Strong Suit: A Birthday Suit short story Page 2

  My boss taps the door to my office. “Idea,” he announces.

  I turn around and wave at the man the other ladies call Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome. They might as well add “Unavailable” to his business card, because Leo wears unattainable like a cologne. Works for me, since we’re friends and only ever will be buds. I have this crazy hunch he’s still carrying a torch for a woman from his past, but he doesn’t like to talk about mushy stuff, so I don’t prod too much about the woman named Lulu. A woman I’ve noticed him looking at pictures of on his phone now and then. “Hey, Leo. What ideas are rattling around in that big old brain of yours?”

  He strokes his chin. “What’s rattling is this. The Big Chocolate Show is coming up soon.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  I raise my hand like I have the answer in class. “That we’re going to gorge ourselves on chocolate to successfully achieve the nirvana state known as a chocolate coma?”

  He taps his skull. “You can indeed read my mind. Because I do fully expect us to sample as much as we possibly can.”

  I pat my stomach. “I’m in. I’m awesome at chocolate sampling. You ever need help with that, you call on me.”

  “You’re the only one I would ever call on.” He clears his throat. “But in all seriousness, what I was really thinking was at the show we should look for the next rising star.”

  I bounce on my toes at the prospect of finding a top chocolatier to design a line of craft chocolate for Heavenly. “Yes, that was actually the real mind meld that I was receiving from you. Brilliant idea, and I’m going to be on the lookout.”

  That’s what I focus on this afternoon: devising a strategy for the upcoming trade show. I don’t at all think about the young, sexy, muscular, perfect-bodied, Michael Peña look-alike who tried to make an electric toothbrush is like a vibrator joke.

  I might, though, use one of those devices tonight while thinking about him—and it’s definitely not the electric toothbrush.

  The next day, in the break room, I find Noah digging into a kale salad.

  That’s a sign right there. I despise kale, and Noah likes it.

  All I have to do is focus on things I dislike, and I’ll get rid of my desire for him.

  I mime gagging.

  3

  Noah

  I take the bait.

  “Hmm. I get the feeling you’re trying to say you don’t like kale? Is that what you’re saying, Gin-meister?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Noah, no one likes kale.”

  I stand tall and proud in front of the podium in kale defense. “Not true. I love it, love it, love it. Like adore it. I think it’s one of the greatest foods ever.”

  She shoots me a skeptical look. “That’s not possible.”

  “No, it is possible. See?” I take another bite and I chew, smiling and humming as I go. Oh, that was a bit of a mistake, because kale definitely takes a couple of years to chew through, and that’s going to make it harder for me to talk, and talking is absolutely one of my strong suits when it comes to Ginny. Except it’s also my wild card still, because what if I say something that turns her off? Screw it. I’m the eternal optimist, so I choose to believe everything will all be good. “I love kale, and I bet you can too.”

  “But you’re a health nut,” she says. “That means you have to love it.”

  “By virtue of being a card-carrying eater of veggies and protein?”

  “Yes, you’re a flag-waving member.”

  “Ha, you said ‘member.’”

  She laughs.

  Like I said, the mouth is a wild card. “And kale is delicious.”

  “Maybe to someone who never eats chocolate,” she suggests, her brow furrowing. God, she’s adorable when she argues. She gets a little crinkle between her eyebrows that I want to run my finger over, that I want to press my lips against, that I want to kiss.

  And I officially have it bad for this woman if the crinkle in her forehead gets me excited. “I bet you’ve never had a roasted sesame seed kale salad, have you?”

  She pretends to wretch.

  “How about kale mixed with brussels sprouts and lemon?”

  She clutches her stomach. “Are you trying to make it sound as awful and miserable as possible?”

  I laugh. “Ginny, you don’t know what you’re missing.” When it comes to kale and men.

  “I am definitely not missing kale.”

  I set down my salad bowl, reach for her arm, and wrap my hand around it. She’s quiet at first, and so am I, because, hello, did I just kind of make a move by touching her arm? And does it actually feel better than how a hand wrapped around an arm should feel?

  She lets her eyes drift to my palm, and I swear she trembles slightly, a little shudder that makes me think she likes it when I touch her. Makes me want to go for it with her. It emboldens me.

  “Let me make you a kale treat,” I say in my best sexy voice.

  She smiles softly. Kind of sexy. A little sweet too. As I let go of her arm, her fingers trail down my wrist.

  Holy kale smoothie, she is flirting with me, and I have a leafy vegetable to thank.

  She pins her gaze on me, her eyes fierce, her expression playful. “Bring it on, Noah Rivera.”

  There. Right there. When a woman uses your full name, it’s definitely a sign. A sign of something good.

  So I keep it up. No need to stop the volley now. “And if I prove you like kale? What then? What happens if I win the great kale battle?”

  “It’s a contest?”

  “Hell yeah. Contests are awesome.”

  She laughs. “Fine. If I win, you have to make my next PowerPoint.”

