Page 23 of About That Night

Hank looks like he wants to laugh, but he stops himself. “That’s an acceptable offer. It’s showing interest on his part but not trying to push you into the hookup arena. Don’t accept an invitation to meet up for drinks on date one, two, or three. That’s basically saying that if the liquor is flowing and the chemistry is there, sex is on the table.”

“Got it.” That, I do understand. Then I realize the implication of that. He had definitely thought I was agreeing to sex when I met him at The Swamp. Because why wouldn’t he? If we were both single and we’ve had sex before, why wouldn’t we again?

Part of me, the one that feels perpetually guilty for everything, wants to apologize. Again. But I know we’ve talked about it enough. Actually, we’ve talked more about it than we should have, and it’s a miracle he’s even still willing to be in the same room as me. I need to just shut my pie hole.

He nods. “See you Thursday, then. I’ll text you.”

“Do I respond to your text or not?” This feels like being in nursing school. I like being the star student. I need to know all the rules up front.

Now Hank does laugh. “Tell you what. You do whatever feels right to you, and we’ll discuss it Thursday.”

Do whatever feels right.

I’m not sure I even know what that means or how to listen to my gut.

And either my gut is a fool or I suck at listening to it.

Maybe both.

Chapter Six

Hank

“Kayaking?” Chastity looks at me nervously as we get out of my truck at the water’s edge. “I don’t know, Hank.”

She’s so damn sexy when she bites her lip like she is now. I don’t think she even understands how hot she can be.

I picture her that morning in my apartment in New Orleans, hair tousled, cheeks pink, throwing on her clothes and dashing out the door, offering me a last-minute blowjob. I hadn’t taken her up on it. Now, I’d give my right arm to have her sucking me, and that is saying a whole hell of a lot since I do the majority of my knife work with my right hand.

I try to focus on the current situation. She really does look worried. “What did you think I was suggesting when I said you need to wear a swimsuit?”

“Swimming. Soaking in a hot tub.”

“Those are too obvious,” I tell her. “Where’s the adventure in that?”

“I haven’t exactly been adventurous in the last few years.” She’s picking her way carefully across the gravel parking lot, clutching her bag to her chest. She’s wearing denim shorts and a lightweight sweater, and underneath that is a swimsuit.

I don’t know what kind of swimsuit, and I like the mystery of that. Is it a bikini? A more modest two-piece? A one-piece? The color options are endless, and who knows, it could be lace or crochet or something with cut-outs. I’ve envisioned every single one. I haven’t given this much thought to swimwear since I was fourteen and went to the waterpark with our whole freshman class. That day had been an exercise in not popping a boner in public.

Today might be the same.

“Do you want to be adventurous?” I ask her. “Or at least have a little fun?”

She nods. “I do. I’ve forgotten how, though.”

She also seems to equate having a good time with negative repercussions. Which makes for a boring life. I’m determined to change that mindset.

“You’ll get the hang of it.” It’s a hot day, almost eighty degrees. That’s how November in Louisiana goes. You never know what temperature you’ll get. I peel off my own sweatshirt and toss it over my shoulder.

I should have left it in my truck. That was my first purchase when I moved back. I’d traded my little city sedan for a big country-boy truck. The swamp roads aren’t built for low-riding cars lacking in four-wheel drive.

Given that it’s noon on a Thursday, one of her three days off, we are the youngest kayakers by about forty years for this time slot. It seems to be reassuring to Chastity.

“I think I can keep up with this crowd,” she says, sounding hopeful.

There are three couples. They enthusiastically introduce themselves.

We’ve got Otis and Betty. Bill and Mary. Red and Corky.

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