He’s got a prosthetic leg. It’s covered, loosely, in a vinyl sticker made to look like wood, the kind you’d use to line your kitchen shelves, giving the illusion of a pirate’s peg-leg underneath black trousers he has
tied up at the knee with thin, corded leather rope.
“God dammit!” I yell. Which finally gets him to laugh. And it’s a great one too. A hearty, deep, boisterous sound from the back of his throat that makes his jaw tense and his neck jump. Uninhibited. And, dare I say, sexy.
“I really felt like I was going to win this round,” I say, my voice unsteady.
He hasn’t stopped laughing—harder than I am, actually. I’m not used to that, and it’s honestly refreshing. I’ve been told I laugh obnoxiously loud. Some have even gone so far as to compare me to a baby seal calling for its mother. Some meaning more than one person—in two separate instances— have expressed that exact sentiment.
“This is a couple’s costume. The crayons were right,” I say through breathless fits of joy.
He clutches his chest as if to steady himself, his laughter finally beginning to die down. Then I’m treated to the view of a boyish, tilted smile and sincere eyes sweeping over me from head to toe and back again.
I wonder if he likes what he sees. Actually, I’m hoping he likes what he sees. Because I certainly like what he’s got going on. The longer he looks me up and down, the more I consider him approving of my appearance.
My black not-quite-straight but not-quite-curly shoulder-length hair. My thin eyebrows from merciless plucking in my teenage years. My sharp- edged nose, with a simple gold piercing on the left nostril, set between glacier blue eyes. My body is shoved and tucked into this costume to prop up my tits and shrink my waist, but that’s mostly illusion.
I would describe my frame as fairly average. I enjoy long walks, swimming, and dancing, but I equally love rainy days plastered to the couch, pastries, and overly sweetened coffees. My arms and back are strong and sculpted from years of training in butterfly and breast strokes, but my hips and stomach hold the pleasure of a well-fed, comfortable woman. I don’t try to force my body to be something or deprive it of pleasantries. It just is. And I like it, enough, as is.
But what does this seemingly perfect specimen before me look like on an average day? He strikes me as someone who grew up beautiful. The small tilt of arrogance of his chin combined with the naive sweetness in his smile that I wish wasn’t so disarming. He’s probably a foot taller than me, and I can’t help but wonder how hard I’d have to yank on his pleated pirate blouse to bring his lips down to mine.
“I’m Bo.” He extends his left hand—which my body hears as would you like me to fuck you? Because there’s nothing more awkward than shaking
with my right hand and nothing more attractive than a man who could have anticipated that.
I shake his hand enthusiastically. “Win.”
“Is that short for something?” he asks, dropping his hand and sliding it into his trouser pocket.
“Winnifred, but no one really calls me that. What about you?” I make a point to emphasise the stretch of my neck, staring up at him as if he’s some sort of fairy-tale giant. “Are you tall for something?”
He can’t stop laughing now. I can’t stop wanting to make him. “What?” he asks, eyes lit with enjoyment.
“Seriously, what are you? Nine feet tall?” “Six.”
“Six what though?” “Six-five.”
“Wildly unnecessary for daily life. Do you play basketball?”
“Eh, used to.” His smile falters only a touch—but I notice. I notice, too, that he—perhaps subconsciously—moves to rub his knee, just above where his prosthesis begins.
I wince. “Sorry,” I offer plainly. “I was born with my hand. So I stupidly forget other people—”
“No worries,” he interrupts me, smiling with his chin pushed out. “I ruined that. But this was nice before then, wasn’t it?”
He looks away, smirking yet visibly shy, his eyes shifting and his body softly swaying. “It can still be nice. I could even the score? Make fun of your hand, if you’d like?” he offers, clearly unserious.
“Yes, please do. That would actually help a lot,” I say, calling his bluff.
He turns to face me, staring me down with crescent eyes and an ever- growing smile that has the blood rushing to the surface of my skin. I raise a brow in challenge when he appears to be calculating his next steps, his head tilting to the side.
“All right.” Bo holds out his palm, then crooks two fingers, gesturing for me to move closer. “Let me see it then.”
I narrow my eyes on him playfully as I present my smaller hand to him, placing it in his open palm that is about double the size of mine. I swallow on impact, the brushing of our skin shooting sparks up my veins.
