“Not with Vulvatron.” I gesture vaguely at my crotch and realize my wine glass is empty. Hmm. Have to remedy that.
“Vulva-what?”
“Never mind.”
“Declan would rappel down from a helicopter with his pants off in a hurricane if we went weeks without sex and he was in town for a few hours and it were the only way to fit in a quickie.”
I throw my hands up in the air and brush lightly against that fine, fine waiter who is carrying my sweet love juice. Ah, Pinot Grigio. How have I never cozied up to a bottle of you between my breasts? I grab another glass of wine.
“That is because you’re marrying Superbillionaire.”
Shannon eyes my wine. “Time to slow down?”
I take a gulp. “I’m just getting started.”
Andrew’s walking toward me with a determined look in his eye and oh, sweet mercy, I go loose and wet and fuzzy inside as he reaches for me, planting a kiss on either cheek. He just flew back from Paris, so maybe that’s the drill.
As I go in for a kiss on the lips, though, he grazes my cheek again.
My blood stops pumping.
What
Fresh
Hell
Is
This?
Mixed signals is one thing. Andrew’s confusing set of clues is more like a computer system short circuiting.
I look around, my hands out in a gesture of WTF? and I scan the crowd as if I’ll catch someone’s eye and we can share in our disbelief that my boyfriend just dodged a kiss from me after a month of nothing. Nada. I actually resorted to my nightstand collection for the first time in months and let me tell you, they need to put little speakers on vibrators with audio recordings of men sighing and groaning at appropriate intervals, because bzzz bzzz bzzz is not sexy.
It just isn’t.
The first sex toy company who designs a vibrator that says, “I love when you just let go like that,” or “Your O face is so hot,” or groans, “Have you lost weight? Because I need more to grab” will dominate the industry and blow up the stock market.
Especially if the voices are programmable, like GPS systems. Male, female, British, Irish, Spanish, French, Shrek—imagine the possibilities. Mr. Darcy could be your vibrator’s voice. You could have tie-ins with major video game characters.
Thor.
Thor could utter phrases from down below, like, “This mortal form requires orgasms.”
You could even have your significant other record special messages to be played at intervals of their choosing (or yours). If your partner dies, you’d cherish the memory of them forever.
I may be on to something here. I come up with some amazing ideas sometimes. Man, this Pinot Grigio is some good stuff.
While I contemplate these philosophical questions about the meaning of life and finish my fifth (I’m not counting) glass of wine, Marie calls everyone to attention.
“Dinner is served!” she announces.
Declan hands Andrew and Hamish a shot of something amber. The two clink glasses and down the alcohol. Then Hamish pours another. By the time we’re all assembled at the table, I count three rounds.
Fine, then. I pluck a sixth glass of wine from the hot waiter and take my seat.
Next to Andrew.
Before my ass is even in the chair Marie is banging on her wine glass with a salad fork like it’s a dinner bell at a dude ranch and we’re all cows out to pasture who need to come home.
Get along little dogie.
“Kiss! Kiss!” she calls out, smiling at Declan and Shannon.
In response, Jason bends over Marie and gives her one hell of a hot, probing scorcher that she starts to fight off, then melts into. After a while, we all start to shift in our seats as it goes on and on...
“I don’t think that’s quite what Marie was going for,” James says dryly.
“You don’t know my mom and dad,” Amy replies.
“A typical kiss contains more than two hundred strains of bacteria,” my mom announces.
Jason pulls away.
“Research,” my mom says awkwardly.
“What do you do for a living? Work on a porn set?” Marie jokes.
“Actuary.”
“Oh.” Marie frowns. “That’s like the opposite of porn.”
“I compute premium rates for various high-risk pools. Just did a kissing evaluation last year for some Hollywood projects.” Mom shudders. “You wouldn’t believe how much herpes there is in that population.”
And with a single sentence, my mother silences even Marie.
“You are just a wealth of interesting facts,” James says. I do a double-take as I realize James is holding Spritzy in his lap, rubbing his little head with affection. He’s smiling at my mother with a look that makes me understand why people call him The Grey Wolf, though lately they’re calling him The Silver Wolf. Not sure what the difference is.
Andrew’s hand lands on my knee.
Oh.
It’s The Asshole Wolf.
I turn to face him. He is, basically, James. Only three and a half decades younger and a little lighter.
“Would you help me get Hamish’s attention?” Andrew asks, the hand withdrawing quickly.
I pick up a bread roll and pull my arm back to throw it across the table, but Andrew’s faster.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Getting Hamish’s attention.”
“Are you drunk?”
“No,” I lie. I take the opportunity to really look at him. He has five o’clock shadow, a genetic trait that runs through the McCormick men even at noon, and his tie is loose. His eyes are floating in his head and he’s staring at my boobs like they talk.
“Are you?”