“Good girl,” I murmur, in part just to see her smile and flush. “The other thing, and I’m sorry to have to say this, but I take my health and the health of my partners very seriously. You need to see a doctor and get tested.”
The bright blood drains out of her cheeks. “I, um, did that already. Before I came here. Last week, I mean.”
She tries to reach into the bag at her feet without setting down her tea and nearly drops the cup. I take it from her and set it on the table. She fumbles a folder out of her bag and drops it in front of me like it’s scalded her.
I flip open the folder and quickly scan through the report. “Jane Smith, huh?”
“Sorry, I can prove it’s me. I have the receipt.” She begins to fumble in her bag again.
I hold up a hand to stop her. “I believe you.” I understand why she’d want the tests to be anonymous. I don’t believe the HIPAA hype, either. After I take in her vitals, current lack of communicable diseases, although she’s had chlamydia once, family history of dementia, personal history of self-harm and depression, and the fact she has a birth control implant, I flip the folder closed and pass it back to her. Then I take out my wallet and hand her my card.
She turns it over and reads the details several times, her eyes flicking back and forth, before handing it back.
“You memorized it?” I ask. That was quick.
“Do you want to quiz me?”
Oh, that pert tongue. We’re going to have such fun.
“No. Send me an email when you get home and I’ll respond with a contract and my address. Give me your number now so can call you later.”
I take my phone out of my shirt pocket, tap it on and create a new contact for her: “Kitty.”
She reels off her number. I type it in, show it to her to check it, pop her a text so she can add me as a contact, and put the phone away.
“Finished your tea, sweetheart?”
She picks up her cup, takes two swallows and puts it down empty. Her economy makes me smile. I take her hand and lead her out of the coffee shop.
“Can I get my books?” she asks as we walk through the exhibition halls.
“Sure.” I change course back to Hall B. “Do you have a way home?”
She nods. “I drove here.”
“You’re okay to drive?”
She tips her head to the side and looks up at me with a quirky little smile. “Yes, sir.”
When we reach her table, I’m pleased to see her books still there. I hold them for her while she tucks them into her bag. Then I help her fold up the tablecloth and put that away, too. Her bag’s bigger than it looks. Maybe she has an undetectable extension charm on it. That thought makes me grin, and remembering her quirky smile, I ask, “What was that funny smile, baby doll?”
She puts her hand over her eyes. “It’s embarrassing, sir.”
Those are the best stories. “Tell me anyway.”
She bites her lip before she says, “It was a couple of years ago. I’d been caned on the soles of my feet and they swelled up. I couldn’t wear my shoes and I couldn’t bear the pressure of the foot pedals on my bare feet. There was a Walmart near the party, so I limped into Walmart and bought flip-flops so I could drive home. I was barefoot and wearing this terrible vinyl dress I’d worn to the party and my hair was a mess and all I could think was that I was going to end up on YouTube. You know those ‘People of Walmart’ videos? So, yes, I’m fine to drive and at least I don’t have to stop at Walmart today.”
That sets me laughing. I can just see her limping through Walmart. “I won’t do anything to you that’ll end up on YouTube,” I promise her.
“Thank you, sir.”
Once her stuff is packed away, we stand by her table. The moment stretches awkwardly. It’s goodbye for now. We both know it, but neither of us wants to say it.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” I offer. “Unless you want to stay for the speed dating.”
“Definitely not,” she says emphatically.
I chuckle and take her hand, leading her away from the table and toward the exit. “Is it really that bad?”
“Yes. Four minutes to try to figure out if your kinks match and if you’d have anything to talk about beyond the weather? The best of the worst from the last time was the guy who messaged me and asked if I would send him a picture of me peeing. It was . . . great.”
I like her sarcasm. “Hence, no bathroom play.”
“Hence no bathroom play,” she repeats. “Pretty sure that guy did not know what ‘hence’ means, or how to use it in a sentence.”
“Now, baby doll, so judgmental.” At her incredulous glance, I laugh. “Okay. Speed dating’s out.”
“So, so out.”
“And the online thing?”
“It was good, for a while. I could connect with anyone anywhere in the world who shared my kink. I had some great conversations, met people I’m still friends with, and learned a lot, but it’s not the same. I want to be topped again. Physically.”
I pause at the outer doors to the conference center and look down at her. I tap the tip of her nose with my forefinger. “Pretty sure I can help you with that.”
She smiles up at me. “Yes, sir.”
Chapter Two Emily
He had me at “smart woman.”
Everything after that: the negotiation, the audition in the bathroom, I didn’t need any of it. I already knew. And I’m pretty sure he knew, too, or he wouldn’t have approached me. Logan’s a man who knows his own mind.
But as soon as I climbed in my car and drove away, the voice started. The Hateful Internal Monologue,
