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She sighed and sank downuntil her chin touched the surface of the water. “We’re talkingabout future sneaky secretive stuff.”
“We’re talking about futuresexy stuff,” I corrected her.
“But it’s still secret. Andthe secrets you have that you can’t tell your best friend aremultiplying.”
It was an insightful, as well asinfuriatingly correct, point. I couldn’t keep stacking up things Ihad to hide from Scott. It would damage our friendship.
“And at some point, keepingsecrets becomes outright lying,” Charlotte went on. “I appreciatethe offer, but I’m not sure it could ever work out.”
“Keep the idea in your backpocket?” I suggested.
She mimed folding somethingup and putting it into the back pocket of the pants she wasn’twearing. Then she gasped loudly.
“What, what’s wrong?” Wasshe hurt? Was there some kind of electrical short in thetub?
“I got it wet,” shewhispered.
I didn’t follow.
“The secret. I got it wetwhen I put it in my pocket.” She grinned and shook her head. “I’mtired, okay? I’ve been peopling too much.”
“I don’t want this to be thelast night we spend together.” The words came out before I couldvet them. They sounded exactly as longing and pathetic as I didn’twant them to sound.
“We haven’t been spendingthe night together.” It seemed like an uncomfortable dodge morethan a joke, despite her laugh. “We’ve been fucking and I’ve beenleaving.”
“Fine. I don’t want this tobe the last night we fuck and you leave.” Nope, still soundedpathetic. “The wedding activities are kicking into high geartomorrow. I’ll be at the bachelor party, you’ll be—”
“Sitting in my roomwatching TBS because it’s the only station hotels ever seem tohave?”
“Sure. My point is, this hasbeen fun. But after tomorrow, the only chance we’d have would beSaturday.” And that day was the wedding, and everyone would partyinto the wee hours. I wouldn’t ask her to choose between me and thewedding reception—and as best man, I didn’t have the luxury ofmaking that choice for myself either. “We can keep things going. Ifwe’re sneaky.”
“Storage closet sneaky?” sheasked with a raised eyebrow.
“Exactly. And if you foundyour way back here, to my room, after the reception…”
“I’ll probably be drunk offmy ass. Do you want vomit in your bed?”
I wouldn’t push it any further. But Iwould deliver my closing arguments. “We don’t have to make firmplans to meet up. But what if we played a game?”
The eyebrow arched again. “What kind ofgame?”
“The kind where I text youand give you instructions. You follow them. We have dirty fun.” Ispread my hands. “That’s all.”
“That sounds like a good wayto break up the monotony of having to be at someone else’s weddingfunctions.” She tilted her head. “What kind of instructions wouldyou give me?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’d askyou to excuse yourself from dinner to go masturbate in thebathroom. Or maybe I’d tell you to meet me in a linen closetagain.” Not very imaginative, but she didn’t hold a monopoly ontiredness in this bathtub. “I’m sure I’ll think ofsomething.”
“Oh, I’m sure you will.” Shegave me a slow smile.
“So? Are you up for it?” Iasked, hoping I didn’t sound too eager.
“Why not?” She sat upagain, water cascading down her impossibly smooth skin. “It’s notlike I have a job in this wedding or anything. Everyone else seemsto. I might as well set myself some personalchallenges.”
“You consider it a personalchallenge to have sex with me? That’s not exactlyflattering.”
“If you want to beflattered, you’ve come to the wrong place.” She sighed and shapedher arms to the bend of the tub, relaxing against it. “You knowwhat would be perfect right now?”
What I wanted to say was “thereassurance that this isn’t the last time I’ll ever be naked withyou,” but that wasn’t what she was looking for. So instead, I said,“What would be perfect?”