Sexy Curves
I grit my teeth and breathe through my nose. I used to take these missives in my stride. Today, I’m a bit over them. And somehow dirty having to wade through other people’s sexual foibles.
Hm. How do I say your boyfriend sounds like a sick fuck who doesn’t care about your cholesterol level?
Before I can put finger to keys, a loud thud on my front door makes me jump.
“Jess!” Knock, knock, knock. “Jess. Hay-gen. Open up!”
That sounds like Keats. Shit. How did he get up here? I didn’t buzz him up. I’m so not dressed for this. I quickly turn off my tablet, setting it down on the table next to the photo frames I’ve just filled. I retrieve my skirt from the back of the dining chair. I need a shower. My apartment is a mess. My hair is windblown and up in a top knot that puts me well over six feet.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Hay-gen!”
Keats better be wearing a Velcro-fastened police costume, and faking annoyance so he can strip for me. Otherwise, he’s just being a pain in the arse. I’m just going to open the door a crack, ask him what the hell he wants and tell him to go away. He needs to learn that he can’t just march himself here at any time—unless it’s for a booty call. If he’s expecting civilised interaction, I need warning to tidy up.
I straighten out my skirt, undo the bun on my head, then turn the handle on my door. “What?”
He takes a half-step back when he sees me, his fist still poised for another pounding on my door. How shocking do I look?
“Good, you’re home.” He clears his throat. “Can I come in?”
He’s wearing his usual uniform—tailored suit, slim fit business shirt and tie. Hot, but not the cop outfit I was just fantasising about.
“No.”
The slightest of frowns flits across the great Keats McAllister’s features.
“I…” He’s lost for words?
“Okay. Bye.” I’m smiling as I close the door, but it jams on me.
“Ow! Fuck.”
I look down and see one of Keats’ Italian leather shoes wedged between my door and the frame.
“You’re worse than the electricity sales people.” I grudgingly open the door further and let him in. “You’ve got five minutes, I’m busy.”
Where did that come from? I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I think about him all the time whenever he’s not around. So why am I threatening to chuck him out? Oh right, I look like a mess and the shorter the time he sees me like this, the more likely he is to forget it.
I see his eyes flick over my chest and notice my bra hanging off the back of a dining table chair. Drats. How can I forget to put that on? I bet my girls are sagging like flour sacks. I cross my arms in front of me and he seems to remember that I told him he has to go soon.
“So, what brings you here?” I prompt.
“Well, funny thing. I was working late at the office and I go check my Facebook for some sanity and you’ll never guess who I got a friend request from.”
I’m drawing a blank. Isabella? I thought they were already Facebook friends. A Nigerian prince?
“My mother,” he answers for me while my mind is still ticking away and providing possibilities. “Except it wasn’t ‘Heather McAllister’ inviting me, it was ‘Heather Radley’. With cleavage. Do you know how disturbing it is for a son to see his mother’s cleavage? What the fuck, Hay-gen? She was normal when she left with you yesterday morning and now she’s all tarted up with dark hair, make up and way too much skin showing on Facebook.”
“Heather’s got her page up? Great. I told her it wasn’t difficult.” I walk back towards the table to get my phone.
Keats looks at me as if I’ve grown a third nipple on my forehead. “Didn’t you hear what I said?”
“Yeah, I did. I didn’t think your mad, overprotective ramblings warranted a response.”
“She’s showing cleavage, Hay-gen.” His eyes flick over to mine again when he says this. I actually see him catch himself this time and look away, running fraught fingers through his short, business-cut chestnut hair. “What have you done to her?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t play dumb with me. I heard you two on the phone giggling away at ten-thirty last night. What the hell was so funny?”
“We were watching Survivor.”
He raises a brow at me. “The reality show? Isn’t that some kind of cutthroat competition?”
“Uh-huh.”
How do I tell him his mother and I were perving at the contestants? She likes the dopey middle-aged returning contestant, and I have a thing for the twenty-four-year-old guy who looks like Jesus.
“This is crazy. My mother is fragile right now. The divorce eviscerated her, and the last thing she needs is to put herself out there before she’s ready. If you’re trying to play the ‘BFF with Mom’ card as some ploy to get Byron, I’m telling you now, it’s not going to work. His ex-girlfriend Jada already tried that.”
I flinch—his words like a bitch slap right across my cheek. “Your time just ran out.” The catch in my voice surprises us both. He studies me and I avert my eyes because there is unexpected moisture there. Shit. When did I get so emotional? Probably the same time I let my guard down and started caring about somebody again. I walk over to my dining table and busy myself putting away what I’d been working on.
“Hay-gen, I’m sorry.”
“Piss off, Keats.”
But he doesn’t. Instead he busies himself by helping me pick up the little pieces of photo paper that I’ve cut off to fit the photos in the frames I’d bought during my lunch break today.
“What’s this?” he asks, picking up a long, narrow frame with three small windows for passport-size
