Page 15 of Plum

“Do you have a garden?”

I arch an eyebrow. “A garden?”

“You’ve got nothing in the yard, then?”

My yard kicks ass. It’s small, but I have a decent size dogwood and a flower bed. I wish I could do more, but money’s tight, and it’s hard working nights and sleeping days. He don’t need to hear about that, though. I grasp for something to tell him.

“I’ve got a birdbath.”

“Yeah?” He grins like I said I’ve got a third tit. “A birdbath?”

“Just a cheap blue ceramic one from General Goods. With a dove perched on the edge.”

“Are you sure you feel comfortable telling me the color of your birdbath?”

“It’s in the back. You can’t see it from the street.”

“Do you get a lot of birds?”

“Some.” I wait for his next busybody question, but he doesn’t speak. He plays with my hair instead, combing his fingers through it and massaging my scalp. My cheeks heat, and a buzzing starts in my belly. It’s the strangest sensation. So very weird, but also nice.

The silence stretches. I’m sure he’s gonna stop soon. Who’s got the patience for this if they ain’t gettin’ paid?

I really don’t want him to stop, though. I should keep talking. Maybe he’ll keep rubbin’. What did he ask about? Birds?

“I’ve seen a pair of Prothonotary warblers. Marsh wrens. And a dickcissel that must have got lost.” I have no idea why I’m bragging.

“How do you know all the different kinds?”

“There’s an app. For your phone.”

“You’re a birdwatcher, Plum?” Again, he seems bizarrely pleased. Like look at the whore, she’s got a hobby, ain’t it cute?

I yank my hair out of his fingers. It stings, but not much.

He hushes me. Honestly says, “Hush.” He moves his hands away from my face, though.

“What’s your favorite bird?”

“Tufted titmouse.”

I say it to be an asshole, but when his lip quirks up and his eyes crinkle, I can’t stop the giggle. With his glasses, he’s kind of goofy looking when he grins.

“Titmouse?”

I giggle again—it’s even funnier when he says it—and he drags me closer, resting his chin on the top of my head. There’s a long moment, Adam holding me, my stupid body all boneless and hanging off him. Even though I’m in only my thong and pasties, and the AC’s blowing straight down on us, I’m warm for once.

“Plum Pudding?”

“Mmmmm?”

“Go to dinner with me.”

“Sure, baby.” This guy is full of shit.

“I’m serious.”

I sigh. I suppose the moment’s over. I wriggle straight, and I try really hard to look understanding.

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