Page 59 of If You Claim Me

“Yeah, absolutely. That would be great. Thanks, man.”

“Anything for Dred.”

I expected more animosity from Flip, but maybe we’re on the same page with this. He’s willing to let the past stay where it is for the sake of his best friend. Or maybe he’s being nice because he doesn’t want Mildred to feel responsible if we have a shit season on account of the dissension between us. His motives seem more selfless than mine, regardless.

On the way home from practice, I get stuck behind a beater. Sixty kilometers an hour seems to be its max speed, and it looks like it’s one pothole away from falling apart.

When it turns onto Meems’s street, I have more questions. Like, what asshole would let their grandmother/wife/employee/teenager drive this heap of shit when they live in this neighborhood?

And then it pulls into my driveway. I assume whoever is behind the wheel must be lost, but no, the hand that reaches out of the car is adorned with the ringIput on it. Which means it’s myfiancée. My mother would lose her mind if she knew the woman I’m about to marry has been driving around in a car with more rust than theTitanic.

I follow my fiancée down the driveway, past the Rolls-Royce and the McLaren, to the back where the garden staff parks—this lot is closer to the grounds and means less of a walk to the greenhouse.

Mildred parks her car beside a blue Camry, purchased by Meems for Barney, our head gardener. The staff here are well taken care of. My future wife’s car is in the worst condition by far.

I park behind her.

She doesn’t get out right away, though. In fact, she takes so long I give up on waiting her out and walk up to her window. A muffled voice filters through, but it’s too quiet for me to catch the content. At first I think maybe she’s on a call, but a fewchoice words bleed through. She’s listening to an audiobook, and based on what I catch, it’s a romance novel.

She runs her hands up and down her thighs, her lips are parted, and her eyes are closed. Her tongue peeks out, and one hand leaves her thigh to pop the top two buttons on her cardigan. She’s wearing a simple pink V-neck shirt underneath, with just the barest hint of cleavage. Her fingers trail back down, hands sliding between her thighs, chest rising and falling faster. Her mouth drops open, her hips roll. I might not be able to hear the words coming through the speakers, but I sure as hell hear the soft moan that tumbles from her lips. She shudders, and her hands go to the steering wheel, gripping tightly as her head falls forward. I have no idea what I just watched, but I sure as fuck want it to happen again.

I knock on the window. She shrieks and flails, head whipping my way. Her eyes flare, her cheeks flushed. She cuts the engine. I try the door, but it’s locked.

She grabs her oversized bag, hugging it to her chest with one hand, and fumbles with the lock.

When I open the door, it groans loudly. “What are you doing?”

“What are you doing? You scared the shit out of me!” She pokes my thigh and brushes her hair away from her face.

I take a step back.

She pulls herself out of the car. Her skin is dewy.

“What just happened in there?” I narrow my eyes. “What were you listening to?”

“A book.” Mildred adjusts her cardigan and shoulders her purse, eyes anywhere but me.

“Why are you flushed?”

“I got to the good part.” She lifts her chin, defiant.

“What does that mean?”

“Exactly what I said.”

We stare each other down.

I cross my arms. “You’re not going to elaborate?”

She smiles serenely. “I don’t think I need to.”

Did I just watch my fiancée have a contactless orgasm? Is that a thing? And if it is, I would really love a front-row seat to the next event. I leave that alone, mostly because I don’t want to leave it alone.

I must think about kissing her a hundred times a day. I constantly wonder how her hands would feel on my skin. If I’d like it. If it would feel as nice as her mouth. If I’d feel something other than apathy with her. And now I’ll think about her sitting in her car, eyes closed, lips parted, possibly getting off without so much as a single caress.

I switch gears, because she still hasn’t agreed to amend our contract—not that I’ve asked in a way that denotes my seriousness on the matter—and I won’t push for things she doesn’t want to give. “Did you drive this to work?” I motion to the car.

“No.” She rolls her shoulders back. “I drove it to the subway station halfway to work because I had an appointment this morning.”