“Only if I’m deep inside you,” I mouth.
Truly’s eyes simmer. “You’re not going to be inside me.”
“Then you’re not going to call me Wilbur.”
Nora returns with a silver hair clip. “Let me just do this. If you like it, I’ll show you how, and you can do it tonight, okay? Personally, I like wigs, but the idea is the same. A new hairstyle can make you feel like a whole different person. It’ll help you get into character.”
She threads her hands through Truly’s hair, fashioning it into a French twist, and . . . wow. Truly looks . . . just wow. Her neck is divine and begging me to kiss it.
Be good. She’s your best friend’s sister. She’s your friend. And you need this job badly to help Abby.
But that neck. I want to get my mouth all over it. I want to inhale her. Devour her.
Truly gestures to her new ’do. “What do you think?”
I think my mouth is dry. I think I can’t form words without gravel in them. But I find my voice, answering her as nonchalantly as I possibly can, given the hard matters south of the border. “I think down works fine.”
Nora gives a dismissive grunt. “Fine? Fine is for peanut butter sandwiches. You look delicious like this. Like a strawberry cupcake. Ooh, one more thing. What’s your job, if someone asks? You could be a banker, all buttoned up. Or even a belly dancer. That’s exotic but believable. No one can call you on that.”
“I took a belly-dancing class once.” Truly wiggles her hips, then she snaps her fingers. “I know! I know what I want to do.”
She heads for her bedroom and returns wearing a pair of black glasses. “Costume glasses. You approve?”
“Of everything,” I say, picturing how all the pieces—dress, hair, hot-for-teacher glasses—will come together.
If I didn’t have a sexy librarian fetish before, I do now.
No, that’s not it. If I’m honest, I just have a Truly fetish, and it’s getting so damn strong I’d even be willing to let her call me Wilbur.
21
I see blue.
Gorgeous sapphire blue.
How is it possible that outfit looks even better now? Perhaps it’s the sunset, that golden hue that makes everyone and everything a little softer, a little closer to perfect. Or maybe it’s because I’ve been thinking of her all day. Thinking of her since I saw her try on that dress. Thinking of her taking it off.
Truly arrives before the ceremony as I’m waiting on the lawn at the inn in Connecticut.
Her chestnut hair is in a twist, black glasses frame her face, and that dress hugs her fantastic body. What was I thinking? I should have bought her sweatpants, and I mean real sweatpants, the elastic ankles kind, not those yoga pants that radiate sex. Or a sweatshirt, all bulky and frumpy.
Then again, I’ve seen her in a sweatshirt, and I still found her alluring, so it’s on me to keep my lust in check.
She reaches me, rises on her tiptoes, and dusts a soft kiss to my cheek. “Hi, Jay.”
That’s not helping. I go up in flames. The temperature in me shoots up like I’m a space capsule reentering the atmosphere, radio signal lost, heat shield threatening to melt. This woman has my number. She is so fucking sexy, but I can’t let it distract me . . . because it’s expensive to teach Abby about the brachial plexus and solar plexus and whatever—screw all those bundles of neurons. All my nerves are unraveling for her.
“Hi, Julie.”
She shoots me a naughty grin. “Or should I call you Wilbur?”
“You know my conditions on that.” And maybe because she called me Wilbur, maybe because she looks good enough to undress, eat, and worship all night long, and maybe because resisting her is exhausting, I give myself a little leeway.
She’s my date, after all. Might as well enjoy the perks. I slide my arm around her waist.
Her reaction? Priceless. She trembles as I touch her. “Nice glasses. So glad you could make it, Julie.”
“Good to be here, Jay.” She sounds breathless, and for a split second, it feels like we’re the only people here, especially with our role-play.
With my arm still around her waist, I return the favor from the other night when she slipped her hands into my jean pockets. I let my palm slide down to her ass. I give the slightest of squeezes, enough to elicit a hitch in her breath.
“Behave,” she warns, shooting a stern stare over her lenses. But she wriggles against my hand, seeking out the curve of my palm.
I groan. “I’d tell you to behave too . . . but I don’t want you to.”
“We’re supposed to be good.” Wriggle, wriggle. “We’re in the friend zone.” She presses a little harder, a little more firmly into my hand, and the heat shield burns through, melting away.
I slide my fingers lower, teasing at the line—that absolutely delicious line—where her ass meets her leg. Ah, yes. I do enjoy where the tailbone is connected to the leg bone.
“If this is the friend zone, I’d like to live here.” I squeeze her ass, and a gust of a sigh rushes from her lips.
Too bad we’re surrounded by people.
Those people include my client, who’s rushing across the grass, looking dapper in his tuxedo. He pumps Truly’s hand. “You must be Julie.”
“And you must be Chip. I’ve heard so much about you. It’s a pleasure.”
“And you as well. Thank you for being here.” He turns to me. “And you. Without you, I wouldn’t be able to give Ashley the wedding she’s always dreamed of. Though, in all fairness, I should thank my ex-girlfriend. If she hadn’t dumped me for some other guy, I wouldn’t be here. I should send her a thank-you note.”
