The Pact(19)

So I started worrying. I started to think that maybe James had told Linden what had happened, perhaps twisting the story around to make it seem like I had seduced him and ruined our friendship, that now Linden was no longer allowed to talk to me out of solidarity, that everything had gone to shit.

But on Tuesday, Linden called me out of the blue asking if I wanted to see a movie with him and James and get a bite to eat beforehand. He apologized about the texts when I brought them up, but he said his phone had died and he’d literally been with Nadine for the last few days. Also, she’s an Android user.

He has an iPhone.

So do I.

They can’t use each other’s chargers. But we could. Not that that means anything.

I’m super on edge as Linden pulls the Jeep up to the curb. As I make my way down my steep driveway, the autumn heatwave coming back in and making me sweat in my olive leather buckle-boots (new to the store), jeans and dolman-sleeve top, I spy James riding shotgun.

This is going to be awkward.

To my surprise though, he gets out and flips back the passenger seat and climbs into the back, just as I get to the door.

“Thank you,” I tell him, trying not to study his face to see how he’s feeling and what, if anything, has changed between us.

“It’s cool,” is James’s response and it’s the same kind of response he would have given me last week, you know, before the sex.

Did that mean it is cool? Like, everything?

I get in and buckle up and look over at Linden.

He’s grinning at me, those dimples popping on his three-day old stubble on his face, his eyes twinkling in that Hollywood cowboy way that hinted he had a dirty secret life when the cameras weren’t rolling.

“Baby blue,” he says in that wonderful Scottish, panty-melting, how-am-I-so-lucky-to-hear-this accent. “Happy fucking birthday. I am so sorry I couldn’t be there.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him, patting his leg. “I’m just glad Nadine is okay.”

He winces and starts the Jeep. “It was a tough few days, that’s for sure. But she should be sent home tomorrow. She practically forced me to leave her side.”

I smile, despite this news. “Well, she’s smart. You need to relax so you can be at your best for her, and she needs to rest.”

Total bullshit but it sounds good and it seems to work on him because he nods. He eyes James in the rear-view mirror. “I hope you took care of our baby on her birthday.”

My eyes widen, just for a moment, and I know I’m holding my breath as I wait for James to say something, to ruin it all.

But James just says, “I did. Man, Linden, she’s a real pain when you’re not around.”

And then I know that everything is fine. Linden doesn’t know we slept together. James doesn’t hold any grudges. We were able to sleep together and move on. Everything is back to normal.

Everything is back to normal.

It’s too bad my normal now has Linden attached to someone with no appendix.

But I’m adult enough now to push that aside.



***



When a knock sounds from the storeroom door at fifteen minutes to ten (when I open), I can’t help the low growl that escapes from my lips. I’m always rushing around at this time of morning and rarely tolerate early customers hoping to jump the gun.

But when I look up from the cash float I’m going through, I retract that growl.

It becomes something more sexual instead.

There’s a male model outside my door.

At least, that’s what he looks like. In fact, I’ve never been so sure of someone’s occupation – or life purpose – in all my years.

I quickly glance at the ornate, jewel-lined mirror on the wall (just $325, get it while you can) and deduce that while I still have sleepy morning face, I don’t look half-bad. My hair was dyed an ombre color last week, platinum blonde up top with baby pink at the ends and all the spin-classes I’ve been doing to counteract my rapidly-expanding ass seem to give my face a healthy glow.

I walk over to the door and unlock it, opening it a crack.

“We’re not open for another fifteen minutes,” I tell the guy, my head craning back to stare at him.

Wide green eyes stare right back.

“Sorry,” he says, “I know I’m hella early but I just wanted a chance to talk to you before you opened.”

Hella, huh? He’s definitely a Nor Cal boy.

“Okay,” I say, making sure I’m not smiling like fool as I briefly take in his golden, lithe frame, the dark blonde hair that falls across his brow. He’s got a bit of a Chris Hemsworth meets Matthew McConaughey kind of vibe. “How can I help you then? We don’t actually carry men’s clothing.”