Page 11 of Sacrifice
"He's in finance."
"Same thing. Boring guy, boring job, boring sex?—"
"We haven't had sex."
Elfe stares at me. "Three dates and nothing? Girl, your vagina's going to seal itself shut."
"Not everyone fucks on the first date."
"No, some people fuck in trucks at weddings and then pretend it didn't happen."
My phone buzzes.
Brandon, confirming he'll pick me up at seven.
Twenty minutes.
"I need to finish getting ready," I tell Elfe, standing.
"You need to cancel and be honest with yourself." But she gets up too, heading for the door. "That man's been in love with you for a year. Everyone sees it but you."
"Emil doesn't love me. He just wants what he can't have."
"Keep telling yourself that." She pauses at the door. "Your tits really do look amazing in that dress though. Brandon's gonna swallow his tongue."
"That's the plan."
"Too bad you're thinking about the wrong tongue."
"Elfe!"
She cackles, dodging the shoe I throw at her.
Twenty minutes later, Brandon's outside in his sensible Honda Accord.
He's wearing a nice button-down and slacks, hair neatly styled, cologne subtle.
Everything a woman should want.
So why do I miss the scent of leather and grease?
"You look beautiful," he says, opening my door.
"Thanks. You clean up nice too."
The drive to Doran's restaurant is filled with pleasant conversation about his work, the weather, plans for the weekend.
He doesn't mention the wedding, and neither do I.
We're both pretending Emil didn't stake a claim that night, that Brandon didn't see exactly how fucked up my situation is.
The restaurant is busy but not packed.
Doran greets us personally, his Irish accent thick as honey.
"Saga, lovely to see you. And this must be..."
"Brandon," I supply. "Brandon, this is Doran, my friend’s husband, he owns the place."
