Page 38 of Never Say Yes To Your Best Friend (I said Yes)

This is not how I imagined this man seeing my breasts, even if it hasn’t happened yet.

We walked into his magnificent warehouse condo via a set of metal stairs on the side of the building, all very fire escape-esque. Mont brought all the to-go containers and stood behind me like he would catch me if I fell backward or wavered. I managed to limp up the steps, trapping a whimper in my throat with every single jarring movement.

Even though my nipple is in danger of falling the hell off, I can still appreciate the architectural marvel that is his home.

When I asked about exposed brick and beams, I had no idea those things could be combined with the most gothic, arched,floor-to-ceiling domed windows or that they’d have little seating areas in them. The floor looks like it’s a hundred years old, and I mean it in a good way. I love the worn-in hardwood look. I expected a mancave to the extreme when I imagined Mont’s house, but his furniture is light and airy. There is more than one mid-century piece that, even in my current condition, makes me drool. He’s got an array of wicker, metal cage-looking furniture, an antique sofa and settee, a dining set straight out of the eighteen hundreds with a big blocky table, an impressive handmade live edge wood bench, and heavy-looking carved chairs. His space is eclectic. I like eclecticism. I could never decide on just one thing from one era. There’s been so much good history when it comes to furniture and art. I don’t have the money to afford things like this, but I can dream and make a ton of online pinboards.

His place even has the swirly spiral staircase that goes up to the loft—metal steps and railing and all. When he said warehouse, I pictured an old factory, but this place has more of an old bank vault vibe to it.

As much as I want to appreciate the rest of the house, I head straight for the kitchen. It’s a long, galley-style kitchen, which makes sense in a space like this, where everything is open, without walls to divide up or make sense of it.

I like that even though the condo has an industrial vibe, the kitchen is made with rustic white cabinets and butcher block wood countertops. The stove—omg, the stove—is mint green with legs, and it looks like you’d have to put wood in it to cook or get heat, but I know it has to be gas or electric. I get a load of the fridge, which matches the stove in its seafoam-minty awesomeness. My heart might have exploded out of my chest if I had seen this on a regular day.

As it is, all I can manage to mutter is a thin and strangled, “Ice. Please.”

“Are you sure we should ice it?” Mont quickly puts away the to-go containers in the fridge. Then, he pulls out this strange contraption and shuts the top freezer. It takes me pretty much a minute to swallow thickly and get over my fear of this whole process enough to realize it’s one of those ice molds that makes giant round ice spheres. “Maybe we should look it up.”

“I don’t have time,” I groan.

He looks like he’s going to pass out. “I should have taken you to the hospital.”

“No! Okay, fine. Look it up.”

He places the ice on the counter and pulls out his phone while I stand here, trying not to pass out from the throbbing. Or more like booming. I feel like that hornet got under my skin and is still there, making a home out of my boob.

“It says to make sure the sting is clean, then apply ice, but wrap it so it prevents frostbite, and only do it for about five to ten minutes. Then, give it a break before putting the ice back, but only repeat it three to four times.”

“That sounds like a lot of instructions.”

He passes me the ice mold. His hands shake, and he looks pale. “Just let me know if you need help.”

“Need help? I can’t look! If I look, I might pass out!”

“God. Okay. Okay, I…god.”

He starts shaking so hard that I can see his teeth about to chatter.

“How about I lay down on the couch? I’ll undo my dress and look, and if I faint, then at least I’m already lying down. You can revive me with something smelly.”

“Smelling salts? I don’t think I have any of those.”

“Old socks?” I suggest.

He looks down at his feet.

My brain does a recalibration of the drive. Before he started the car, he must have put his boots back on with sandy andwet feet. No socks. I don’t see them sticking out. He’s also still soaking wet, but some of that water must have been absorbed into his car. No, the seats are leather. Would that absorb anything? Slim chance. His jeans weren’t that dark before or that pressed to his skin. His shirt fits extremely snug now. I get another hot flash that runs the course of my body, and it makes my nipple hurt more.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been so panicked about the sting that I didn’t even think. You should go change. And shower. You’re probably drenched with saltwater from head to toe. Your poor car.”

“The car’s fine. I’ll wipe it out later,” Mont assures me.

“You could get it detailed.”

“If anything is wrecked, I’ll send it somewhere where people are good at fixing it. No worries.” He swallows hard, and is it my imagination, or do his eyes get a little bit darker and more smolder-y? “It’s you I’m worried about.”

I take the ice mold and hold out my hand. “Do you have a towel? I’ll be okay.” But he doesn’t move. He’s frozen. I have to get ice on the sting sometime in this century. “Mont?”

“Yes,” he mumbles as he grabs the tea towel off the oven handle and thrusts it into my palm. “Yes, I’m sorry. I’ll just be down the hall. Showering. If you need anything, please don’t scream, as someone might call the cops. I’ll hear you even at a normal speaking volume. It’s surprising how sound travels in a place that has no walls.”

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