Page 45 of The Pucker and the Princess
He nods, crossing his arms. “Yeah, the ball’s in her court as far as that goes.”
That’s not what I was hoping he’d say. “What should I do?”
He blows out a breath, looking off into the distance. “You should come home with me,” he declares after a moment.
“I just told you?—”
He cuts me off with another wave of his hand. “I know you’re pissy. But I think Tina’s your best chance of coming up with a plan to fix this. I’ll distract the kids. You talk to my wife.”
An hour later, true to his word, Nick’s got the kids off playing in another room, occasional squeals and peels of laughter reaching Tina and I in the kitchen.
“Okay,” she says, settling herself into one of the plush stools at their breakfast bar. She slides a plate of cookies closer to me and takes a sip out of her mug. “Nick didn’t say much—just that you’re having problems with a woman.” Her tone drips with as much disapproval as her expression.
I hold up my hands. “It’s not what you think.” That makes her raise an eyebrow, an eloquent expression of disbelief. “It’s not!” I protest again.
Smiling indulgently, she leans over and pats my arm. “Okay. Then tell me what it is.”
“It’s about Marissa,” I start, and before I can get any more words out, she’s already nodding sagely.
“Good.” She lifts her mug in a silent toast. “I like her. She’s good for you.”
Letting out a rueful chuckle, I shake my head. “I’m not sure she’d agree with you.”
Another eyebrow raise. “What happened?” It’s a question, but she says it in a flat tone, clearly waiting for a list of my fuckups.
“That’s the thing. I don’t really know.” I fill her in about the kiss and Marissa’s subsequent Road Runner impression.
Tina narrows her eyes at me. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
I shake my head. “I swear I’m not. We kissed. She ran. And now she won’t return my texts.” I sip my coffee, shaking my head slowly as I swallow, replaying that night for the millionth time in my head. “I honestly don’t know what I did, Tina. Other than kissing her. But she kissed me back. It’s not like I held her down and forced it on her.”
“God, no,” Tina bursts out, coming to my defense against the imaginary accusations. “I know that. You’re a lot of things, Dozer”—she points a long, hot pink fingernail at me—“but you’re a good guy. A little dense sometimes, but good.”
“Uh … thanks?”
“You’re welcome.” She flashes me a grin.
Tina’s brow furrows, and she taps her nails rhythmically against the side of her mug as she thinks. I do my best to sit still and keep my mouth shut—other than the occasional sip of coffee orbite of cookie—desperately wanting to ask what she’s thinking but knowing I need to be patient.
The problem is, I have a hard time being patient. I’m the kind of guy who likes to form a plan and act on it. But I have no plan. My only plan so far has been waiting for Marissa to respond, which isn’t exactly full of action as plans go. And it isn’t working so well. My already thin patience is stretched to its limit, and waiting for Tina just might break it entirely.
I do my best to stay still, to seem like the embodiment of patience itself, but I end up sliding forward so my foot can reach the floor and start jiggling my leg while I wait.
When Tina finally looks at me again, she lets out a soft laugh. “Oh, you poor thing. You’re really all tied up about her, aren’t you?” She tilts her head and squints. “And here I thought you were taking a break from dating.”
Letting go of my mug, I throw my hands in the air. “I am! I was!”
She arches an eyebrow yet again. “Oh? Is that why you’re kissing Marissa? Your ‘we’re just friends’ guest to Thanksgiving?” She holds up her hands to make scare quotes around the just friends part.
“Wearejust friends!”
She straightens, barking out a laugh. “Do you go around kissing all your friends? Or is that reserved specifically for Marissa?”
Planting my elbows on the counter, I drop my head into my hands, scrubbing my fingertips through my hair. “God, this is so fucked up. No wonder she ran off. We’re supposed to just be friends. And even if she did kiss me back”—I straighten up andpoint at Tina—“and she did! But it must’ve spooked her as much as it spooked me.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Tina mutters, slouching against the back of her stool and turning to face me. “You were spooked? What does that mean? What did you do? How did you act?”
I throw my hands up again. “I already told you! I didn’t do anything! We kissed. It was short and sweet.” I try not to get distracted by the memory of that kiss, of the way her lips felt against mine—warm and soft, just the right amount of pressure, inviting me to explore more before I realized I waskissing Marissa, the woman I’d repeatedly assured that I didn’t have any interest in a relationship. “Fuck me,” I mutter, once again dropping my head in my hands. “I didn’t do anything terrible other than kiss her. She knows I’m all fucked up from my past relationships.” Tina snorts at my use of the word relationships, but I ignore her. “SheknowsI don’t want a girlfriend right now. I’ve said that so many times before.” I straighten up. “And she doesn’t want to date either!” I toss at Tina, as though she lodged that accusation. “But I know when she does decide to date again, she wants a relationship. A real one. Not a fuck buddy, and definitely not a situationship. She’s had her fill of those already.” I can’t quite say the same, since all the women I’ve been sleeping with definitely wanted our relationship to be official. But it was because they wanted the prestige and money that came with it, or at least that they expected to come with it.
