Page 53 of Poetry On Ice
“No.”
“No?” He looks pained, bored, and something resembling amused. “You can’t just say no to things like that, McGuire. You have to give a reason or defend your opinion in some way. It’s a social norm.”
“Fine. No, I don’t want to do that because I don’t like interior designers, and I don’t like houses that look designer-y. I don’t like it when everything matches andlooks the same as other people’s houses. I want to choose a sofa that looks and feels right formyhouse.”
“It’s not that deep, McGuire. You need a sofa so people can sit their asses down when you’re entertaining, that’s all. Let Pam help you. She’s great.”
“Tell you what,” I say as the idea takes hold, “why don’t you help me? We can test drive a few sofas, find one I like, you can pay, and then you can take me for a hot chocolate afterward. You can pay for that too.”
“Absolutely not.”
The second he says it, it’s on. I can’t really explain it, but for some reason, it drives me wild when he gets difficult about things like this. When he tries to hold me at arm’s length, it causes a nuclear reaction in me. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up straight. It makes my cock stand up straight too.
I don’t know why it happens. It’s not really like me to be like this. Maybe it’s because it’s in such sharp contrast to the way girls usually treat me, and I’m not used to it?
Maybe he’s right, and I am reading too much into things today.
Either way, my mind is made up—Ant Decker is going to take me shopping if it’s the last thing he ever does.
I walk over to him, stopping only when I’m positive I’m crowding him. I can tell I am because he leans backagainst his car, shifting his weight from foot to foot, trying in vain to buy a little more distance from me.
“Didn’t take you for a guy who doesn’t pay his debts,” I say in a neutral tone that’s only purpose in life is to provoke him, “but I guess I could be wrong about you…”
There’s a heavy sigh and a hard, long eye roll. Begrudging doesn’t begin to describe his mood, and that fills me with joy. “I’ll pick you up at two-thirty.”
“Great,” I say. “It’s a date.”
His face drops. There’s pure panic in his eyes, and holy shit, I love it. “I-it’snota date.”
“Sure it is, baby.” I smile, batting my lashes and clenching my hands over my chest. “I can’t wait.”
22
Ant Decker
“I was right,” McGuiresays as he saunters to my car. He’s wearing pale denim jeans and his white puffer jacket. The jacket makes his skin look more tan than it is and his teeth whiter than they already are. It’s the last thing I need. “It’s definitely a date.” He rests an elbow on the open passenger window casually and leans his head in. “Know how I know?” I don’t answer, but that doesn’t seem to matter. “’Cause I changed my top twice before you got here, and I got butterflies when I heard the doorbell.”
My stupid belly erupts in a flutter of its own. They’re not my butterflies, okay? They’re his. I’m having sympathetic butterflies, for fuck’s sake.
It’s a thing. I’m sure it is.
I have less than no idea how to reply, and it feels like it’s my turn to talk, so I say, “Get your ass in here, Princess, before I change my mindabout this.”
He hops in and buckles, filling the small space with the smell of his hair.
“Don’t talk dirty to me.” There’s a husk in his voice. A soft purr. The kind of sound that spins around and around and burrows into my brain. It makes it so I can’t help but look at him. A hooded green gaze meets mine. It’s soft like his voice, but there’s a fine film of mischief, or mirth, draped over it. “I’m serious, Ant. Don’t, or I’ll come.”
I tear my eyes from his and stomp on the clutch. I shift the stick into first and then realize it’s too quiet. Dammit. I’m trying to drive without starting the car first. I scrabble, feeling around the steering wheel and center console, as I try in vain to remember where the hell the ignition button is.
Look, I have a lot of cars, okay? Ignition buttons are dotted all over these days. They’re in a different place in each vehicle. It’s not as easy as you might think to remember shit like this.
McGuire reaches out and takes my hand in his. A new burst of sympathetic butterflies is released, only partially tempered by humiliation, as he guides my outstretched finger to the ignition and presses it firmly.
I indicate and start driving, keeping my hands at ten and two and my eyes on the road.
I take him to Redmond Town Center. There are a few furniture stores that I like here, and I think the area meets the brief. He’s not impressed with the first store I take him to, but fortunately, he seems to like the next one. It’s a store that stocks Italian-made furniture and the sales assistant, Alessia, is Italian too. She exudes style from every pore on her body, and she’s a huge hockey fan. She’s very, very friendly. Maybe a little too friendly, if I’m being nitpicky.
Obviously, it doesn’t bother me. She’s just doing her job.