Page 74 of CowSex
My heart rate accelerates as my body is consumed with an ache of both want and longing.
I’m so out of my depth here. Totally torn as to what I should do. All of my resolve from last night is slipping away, and all it took was for Koa to tuck my hair behind my ears and for him to hold my hand.
Both actions could be construed as intimate, but is that how he wants me to take them? Is this just part of his flirty nature, or is it something more? He’s told me that he wants nothing more than no strings sex, but he’s holding my hand as we walk towards a furniture store. Isn’t that the kind of thing people in relationships do?
Is holding hands and furniture shopping on a Sunday a typical event for people that are just fucking?
I’m not a game player, so I don’t have the answers.
Koa steers us to the kid’s section, and all thoughts of intimacy and something more happening between us leave my head as I take in four-year-old-girl bedroom heaven.
AFTER SEVEN STORES,I’M DONElike a kipper, but we have everything we need. I don’t know how Koa wangled it—the endless selfies with shop staff and customers and the autographs he signed may have helped his cause—but everything we need is going to be delivered over the next few weeks and well within the time frame we have to get his kids’ rooms finished.
Shopping with Koa has actually been enjoyable. I’d forgotten to look in the rooms this morning, but he’d been smart enough to bring the measurements of each with him, including the window sizes.
Koa listened to my ideas and thought process as I picked out bedding, rugs, lighting, and furniture, even coming up with a few suggestions of his own. We seemed to share a lot of the same taste in home interiors, except mine was better and a little more adventurous, but he learned fast that I knew my shit.
We even looked at furniture for other rooms in the house, including a fabulous sofa in a soft, light-tan leather that had design ideas firing off in all directions inside my brain. I couldn’t wait to get home and draw them up.
The only time we’d disagreed was when we stopped at a carpet and flooring shop, and I’d shown Koa the timber that I wanted to make a feature wall in each of the bedrooms. He thought I was winding him up and argued that timber cladding went out in the eighties. I showed him some ideas I’d found on Pinterest, and in the end, he’d relented and let me order enough for one wall in each room, which was all I needed.
Kai’s room, I designed with an adult in mind since he’s nineteen. I went for a little bit of industrial and a little bit of natural wood, but I also tried to keep with the style of the house and not buy stuff that was overly modern. I just hoped that when I pulled it all together, it worked. Also, despite not knowing the kid, I really wanted him to like it.
Malia’s room, I went totally overboard with. I let my inner pink and girly four-year-old self run riot, and not once did I attempt to rein her in.
Koa looked a little shell-shocked by the time I was done with all that I insist he buy, but, not once did he complain or argue.
I’m no interior designer, and I never claimed to be one. I’ve just used what I know—with a lot of help from Google and Pinterest—about colour, design, texture, and trends to pull a couple of rooms together, and I really hope it works.
I stare unseeing at the passing scenery as I contemplate what order I need to do things to make this next week go smoothly. I have blog updates to post, and I need to take a few more photographs to send to Rod so he can update my Instagram with an image and some witty comment. I could do it myself, but Rod knows all about algorithms, hashtags, and the right time of day to post to maximise our reach.
It’s only around four thirty, but it’s already almost dark, and I unconsciously sigh, briefly sending Koa’s attention my way.
“You wanna head into town? I said I’d try to meet up with some friends at Mo’s for a few drinks.”
“Now?” I turn and look at him. I didn’t really mean it the way it sounded. What I wanted to ask was, “What? Why? You want me to come?”
He’d flirted with me relentlessly today, laughing and cracking jokes. He’d taken the piss out of my ‘posh business voice’ when dealing with the staff in the shops and how quickly I slipped back into my Essex accent once I was done.
I am very aware that I do this. I’m not ashamed of my roots or where I come from, but, unfortunately in business, people do still judge your competence, intellect, and abilities on your accent, and mine is very working class.
I know when to turn it on, and once the deal is done, I always turn it off. Never forgetting where I come from.
“Yeah, we can go straight there. Grab something to eat and then watch the game.”
“Game?”
“Football.”
“You mean big men that are scared of getting hurt and so wear lots of padding while they run a ball?”
“Yeah.”
“And these friends of yours, are they all blokes?”
“By ‘blokes’, you mean guys?”
“Yeah.”
