“Then go home. Get some rest and ice your cooter.”
“Don’t say it so loud.”
He’s laughing again. “Sorry. Really, I am. Now go, get some sleep and have a good weekend.”
“You too.”
“Oh, I will. Adam’s sister’s husband’s family has a house in the Hamptons. We’re flying out right after work.”
“Classy. Sounds really fun though. I’m kinda jealous,” I lie. From what I know about that area—granted, it’s all from TV shows and movies—is that it’s too fancy for my liking. Feeling grateful for befriending my boss the week I started here, I go back to my desk, shut down my computer, and gather my things. I say bye to Mariah on my way out and consider calling Ben, but decide not to.
I don’t want to tell him why I’m leaving early, and I’d really like to go home and crash for a few hours before packing and getting dressed. Deciding to forego the rest of my coffee, I get into bed right away.
*
Four-and-a-half hours later, I wake from my drug-induced slumber. After a long, hot shower, I feel completely better. I look better too, which is awesome.
I get my packing done in under an hour, set things up for Ser Pounce to be alone all weekend (I need to remember to shut the windows and turn the AC on before I leave so the kitty doesn’t cook in case it gets hot), and call Ben. His phone rings but goes to voicemail. I leave him a message, sure he’s busy painting or sculpting or talking to people who come in to buy his expensive work, and go into the kitchen.
I need to make something to bring to the cookout, and I’ve been too lazy to go grocery shopping this past week. Lazy, and distracted with Ben. I have a lot of apples. I could make apple pie. That’s easy and tasty.
I preheat the oven and start making the crust. It has to chill for a while, and I rationalize that I should probably finish the open bottle of moscato in the fridge so it doesn’t go bad by the time I get back from the weekend getaway. I pour myself a big glass and sit at the island, scrolling through Facebook and Pinterest for half an hour before getting up to slice the apples.
The oven has been on for way too long now, and the kitchen is hot. I twist my hair up and use a pen to secure it in a bun. I’m sweating by the time I get the pie in the oven. My phone rings as I go around closing windows to turn on the air.
“Hey,” I say to Ben. “How are you?”
“Better now.” He sounds like he’s smiling. “How’s work?”
“I got out early,” I tell him. “On good behavior. What about you?”
“I’m finishing up at the gallery. I need to shower. I’m covered in paint.”
“I think you look rather good covered in paint.”
He laughs. “That’s good, because I am most of the time.”
“You can come over earlier if you want,” I say. “I’m packed. I just need to shower again because I’m hot and sweaty.”
“And why are you hot and sweaty?” he asks, voice seductive.
“I made apple pie.”
A moment of silence goes by. Then Ben asks. “Is that a sex reference?”
I almost choke on my wine. “I can totally see how it could be interpreted that way, but I actually made apple pie. My kitchen gets hot when I use the oven. Curse of a small house, I guess.” I look at the timer. “It’ll be done soon-ish. Do you want to come over and enjoy a slice of my pie? And that is a sex reference. But you can eat real pie too. I made it to take with us to my parent’s, but it smells too good not to eat now.”
“Yes,” he says right away. “Give me like an hour. I still have to pack a bag. Then I’m going to have a slice of your pie. Maybe two.”
“Or three.” I drink the rest of my wine. “See you soon.”
“Bye, Felicity.”
I hang up with a smile. My mission this weekend is to find out what exactly Ben considers me, because I really want to be his girlfriend. There’s still a stupid part of me that’s nagging about how he’s not “my type” and is totally out of my league. Not wanting to think about it, I quickly rinse off in the shower and put on a bit of makeup. I pull on a blue cotton dress—comfy for traveling—and put a pair of Toms by the door next to my bag and my purse.
There. I’m ready. Mom will be proud of how light I packed. Though realistically, I’ll be in my bathing suit most of the weekend on the boat. I don’t need much. I sit in the living room, sprawled out on the couch, enjoying the cool air rushing down on me from the ceiling fan, and watch reruns of Supernatural until Ben gets here.
“You look pretty,” he says when he steps inside. “I like the darker hair.” My arms go around him, and I pull us together. Being away for a few days reminded me how much I love being together.