“It’s, um, very red,” she agreed, drinking half the glass in one long sip. Her hair was down and flowing tonight, framing her face with soft curves that mirrored her body. Casual, in a simple v-neck pink sweater, low-rise jeans that made his hands itch to grab that voluptuous ass, and with a tentative, but guarded, approach that made him want to reassure her, Mike wasn’t sure how the night would end but he did know one thing:
He and Dylan were going to pull out all the stops to encourage Laura to take a giant, unconventional leap.
Even if it meant—
His fingers slid over her forearm, the touch soft and reassuring, meant to get her attention—not her arousal. He nodded toward the living room. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Laura had a way of tipping her eyes up first, eyebrows hitching up slightly, then bringing her entire face into the light—Mike’s light, that is, given his height—that was so endearing his heart felt like it blossomed, a lotus flower of love. Love? Where’d that come from? His conscience panicked.
“Sure,” she said, eyebrows furrowed now. He didn’t want to worry her. In fact, what he was about to say was all about getting her to relax. He compared what he was wearing to Dylan’s flour-coated polo shirt, jeans, and bare feet. On balance, he’d done fine after changing three times—a simple blue button down and his most comfortable jeans seemed to fit in. Spending so much time worrying about little details was, at best, nothing more than angst and nothing less than an exercise in occupying his scrabbling mind.
Either this would all work out or it would just fall apart. And either way, he had to find peace with the outcome.
She leaned against the arm of the deep, scarred leather couch, a couch made shiny from too many hours of his and Dylan’s asses being planted on it, watching some sports game (Dylan) or a quirky documentary (Mike). Jill’s butt had left its considerably smaller imprint, too, for she had tortured them with her Christopher Guest obsession until Mike had finally gotten it—and loved those movies, too.
Shaking his head slightly, he willed himself back to the present, where Laura’s perplexed look was shifting, microsecond by microsecond, into wariness. No, no, no—not what he was going for.
“I just wanted to say, first, that we’re really glad you came tonight.” The skin between her eyes wrinkled with something other than a smile.
She looked up and simply said, “Thanks.”
“And Laura, I—this is awkward, but I want to say it. There are no expectations tonight.” His words had the opposite effect as his intent, her body bristling, eyes shifting away from his. Damn it! “I mean, Dylan and I—we just want this to be a simple dinner. No expectations.”
“You mean no assumptions.” Her voice was hard. Cold. Closed off. She nailed Ice Queen, that’s for sure. It made the awkward teen in him come out, his voice shifting up.
“I just—I mean—I,” he choked out. Fuck. This wasn’t how he meant it!
“Mike,” she said, interrupting him. “When you tell me there are ‘no expectations’ what you really mean is that normally you and Dylan would want sex. Expect sex. But you’re— what? Being kind and letting me off the hook tonight?” She searched the room, looking for something, and then her head froze. Her purse. She was looking for her purse.
Ah, fuck. Mike had driven her to leave by trying so hard, with good intentions, to put her at ease.
Once again, his plans destroyed everything. This wasn’t really happening, was it? In horror he watched as she handed him her glass of red wine and walked to the couch where her purse sat.
Dylan appeared in the doorway, mouthing “What the fuck?” to Mike as Laura turned her back to them, pausing with her hand inches from her purse strap.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. Turning toward them her eyes widened at the sight of Dylan, who now wore half a pound of flour in his hair and on the front of a bright red apron he’d donned. It even sprinkled the tops of his toes, giving him a disheveled, slighty-nuts chef look that made Mike wonder whether Laura noticed.
“Guys, we need to talk.” She picked up her purse and sat down, plunking it in her lap, then cocked one eyebrow at Dylan’s appearance, a hint of a smile spreading her lips. Good. Good. Mike let out a rush of air; he’d been holding his breath without realizing it, as if that could stop time. Or, maybe, prevent him from bungling this. Too late for both.
“I don’t have anything to lose here, so I’m just going to say this.” She paused, eyes rolling up and to the left, as if rethinking something. “Well, I have plenty to lose,” she muttered, “but pride can be rebuilt.”#p#分页标题#e#