  I scoff. She probably thinks it’s a punishment. Little does she know nothing gets me down, not even PowerPoints. I’m actually ridiculously good at them, and I tell her as much.

  “Ginny, I’m the master of PowerPoints. You can count me in.”

  “The master of PowerPoints, you say? Tell me what other talents you have. Can you fold laundry?”

  I puff out my chest. “I can fold laundry, I can do my own laundry. I’m fully house-trained,” I pause, then add, “in chores.”

  “Stop, Noah, you’re getting me excited.” Excited is exactly where I want her.

  “Chores get you excited?”

  “Chores are the way to my heart.”

  I decide to nudge open that door, leaning on my sexiest voice. “Would you let me do some chores for you?”

  She waves her hand in front of her chest, like she’s heating up. “Please. You can’t say such seductive things in the office,” she whispers.

  Then I kick the door, as if I’m doing just that. Seducing her. “Cleaning dishes. Mopping floors. Sweeping, dusting, even . . .” I pause, take a beat. “Vacuuming.”

  She lets out a gasp, like I’ve hit the jackpot.

  Then she schools her expression. “Anyway, enough about chores. I do have to go back to my desk and I can’t very well spend the whole afternoon thinking about chores, can I?”

  This woman. Damn. I want her. “I don’t see the problem with that. But what do I get if I win?”

  She tilts her chin, like she’s thinking. Her eyes flicker, the hint of a smile in them. “What do you want?”

  I strip away the teasing for a split second, dead serious. “I think you know what I want.”

  She swallows, looks away, then back at me, vulnerability in her eyes. “I do.” And her expression and tone shift once more to flirty. “How about you get the satisfaction of me liking kale?”

  Now that, that is definitely flirting. And I’m fully satisfied.

  That night, after I run ten miles and do a full circuit of weights at the gym, I research the best kale salads in New York City, because no way am I fucking this up by making it on my own.

  The next morning, on the way to work, I stop at a gourmet shop that is purported to have an incredible kale salad with sesame.

  At the office later, I find her in the cafeteria and
offer it to her for lunch.

  She arches a skeptical brow. “I won’t like this.”

  “I know. You won’t like it. You’ll love it.”

  She takes a forkful, chews, then stares daggers at me. “You tricked me.”

  I smile. “No trickery.”

  “This is bloody delicious.”

  “I told you so.”

  “But there’s no way you can top this.”

  “I so can.”

  “Why do you like healthy food so much? And exercise?”

  “Why? Because I want to live a long, healthy life, have a couple kids, and be around to play soccer with their grandkids too. That’s why.”

  Her eyes flicker with something new, something I haven’t seen in them before. “Is that so?”

  Her tone is a little less of the usual flirty and sarcastic. It’s almost like it’s been stripped bare.

  “That is very much so.”

  Her friend Julie joins her, so I return to my table. But I decide to have some more fun with the redhead, since she seems to like it so much. I ask the guy next to me for a sheet of paper from his notebook and a pen. I write in the middle of the paper. Then I fold it, give it some wings, and send it to her at her table. I watch as it soars, landing gently on Ginny’s tray of pasta.

  She seems surprised at first, then she looks up and notices me. I shoot her a grin. She smiles right back, and it sure looks as if she digs that I sent her this. That I’m not an annoyance to her, that she’s getting quite the little kick out of this strange flirtation.

  When she unfolds the wings, she grins. That sexy kind of smile. A little bit wicked, a little bit mischievous, something that tells me that maybe there are tingles running through her body.

  God knows I have way more than tingles—I’ve got a whole lot of lust rattling through me as I savor the view of Ginny Perretti opening my paper airplane and reading my note.

  “Satisfaction is coming.”

  4

  Ginny

  I shouldn’t have touched his arm in the break room.

  But who can blame me?

  The man is hella toned. His body is like a work of exercise art.

  Honestly, though, that’s not his biggest selling feature. I’d still like him if he was soft in the middle.

  Noah Rivera piques my interest for many other reasons. His persistence. His oddball humor. His zest for, well, everything.

  His big, crazy heart. My God, the man wants to have kids and grandkids, and wants to play with them.

  This is not fair.

  Still, I need to resist hot young things. I’ve been down this road before, and I don’t know that I want to travel it again and take a chance at being left high and dry.

  After I put my daughter to bed, I vow not to text him.

  Don’t respond to his paper airplane message.

  That’s what I’ve been trying to do all afternoon. All evening.

  Don’t respond, don’t give in, don’t do it.

  Two hours of Netflix bingeing later, I’m still resisting him.

  Though I have given in to my third glass of wine, turned on the scalding hot water in the tub, and run a bubble bath.

  Calgon, take me away.

  I sink down under the water with my phone on the ledge of the tub. One more sip of chardonnay.

  I picture Noah. Wonder what he’s up to. I linger on that word. Satisfaction. And as the water slip-slides around my naked body, I feel my resistance tiptoe out the door.

  Ginny: Satisfaction is coming? You don’t say. All from more kale?

