At this rate, the poor boy is going to swallow himself to death.
I know I have an effect on men, but Jesse makes me feel like Mata Hari herself. I wonder what secrets I could pry out of him via the art of seduction. Looking at him in that t-shirt and sweatpants, I wouldn’t mind taking a stab at it.
Francis be dammed.
At least until he decides he wants to be with me—and only me!—again.
“I should probably see about the mess in the hall before our neighbors catch it. Hold this gauze in place to curb the minimal bleeding before I wrap it.”
Before I can even respond, Jesse shoots up and stalks to the door, heading out into the hallway. He makes sure to leave the door ajar so he doesn’t lock himself out.
Always thinking ahead, that Jesse.
“My hero once again,” I whisper to myself with a smile.
Chapter Eleven Giuseppe
In the hallway, I grab the fallen box—the same one that I carried up to Honey’s place yesterday morning—and quickly grab up the empty bottles to toss inside.
The broken bottle shattered into mostly large pieces that are easily plucked up and thrown inside as well. There’s a tiny splatter of liquid that is barely noticeable against the dark industrial carpet.
As I work, I think about what just transpired in my apartment. The ache in my cheek fights a losing battle with the feel of Honey’s fingertips that still lingers against my skin.
Once again, I feel that surge course through my body, sending the blood rushing to the one area I wish I could somehow create a permanent detour from—at least when it comes to all things Honey Dewberry.
Even now, I can’t explain why I put up this mental block when I’m around her, tempering every part of my body’s natural instinct, from the begrudging smile she usually brings out in me to the fierce desire that the more base part of me succumbs to.
Screw that, I know exactly why I resist.
Since starting college, I’ve slowly transformed myself into this image of what I think I should be. The money I make, the clothes I wear, even working out each morning to defy the eventual middle-age spread that would reveal the slightest hint of failing at life.
All of it perfectly aligns with that image.
One that Honey Dewberry most certainly doesn’t fit into.
The constant pink, the flirting, the seemingly laissez-faire attitude toward everything, it’s a complete contrast to the staid and purposeful path I’ve taken in life. It’s a path that has gotten me to a point where I don’t have to worry about money, where I’m respected by my peers and “betters”, one where I can easily help my family, which is the most important thing to me.
Besides, I’m rational enough to realize that opposites don’t attract, and Honey and I are the very definition of opposites.
As I dump the bottles into the recycle chute, my mind circles back to Emily.
I just have to stay focused on her.
Something that’s becoming more and more difficult to do with the distraction currently lounging on my couch.
By the time I make it back to my apartment, I’ve almost forced myself to think of Honey as nothing more than a mere distraction. One that draws attention like a brightly-colored butterfly in a gray sky. Something I realize as my eyes are instantly captured by her in that spectacular dress that contrasts so fantastically against the dark, neutral colors of my apartment.
“What do you think? Am I the next Florence Nightingale?” she asks, raising the skirt of her dress enough to show a stretch of perfectly formed leg as she lifts her injured foot into the air.
I shift, strategically situating my hands so that I don’t embarrass myself with another half-erection like I did earlier while she searched for my keys.
“Mannaggia a te,” I curse to myself.
I can’t remember the last time I used the sparse bit of Italian I learned from my parents, even in my own head.
“It looks fine,” I say, casting a casual glance at the foot before averting my eyes to literally anything else in the room. “Let’s get it wrapped.”
I walk back to kneel and grab the roll of gauze, trying to stay focused on the work rather than the woman I’m attending to. Thank God she lowered that dress. The stretch of flawless skin, glowing like dark copper, she reveals up to the calf is bad enough.
“Did you at least enjoy the party? What little of it you saw, at any rate.”
“It was…fine.”
She breathes out a laugh. “I’d like to think I can do better than fine. Especially when it comes to love.”
My hand reflexively flexes as I hold onto the top of her foot to place the strip of gauze. “Your friend…Rose? And, er….Jerry? They mentioned someone named Francis. Was he the man in the white suit at the party?”
I don’t know why I’m asking. Maybe to take my mind off how nice her foot feels in my hand.
This time her laugh is louder.
“Oh no that’s Frankie Peck. Similar first names, completely different people. Even Rose and Jerome know better than to mix those two up. Frankie is a producer, not the wildly successful kind, but the kind that has ‘pet projects.’ Though there’s definitely some secret wealth there. He shields it with a delightfully mysterious pedigree and an equally ambiguous sexual orientation—perfect for the theater crowd. Don’t tell him I told you but the southern accent? Completely fake. I was the one who had to tell him that no one from Georgia, especially the upper crust of Savannah, would ever say ‘you guys.’”
She laughs again, as though the mix up is the height of hilarity.
But she hasn’t discussed the man I was actually interested in learning more about.
In my head, I’m simply attributing it to curiosity.
I don’t want to dwell on why I’m curious.
“And Francis?”
“Oh,” she says, going somber. “That one is complicated. Technically, he’s dating someone else
