Page 79 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
“So. How did you swing St. Barth’s? And where are we staying? I know things are pretty good for you with the new job and the promotion, but…”
She just laughs. “Oh god, no. I couldn’t afford an outhouse on St. Barth’s. It’s Dr. Waverley—both of them. I was in Dr. Waverly’s office, my boss, not her husband. She was discussing the responsibilities of my new position, you know, the usual rundown. And then Dr. Waverley, her husband, comes in. Apparently they’d been planning a vacation for a while, but a big thing came up for him, and then something came up for her, and I guess they’d been discussing via email their options for postponing, and he got sick of emails and decided to drop by and let her know that he thought it’d be best to put it off a few more months.”
I lift an eyebrow at her. “Sounds like a fascinating conversation.”
She snickers. “It was, actually. They’ve been married so long they have their own, like, shorthand in conversations.” She shrugs. “Anyway, after Mr. Dr. Waverley left, my boss Mrs. Dr. Waverley gave me a funny look and asked me if I’d ever taken a vacation, and I said not really, not for a long time. And she told me she and her husband have a place down in St. Barth’s that sits empty most of the year, and if I ever want to take some vacation days, I could hike myself down there and stay, free of charge.”
I blink at her. “Oh my god. That’s…absurdly generous.”
Imogen laughs. “Oh yes, it sure is. But I’ve gotten to be pretty good friends with Dr. Waverley since I started working for her, and she and her husband are basically just those kinds of people—they’ll do pretty much anything for anyone without even blinking. So, when you called me and told me you’d taken some time off, I called her, asked if I could bring you down for a BFF getaway, and could I also have some time off. She arranged for me to have the days off, and I got Michelle to cover my next two shifts, and here we are.”
“Well, I’ll have to thank Dr. Waverley and Dr. Waverley, then.”
“They like red wine,” she suggests. “Particularly a nice, dry 2012 Napa Valley cabernet sauvignon.”
“Who doesn’t?” I say, laughing, but make a mental note to bring them a bottle when we get back. “How do you even know that?”
She laughed with me. “Oh, well, when I told her I’d have to find a meaningful way of saying thank you, she suggested that.”
The flight was long, but we spent it watching comedies on the in-flight entertainment, laughing together and acting like teenagers, even though we didn’t have anything else to drink. We transferred in Atlanta, had a short stopover in Saint Maarten, where we finally indulged in a couple more drinks, and then we transferred to our final, and smallest, flight to Saint Barthélemy.
We arrive at the Waverley’s condo at almost two in the morning after something like eleven hours of travel, including the stopover in Saint Maarten—and we’re both absolutely exhausted. The entire time we were en route, I’d been entertaining this notion of getting to the condo, changing into a bikini, and going right out to the beach for a starlight swim. But…no. We trudge through the doorway, set our bags down just inside, spend a few minutes marveling, and oohing and aahhing about the condo…and then pass out, together, side by side on the bed.
I’m stiff, foggy, bleary-eyed, and disoriented when I wake up. For the first few minutes of being awake, I think I’m back home in my bed. I don’t want to wake up—I’m comfy, sleepy, and the sun is bright on my face and there’s a warm body next to me. Some instinct has me curling around the body, wrapping my arm around it. A soft murmur rises at my touch.
I clutch, squeeze…why is it soft? I think I was expecting a male body—a certain, specific male body. I’d been dreaming, but the dreams are hazy and mostly forgotten already. What—who—am I spooning? I’m starting to wake up even more, gradually becoming more aware of my surroundings.
“Audra?” The voice is soft, quiet, puzzled, and female.
“Mmmm.” Mine is scratchy and vaguely irritated at being spoken to, at having to think.
“That’s my boob.”
I squeeze again, exploring, and realize I’ve got a big handful of Imogen’s breast. I laugh, not letting go; instead, I spoon closer up behind her and squeeze harder. “I see why guys like them so much. They make great handholds for spooning.”
Imogen is cackling, wiggling her butt against me. “At least neither of us is waking up with a sausage between our buns.”
I let go, rolling away as I snort in laughter. “Hey, I personally don’t mind waking up like that.”
