Page 116 of Rock Bottom Girl
The only other thing in the room was a very large picture of a crucified Jesus hanging on the wall next to the door. I had a feeling that had come with the house.
I got up and stretched. Before beginning my quest for the bathroom. One door led to a walk-in closet. There was more clothing on the floor than hanging up. I found a bathroom through the other door and cleaned myself up. The toilet had a pull chain flusher. The vanity, a coating of dust.
Grinning, I combed my hair with my fingers, trying to reform Wilma’s shape and style. Jake Weston wasn’t so perfect after all. He really was a slob.
I gave up on my hair and went in search of clothing. I didn’t want to put Mom’s sweater back on my recently sexed body. I mean, I was already going to have to buy the woman a new one to make up for debauching the old one. So I helped myself to a floor t-shirt that passed the smell test.
I padded downstairs and headed into the kitchen.
Jake was still shirtless and stirring something on the stove. Homer was snarfing down his dinner. He paused to grumble and wag his tail at me before diving back into the kibble. A domestic scene that caused my lady heart to pitter-pat.
“What’s cooking, Chef Weston?”
He looked up and skimmed me from head to toe. “Now, that’s a pretty picture,” Jake said.
The man was good with flattery. I had to give him that.
I pulled out a barstool and sat across from him, resting my chin in my hands.
“I hope you like SpaghettiOs,” Jake said, pulling the sauce pan off the stove and dividing its contents between two bowls.
“SpaghettiOs?” I asked in wonder. “I don’t think I’ve had a can of SpaghettiOs since college.”
“I got some Lebanon bologna, too. Other than that, your only choice is some kind of furry Chinese takeout that’s so old I don’t remember ordering it.”
“I’ll stick with the Os and the bologna.”
“A wise choice. We can eat on the couch,” he said, pushing one of the bowls toward me.
We dined on childhood favorites on his couch while watching reruns ofCheersandParks and Recon his gigantic flat screen.
“So how am I doing so far with this dating thing?” he asked, taking my empty bowl and adding it to his on the coffee table. I guessed they’d sit there for a week or two.
Oh, right. We weren’tactuallydating. I was just grooming him to date someone else. He’d be coaxing orgasms out of a new woman and making her canned food by Valentine’s Day, I predicted.
I ordered the canned pasta to stay in my stomach and not projectile vomit across the room.
I cleared my throat. “Good.”Great.
Homer trotted in and shoved his head in my lap.
“You’re in his spot,” Jake explained and slid me a couple of inches closer to him. Homer hopped up onto the couch, circled the cushion, and flopped down with a heavy sigh.
“You’re doing great,” I admitted. Eh. I’d worry about the stickiness of our consummated fake relationship later. I snuggled up against his side and rested my head on his shoulder.
He pulled a throw off the back of the couch and handed it to me.
“I think I’m ready to meet your parents,” he said while I was busy spreading the blanket out.
“You already have,” I pointed out, baffled.
“No, I mean like dinner and talking. Not just picking you up and being charming for five seconds.”
Okay, it was one thing for me to get a little wrapped up in ourarrangement. But I didn’t want my parents falling for the guy only to have us fake break up right before I left town.
“Seriously?” I mean, I guess I owed the guy the complete girlfriend experience. Even if it hurt to deliver.
“Yeah,” Jake said. “I want this to go the distance.”