  Noah: It was delicious, wasn’t it?

  Ginny: I’ll admit it was quite tasty. Just as I said earlier.

  Noah: Wait till tomorrow. I’ll have something even better for you.

  Ginny: Something better, you say?

  Noah: Does that pique your interest?

  I put my phone down so I don’t reply with something naughty like, say, You pique all sorts of parts.

  Just to be safe, I set the phone on the bath mat so I’m not tempted. But as I sink under the water, I replay our flirtations, our break room bump-ins, the little touches, and the paper airplane.

  My skin heats up, and it’s not from the water in the tub. It’s from the way he flirts with me, and from the way I like it more than I want to.

  5

  Noah

  The next day, I do it again. I find another shop, and I bring her another kale treat. I hand it to her in the break room.

  “What’s this?” she asks, as if she can’t possibly believe it could be food. She holds it between her fingers.

  I adopt my most serious tone. “We call that chocolate-covered kale.”

  She coughs. “Seriously? Are you trying to turn me off?”

  Ah, hell. I just can’t resist. I step closer. “No, I’m trying to turn you on. Don’t you get that by now?”

  She doesn’t say anything at first, and I freeze, worried I’ve crossed a line. But she dips a toe over it, whispering, “Are you?”

  “I definitely am.” I take a beat. “So, is it working?”

  She holds up a thumb and forefinger. “A little.”

  And I can work with a little. I can definitely work with that. “Excellent.”

  “Just promise me you won’t ever bring me a kale smoothie.”

  I raise my right hand. “I’m taking an oath. I’m not that cruel. But chocolate-covered kale is another story. Why don’t you try it?”

  She takes a bite, considering. “What do you know? I don’t think that’s half bad.”

  I pump a fist. “I knew I could convert you.”

  She arches a brow. “I’m not totally converted. Now, in the future if you want to spoil me, chocolate and wine are the way to go.”

  I pretend to type. “Filing that away.”

  Leo strolls by, and I straighten. So does Ginny, almost as if we’ve done something wrong, and we don’t want the boss man to catch us.

  I choose to take that as another good sign, so much that I drop off a square of chocolate on her desk before I leave. That night while I’m at the gym, she texts me.

  Ginny: Now that was even better than the chocolate-covered kale.

  Noah: Excellent. Did you finish all of it?

  Ginny: I did finish it. I’m quite good at finishing.

  Oh, that’s definitely a dirty euphemism.

  Noah: I’m quite good at finishing too.

  Ginny: What are you good at finishing?

  Noah: Whatever I set my mind to. I have excellent stamina. I’ve finished marathons. I’ve finished races. I can finish whatever I need to finish.

  Ginny: I love finishing.

  And I’m on fire. Because she is almost certainly, most definitely, 100 percent all but sexting with me.

  Noah: What are you going to finish right now?

  Ginny: I’m having a soak in the tub.

  Noah: You’re a mermaid, yowza. Do you have a bath bomb?

  Ginny: I bow to the inventor of bath bombs.

  Noah: Favorite kind?

  Ginny: Honeysuckle.

  Noah: Of course. And you smell like honeysuckle.

  Ginny: You’ve been sniffing me?

  No point lying now, so I tap out a reply as I climb the StairMaster.

  Noah: Yes. You smell incredible. Your scent is the perfect finishing touch.

  Ginny: All this talk of finishing reminds me that I ought to finish this bath.

  Noah: And after that, will you finish other things?

  Ginny: It seems possible.

  I stare at the phone as I climb, sweat slinking down my brow. Holy shit. She’s a dirty girl.

  We’ve jumped from electric toothbrushes to kale to wine to bath dirty talk, and I want to go over to her place right now and get in the tub with her, and I don’t even like baths. I mean, come on, baths are kind of dirty.

  I’m a shower guy. But a bath with Ginny Perretti? Hell yeah.

  6

  Ginny

  The next day I bang my head against t
he desk.

  Must. Stop. Flirting.

  I absolutely must. What is wrong with me?

  I can’t believe I got that bawdy last night. I can’t even blame the wine. Because I know better. I was supposed to focus on arguing with Noah, finding things I dislike, reasons we wouldn’t work, and instead I flirted with him yet again. I write my mantra down in my notebook.

  Must. Stop. Flirting.

  But I don’t follow my own commands.

  I keep arguing with him, like when I see him in the break room over the next week, and we debate who the best Bond is.

  I say Pierce Brosnan, he insists on Daniel Craig.

  We discuss when mason jars became okay for pretty much everything, and then we talk about murses. I don’t mind them, but he says no man should ever carry one.

  And he sends me more paper airplanes. Sometimes he writes funny words in them. Sometimes he’ll suggest a random topic he wants to debate the next day—why does honey belong in mustard but not ketchup?—and other times his paper airplanes are a little flirty.

  Every day, though, I find myself looking forward to these moments, and at the same time, I remind myself that getting involved with a young guy from work would be a huge mistake, and I don’t have room to make any.