how repulsive he finds me. “Yeah. See ya.”

As much as I love the contours of his sexy-as-hell back, I hate watching him go. Again.

I need a distraction. Girl time. Talking with chicks about dicks. The anatomical kind and guys who are jackasses.

I call Kristin but it goes to voicemail. “Hey, whore. I’m off today and tomorrow. I think it’s time we have another slumber party. Maybe order way too much takeout from Lazzario’s and absolutely drink too much wine. I’m inviting Jill too so give me a hollah and let me know if you can make it.”

A night with my gal pals. That’s what I need to take my mind off Oliver Thorn.

* * *

Jill opens the oven door and takes out the homemade bread sticks I made to go with our pasta takeout.

I couldn’t help myself. The baking bug bit.

“Lazarrio would beg you to come to work for him if he knew you baked bread sticks like these.”