“Oh.” Her mouth forms an O, her eyes wide and full of mischief.
I lift the clear bottle of wine off the table and start peeling the label, tearing a small piece from the corner, then another, and keep shredding pieces off bit by bit, making it look like a mini snowstorm has taken place on my lap.
“Did you know that peeling labels off bottles is a sign of sexual frustration?” Mistee points her finger at the label I’ve made completely unreadable.
“Shut up.” I place the bottle back on the table with an eye roll, then gather the pieces of white label and scrunch them into a ball. “I hate it when you’re right,” I whisper.
Mistee laughs deviously, taking another taste of wine from her cup.
“So you dreamed about Eli Hart?” she asks, her words carrying a playful edge.
My eyes drift to the ceiling. “He was yelling at me.” That’s only partly true. “Wearing nothing but a pair of suit trousers.”
“And that amazing six-pack you got a glimpse of, too, I’m sure.” I wish I hadn’t told her about the donut-coffee incident, but I did, and I can’t take it back.
The dream I had flashes into my mind in vivid detail, and I slowly describe it. “We were in his office, and I was sitting on his desk.” I should stop talking; otherwise, Mistee’s going to bring this up for years, but to hell with it. Maybe Mistee can help me interpret my dream. “Every time he asked a question, he’d move closer to me. He was relentless, firing them at me repeatedly. Then suddenly, he was right in my face, lecturing me about his father’s legacy and how he needed the conference to be perfect, and I couldn’t let him down, plus how his staff would hate the donuts and matcha lattes I suggested for first break.” I would never suggest those two things for break times, but in my dream, it made sense, sort of.
“Then his lips were so close.” I run my fingertip over my bottom lip as heat creeps up my neck. The dream felt so real, like he was in the room with me, sleeping next to me. “And all I could think about was how much I wanted him to kiss me.” I pause, remembering the raspiness of his breath and how good he smelled. Like he always does. “Then he did.” I clear my throat. “And it was nice. It felt good. Then he put his hand up my skirt, and that’s all I remember.” I abruptly finish, shuffling in my seat, feeling uncomfortable that I’m sharing such personal details. Details of things I would happily give my consent to and let him do whatever the hell he wants to me.
When I woke up, I had my hand down my pajama shorts, my fingers rubbing my clit, on the cusp of an epic orgasm. Now, that was most unexpected. Terrible, really. But hell, it felt good.
“You had a sex dream about a client.” Mistee breaks me from my dreamlike state.
“He’s infuriating.” I release the words from between my clenched teeth.
“You like him.”
“I hate him,” I stammer. “No I don’t.” I don’t hate anyone. “I like him, notlikelike him. I mean, he’s okay, sometimes, nice, gorgeous in a suit, out of a suit.” I fall over my words some more. “And he has this aura about him. He’s… nice.” Hot. Gorgeous. Sexy.
“You stutter when you lie. Admit it, you’re attracted to him.”
Heat floods my cheeks as I bury my face in my hands. “This is terrible. He’s terrible, and set in his ways, austere, taciturn…” I muffle into my hands.
And yet I can’t stop thinking about him.
Over the last few days, I’ve thought a lot about how he behaves around me. He gets flustered easily; he often stumbles over his words, and I think I throw him off. I believe he likes me too, but I might just be imagining it, trying to convince myself that his feelings are mutual.
Mistee adds yet another blow. “And he’s as sexy as hell.” Her tone ripples with a familiar teasing note. “Those are the words you used to describe him last week.”
Did I? Shit.
I remove my hands from my face then confess, “I invited him to go on a retreat with me this weekend.”
“Why?” Mistee shovels the last slice of her pizza into her mouth. Where she’s putting it all, I have no idea, as I couldn’t possibly eat another thing.
I justify my invitation. “To mess with him. I thought he’d say no.” It was a moment of insanity that backfired. I can’t bring myself to book the damn thing. “Also he thinks what we do is flaky and stupid. He thinks we’re too mystical.”
“He never said that.” Mistee shakes her head while mumbling around her food.
“He didn’t have to. It was written all over his face. He said Roger from accounts would never choose dance therapy or meditation as a breakout option.”
“Do we have any of the employees’ completed forms yet?” Mistee asks coyly. I know that tone. It means she’s gearing up to prove Eli wrong.
“Over half have completed it.”
“Has Roger responded?”
“I don’t know.” Now that is a great point.