“None taken,” I repeat for the second time tonight.
“So?” Chrissy prompts, gesturing for me to continue.
I launch back in, telling them about the intense moment between Green Eyes —Chase— and Ralph, followed by my Cinderella-esque escape out into the rainy night. When I get to the part about the town car pulling up beside me at the curb, Chrissy’s eyes go wide as saucers and she leans back into her husband’s chest.
“He drove you here?” she asks.
I nod.
“You got in the car with a stranger?” Mark’s expression darkens further.
“Did he kiss you again?” Chrissy demands, before I can answer.
Looking from husband to wife, I give another hesitant nod.
Mark mutters, “Not smart,” at the same instant a loud, “OHMIGOD!” explodes from Chrissy’s mouth.
It takes her a few minutes to calm down, but when she does, I tell them the rest.
How he called my name.
How I stopped on the stairs.
How he walked over to me.
How he brushed the hair from my face.
How he kissed me until I couldn’t even feel the rain anymore. Until all I felt washim, his lips on mine, his hands in my hair. Drenched with water, filled with fire, we were soaking wet and burning up all at once.
“Ohmigod. Ohmigodohmigodohmigod,” Chrissy repeats in a dazed mantra, her eyes unfocused.
If she’s this unhinged by just a kiss, I’m glad I didn’t tell her about the bet I made… and the way my night almost ended – wearing nothing but my birthday suit in Chase Croft’s apartment.
“I think what my wife means to say is,‘Then what happened, Gemma?’” Mark offers, rolling his eyes.
I laugh lightly. “Then he left.”
“What!” Chrissy yells, her eyes flying back to mine. “What do you mean heleft?”
“I mean heleft. He stared into my eyes for a moment, walked away, and climbed back into his town car.”
“He didn’t say anything?”
“No,” I lie. “But it doesn’t matter, anyway, because I’m giving up men. All men. Billionaires included.”
Mark’s eyebrows go up.
“What?” Chrissy squeals.
“No more men. These lady parts are officially closed for business,” I say decidedly, crossing one leg over the other to punctuate my words.
“Oh,” Chrissy says, relieved. “I thought you were serious!”
“Iamserious.” My eyes narrow. “Men are rat bastards. Love doesn’t exist — not for me, anyway. And I’m done trying. I’m going to get a dozen or so cats, several high-quality vibrators, enough batteries to last the next decade, and then call it a day.”
Chrissy and Mark glance at each other, lock eyes, and, after a few seconds, burst into loud, cackling, simultaneous laughter.
“I’m serious,” I grumble.