“It’s a date.” I turned away and caught the look that passed between Aaron and Chelsea. “What?”
“You guys are obnoxious,” Chelsea intoned. “Seriously obnoxious. You have an old maid and a heartbroken handyman as an audience. Can’t you at least pretend to hate each other?”
“We hate each other on Wednesdays,” Easton informed her, his face earnest.
“It’s true,” I chimed in. “It lasts all day. It’s on the calendar and everything. It culminates in hate sex, where we shout really mean things at each other during the act.”
“I insult her life choices,” Easton added in.
“And my friends,” I contributed, pulling on a nude slingback that would be kicked off the minute I got into the car.
“She has really shitty friends,” he agreed. “Especially the rich blonde with the nice ass.”
Chelsea spread her arms. “Hey, I’ll take a compliment any way I can get it. Double H, you got your stuff packed? I emptied out my trunk if you need me to take a load.”
“Double H?” Easton raised a brow.
“Heartbroken Handyman?” I guessed.
“Seriously, no one picked up on my take a load comment?” Chelsea glared at us.
“Yeah, I’m not down with Double H,” Aaron remarked.
“It could be Handsome Handyman,” Chelsea amended.
Or Hung Handyman. My mind seemed to be the only one that dipped into that gutter. I swallowed the suggestion, along with the visual image of his cock, jutting out from my hand, side by side with Easton’s. Horny Handyman. Another moniker I should probably keep to myself.
“I’ve got to run,” I said quickly, wanting to change the subject before Chelsea’s mind followed the same path. “Aaron, will you lock up Wayland when you leave?”
He nodded, and our eyes met for one brief unfiltered moment. He smiled, and some of my nerves calmed. “No problem.”
I gave Chelsea a hug and grabbed my purse and cell. “See ya guys later.”
A chorus of goodbyes sounded, and I escaped through the formal living room and to the front door. Opening the heavy oak number, I let out a breath of tension.
The morning after and walk of shame had gone, all in all, surprisingly well.
My open house was at an ugly home built in the seventies, back when flat roofs, low ceilings, and wallpaper were all the rage. I stood in a cramped kitchen that still had the original stove and hunched over my planner, making a list in the neat penmanship that consistently earned me the boring job of addressing wedding invitations.
I had decided, mid-Miami traffic, to organize the post-threesome jumble of emotions in my mind into a list. I stared down at the page and added a decorative flourish to the top Pros and Cons header.
I considered adding “of a threesome” to the heading, but wasn’t confident in my ability not to misplace my planner at some point in time. The bulky organizer had been a gift from my mother, and included a section for article clippings (didn’t Pinterest replace those?), my calendar (pathetically empty), contacts (mildly full), inspirational quotes (still blank), and photo sleeves. She’d pre-filled the photo sleeves with pictures from family gatherings, my sister’s new baby, and a wedding photo of Easton and me. The spiral-bound book weighed three pounds, which didn’t sound like a lot, but was the probable cause of a pinched nerve in my right shoulder.
I glanced around the quiet house, the lights already turned on in every room, the air conditioner set to a crisp 71 degrees, discreet air fresheners plugged in every room. I sniffed. They weren’t quite doing their job. I could smell the cigarette smoke hanging in the air, despite my seller’s reassurances that they had “never, honestly Elle, NEVER” smoked in the house.
I returned to my list. In the PROS column, I had three items listed.
It was hot
Made me feel sexy
Grew closer to E
I added “fantasy and role-play fodder” to the list, thinking of the nights before the threesome, where Easton had whispered the filthiest things in my ear, egging on my orgasms as he’d grown harder.
Now that it was over, I was curious how much it would be discussed. Would he bring it up during sex? Whisper things in my ear during parties? I straightened a stack of folded red dishtowels and reconsidered the list, adding very before the word hot.
It had been very hot. The hottest experience of my life, and I’d been a very satisfied wife already.
The front door creaked open and I stuck my pen in the planner and shut it. Leaving the bulky binder on the counter, I strode around a yellow four-top dining table and moved into the living room.
“Good morning,” I said brightly, smiling at the woman who moved cautiously into the home, her purse clutched in front of her stomach with both hands.
I immediately pegged her as a one-time looker. She probably lived on the street and was curious about the inside of her neighbor’s home. I couldn’t blame her. Easton and I had practically sprinted over to the broker’s open for the Maxwell mansion at the end of our street. I’d been burning with curiosity over the elusive couple who had a Rolls tucked in their garage and two security guards stationed at their gate.