The photographer happened to be a very beautiful forty-one year old woman that I’d been planning to ask out just as soon as I got over my general bad attitude towards getting back in the dating pool. We’d worked together a few months ago, on my headshot, and we’d sort of hit it off.
We’d bonded over the fact that we’d both just escaped from bad marriages.
This photographer, Lourdes, and I had done a bit of flirting, and it had been my impression that she might not be averse to dating me.
I had no intention of asking Lourdes out now, not after everything that had happened, but I still couldn’t stand to see her reaction to finding a girl like Iris ensconced in my house.
She’d think I was a creep and rightfully so. I was determined to avoid that. But how, well, that was beyond me. It wasn’t like I could kick Iris out, or even ask her to leave for a few hours. What would I say? What excuse could I make?
I finished showering and got dressed, in a foul mood.
I put on a deep navy suit with a dark gray dress shirt and a navy bow tie. I always felt a little smothered in suits, but I rarely had to wear them, so I couldn’t complain. This one had been picked for me, every piece of it, and sent to me by the magazine doing the interview piece, so I couldn’t even grumble about that.
She was stirring on the bed as I approached it.
“I, um, have a thing today,” I said awkwardly, completely lost on what to tell her. I had no idea how to navigate this. Above all else, I didn’t want her to think I was kicking her out of my house, even though I basically needed to and fast.
She blinked sleepy eyes at me, sitting up, the sheet wrapped around her na**d body. She took in my attire with a close, narrow eyed perusal. “Okay. I’ll grab my things and get out of your hair,” she finally said.
In terms of things she could say, that seemed at the top of the list of ones that worked in my favor.
Still, I felt like shit, and apparently I wasn’t in any mood to work in my own favor.
She hadn’t even asked for an explanation. But for some reason, I felt like I needed to give her one.
“I’m dressed like this because there’s a photographer coming over to take pictures for a magazine interview I’m doing next week.”
Her brows shot up, and she smiled. “That’s amazing.” She dropped the sheet, got out of bed, and moved into the closet, completely nude and comfortable with it.
I kept my distance. I didn’t even own the suit I was wearing, and I could see us getting it very dirty in a hurry. If I were smart, I’d have taken her quickly before I showered, at least tried to get her out of my system for the time she’d be gone.
I made my way into the doorway of the closet after one long minute of debating what to do.
She was still naked, and digging through her big yellow purse, and then the small suitcase she’d taken to bringing with her overnight.
No matter how I nagged, she still kept everything packed. She wouldn’t even hang up her nicer clothes. It was infuriating, but one thing I’d learned fast about Iris: she never gave in unless she wanted to.
I didn’t see what she pulled out of her bags, too focused on her bare skin, as she moved around on the floor.
It would be so easy to take her like that. Just a button and a zipper away. If I was very careful, I could keep my borrowed suit pristine, I told myself.
I adjusted myself, moving my errant erection carefully away from the front zipper of my slacks, intending to carefully set it loose from its suddenly tight confines. I squeezed my tip hard in an effort to get myself under control.
Iris straightened suddenly and caught sight of my dilemma. She grinned wickedly. “Should I be hurrying? What time will the photographer be over? Do you even have time for any of that?” She waved a hand at my crotch.
I shook my head, saying, “Maybe.”
She laughed. “What does that mean?”
I’d gotten myself dressed before I’d woken her for just this reason. I really didn’t have time. I’d used all of it up sleeping in too late. “She’ll be here in half an hour.”
She was studying my face with probing eyes, her expression closing off.
“And I need to be gone by then?” she asked very slowly.
I nodded, jaw clenched, hating the way she was looking at me.
“Well then, we really don’t have time. I’ll just need a minute.” She moved into the bathroom.
I counted to one hundred, watching the slightly ajar door.
She turned some music on, something on the old little iPod she carried around, I thought, since I recognized the song. It was one of the songs she played on repeat all the time, the one about the drunk chick waking up in the kitchen. She must have hooked it up to the small speaker in there, because it was blasting.
She was going to leave without another question, just like I needed her to, but it didn’t feel right.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I went into the bathroom and instantly regretted/loved it when I found her putting on makeup standing up, wearing nothing but a neon orange thong and those damned white gladiator sandals of hers, her body moving slightly to the beat, even while applying her mascara.
I pulled up a chair, watching her. I knew she’d get ready and go quickly. She never took long to go from looking naturally beautiful to utterly polished. She’d be out of here in ten minutes, tops.
I couldn’t stand it.
I sat and sulked, hands on my knees, stewing until I was close to boiling over.
“Why are you wearing those shoes at eleven in the morning?” I said loudly to be heard over the music. “And why so much makeup? Where are you planning to go?”
She took that little mascara brush thingie away from her lashes and met my gaze squarely in the mirror.
I looked away.
“I’d answer you, but unless I’m mistaken, you want me out of here before your photographer shows up. You don’t want her to see me, right?”
I swallowed, feeling thoroughly ashamed of myself. She’d grasped the situation right away and too clearly.
I felt like a scumbag.
It wasn’t that I was ashamed of her. Not her. Someone her age, though, yes, I was ashamed of that.
“It’s not you—” I began.
“It’s not you, it’s me? Is that what you were going to say? Are you asking me to leave here for good?”