I sink onto the porch swing with my coffee. I check my phone and smile when I see I have a new Random message from my favorite animated text buddy.
I’m not sure what to think about this tug I feel in my chest every time I hear from her. I never expected to connect with anyone on this app, but I actually look forward to talking to her.
ItsyBitsy123: Good morning, handsome. I’m running late today, but I logged on here anyway. What can I say? You’ve made a monster out of me. Anyway, I’m sitting here in PJs, still half asleep, and instead of finding a sweet message from you, I see this message from some other dude: “S’alright if you’re ugly, darlin. I won’t be looking at your face when I slide it in your ass.”
If you weren’t gracing my account with your sweetness, that might just be it for me. Messages like that are the reason hetero women adopt thirteen cats and swear off men.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for couples communicating their sexual wants and needs, but “you’re ugly but I’d still fuck your ass” seems like a strange jumping-off point. Whatever happened to the old-school romantics? You know—the ones who buy you a drink and lie to you about your beauty before informing you which holes they plan to stick it in. I know, I know, picky bitch.
Heading out now. XoxoHeading out where, I wonder. I don’t even know where this woman works or what she does for a living, but I’m not ready to make it real by asking. For all I know, she could be Hope’s preschool teacher or the barista who always remembers my order at the café by the office. I’d rather we remain anonymous until this fling with Stella runs its course.
I want to say the right thing in my reply. Sure, Itsy was sharing to give me a good laugh, but she was also showing me this vulnerable part of her. Telling me about the jerk who messaged her could’ve been her way of explaining she’s been hurt before.
I’m still grinning at my phone and contemplating my response when Stella pulls into my driveway. I stand and wait on the front of the porch to greet her as she climbs out of her car. It’s twenty past eight, and she looks like she can barely keep her eyes open. She’s in frayed jean shorts and a wide-necked black T-shirt that falls off one shoulder. Her red hair is piled into a messy bun on top of her head, and yesterday’s makeup is smudged around her eyes. She’s so fucking beautiful.
Guilt is a wrench tightening my gut. I’m staring at her, wanting her, right after Itsy shared something private with me. I’m not sure I’ll ever be comfortable talking with one girl while messing around with another. Being honest isn’t enough. I’m going to have to figure out what I want, and fast.
Stella yawns as she climbs the front steps. “I would do dirty, dirty things to you for a cup of that coffee,” she says, and all thoughts of guilt fly from my mind as I bite back a groan.
After all, “dirty things” was the plan until Smithy showed up on my doorstep at seven a.m. “No dirty favors necessary.” I open the front door for her and nod toward the kitchen. “Help yourself.”
“You sure?” She waggles her brows. “Give me cream and sugar, and I’d even play patty-cake.”
I freeze. I’m going to kill those fucking assholes. “Do I have Smithy or Dean to thank for that little jab?”
“Only yourself, GoodHands.” She winks at me. “Give me some credit. I can be clever.”
Nope. Murder is too kind. Whichever one of my dickwad friends is responsible for this deserves torture.
I follow her inside and watch as she pours herself a cup of coffee and doctors it with cream and sugar. The contents of her mug are a light beige by the time she brings it to her lips. She moans around the first sip, and then the second.
My breath hitches. Pull it together, Matthews. “Good news or bad news first?”
“Good, please.”
“I have an extra set of hands helping me today, meaning the pool house will be that much closer to finished by the weekend.”
She narrows her eyes. “And the bad news?”
“Kace!” Smithy calls from the back door, as if on cue. “Get your ass out here.”
I grimace. “Smithy is that set of hands, and he’s already here. So plans have changed a little.”
She takes another sip of her coffee then sweeps her tongue across her bottom lip in a way that makes all the blood rush south of my belt. “No begging?”
Slowly, I trail my gaze down her neck, over her bare, freckled shoulder, and down to her thighs. “I didn’t say that.”