Page 28 of Flaunt
The only good thing about not being able to stop thinking about Banks’s arms around me last night is that it confirmed one thing—I’m not fucked up. My era of being bored with men seems to have passed because I certainly wasn’t apathetic last night.Annoyed that my favorite vibrator is gone, but not apathetic.
To celebrate the matter, or, at the very least, to test beyond Banks, I texted The Businessman to see if he was available this afternoon fora meeting.
“If everything goes right with Brock, he’ll be my fake fiancé by nightfall.”
My stomach twists, but I ignore it.
Banks’s house is blue with crisp white trim and shutters. The porch has a white swing hanging from the rafters, and the garage attached to the side of the house is nearly as big as the living space.
Something about that makes me smile.
I take the five stairs and knock on the front door.
“Who is it?” Banks yells from the other side.
“It’s Sara.”
There’s a pause. “Go away.”
I chuckle and try the handle. It turns in my hand, so I push it open.
The house is open and airy as I step inside the foyer. A bookcase sits to my left next to an archway into the living room. A large clock sits on my right. There is a set of stairs in front of me, and beside them is a walkway leading to the kitchen.
Banks sits at the table in only a pair of shorts.
I gulp and close the door behind me.
His hair is wild, like he just got up, and as I grow closer, I notice his eyes are sleepy. It’s a soft, gentle version of him—and I don’t hate it.
“I’m pretty surego awaydoesn’t sound likecome in,” he says, grinning.
“No, but I knew what you meant.”
He shakes his head but goes back to his cereal.
“What are you doing?” I ask him.
“Eating,” he says as a dribble of milk falls from his lips into a bowl. “Want some?”
“No. Maddox made pancakes this morning.”
He rolls his eyes.
I laugh. “I would bring you some, but then I remembered you threw me into the pool last night.”
“Yeah,” he says, licking a dot of milk off his bottom lip. “I did.”
I shiver. To hide the movement, I sit at the table.
“Have a seat,” he says after I’m already sitting.
I ignore him and look around.
The kitchen is a mess but notdirty. There’s stuff piled on the other end of the table, on most of the counters, and a lopsided box by a door that I presume goes to the garage.
The trash can is overflowing with pizza boxes and paper towels, and a blanket is draped over a barstool.
“What?” he asks.