“Shit…” he whispers under his breath, turning it over with a grip on my wrist that I love. “It’s adorable,” he says, studying it intently. Then he tuts and lets go, practically tossing it aside. “What am I supposed to say?”
“Right?” I agree, throwing both arms up in the air. “It’s impossible to make fun of. It’s too damn cute. It’s official. I’ve ruined the evening.”
“The best I had was a sarcastic ‘nice hand, Finding Nemo,’ but that’s sort of endearing, isn’t it?”
“He’s an icon,” I agree.
“I loved that little fish.” He rubs the back of his neck, looking past the archway and hallway to our left. “Want to sit?”
I nod, leading the way to the tufted yellow two-seater couch in Sarah’s den. The walls are covered in Sarah’s many books and maps of various lakes up in Northern Ontario. It’s a cottage-inspired room. Because rich people have themed parties and rooms.
“So how do you know Sarah and Caleb?” I ask, curling my legs under me to face him. This close to Bo, I can see that his eyes are hazel with the smallest smattering of green. He’s got more stubble than I originally noticed, but that’s because it’s fairer than his hair. He also smells very good.
Like cinnamon and something else that’s musky and warm and delicious. Like someone who could build a campfire and bake me a birthday cake too. I keep studying him unabashedly. I can’t help it, so I don’t resist. And, eventually, when my eyes leave his surprisingly attractive collection of costume rings below his black painted nails, I realise he’s looking straight
down my blouse. He’s doing some unabashed admiring of his own.
I smile to myself, pride lifting my shoulders and, in turn, my chest. I give him a few more seconds of leering before I clear my throat delicately.
“Sorry.” He shakes himself. “What did you say?” He blinks like a caught, guilty man.
“Shameless!” I cry out, laughing. “You ogled me.”
He chuckles nervously. “I know, fuck, sorry. I’ve never—well, I’ve never forgotten to pretend I’m not checking someone out before.” He cringes bashfully, the corner of his lips still upturned.
“This costume has an intended purpose.” I shrug, fiddling with the hem of my skirt.
“I really am sorry. I’m not—”
“How do they look?” I ask, interrupting him.
He looks up to the ceiling as if he’s searching for some deity to help him handle me. I like that a lot.
I watch as a slow smile forms, the corner of his bottom lip tucked between his teeth. “They, like every other part of you, look great,” he says slowly. Now it’s his turn to clear his throat when I’m left blushing with my eyes stuck on his face. “But… what did you ask?”
I fumble, forgetting everything I said. But when I look around the room, blinking until I focus on my surroundings, I remember whose house I’m in and, therefore, what I asked. “How do you know Sarah and Caleb?”
Bo shuffles back against the couch, his hand playing mindlessly with the loose, ruffled collar of his shirt, tugging it away from his neck. “Caleb and I met through a mutual friend about six years ago. We reconnected earlier this year for a work thing. He’s a good guy. What about you?”
“I’ve known Sarah my whole life. Our moms were best friends in high school and they both got knocked up accidentally during their senior year. They raised us together as pseudo-siblings.”
“Damn, so you’ve known Caleb since—”
“Grade nine, yeah,” I interrupt. “We all went to the same high school.
I’ve been third wheelin’ ever since.”
“Third wheeling,” he repeats. “So, you’re not…” His smile quirks to one side. “I was going to ask if you were here with anyone, but let me rephrase. Is there someone who would deck me for checking you out the way I just did?”
“Nope.” I cover my smile with a curled pointer finger, tracing my knuckle along my lip before I gather my confidence once again. “No one. Here or in any room.” That sounded a lot more suggestive than I intended, but it works in my favour when I notice his smile inching back up and his eyes darting to my lips for a second.
“Any room.” He nods, chin tilted up. “Noted.”
“What about you? Have a girlfriend I should know about?” I ask before swallowing.
He looks offended that I’d even suggest such a thing, his brows jolting upward. “No!”
“You’d not be the first unavailable guy to act totally available,” I argue.
My ex, for one, did that often.
“Fair.” He settles down. “No, no girlfriend. Here or in any room,” he taunts.
“Right.” I get comfortable, leaning against the couch—pushing my breasts together, which Bo briefly makes note of. “Then… tell me about yourself. Who are you?”
“Why does that question always feel so intimidating?” He brushes his knuckles against his cheek, swiping his thumb along his jaw.
“Because human experience cannot be summed up in a few sentences,” I offer, “but it’s still polite to try.”
He nods, side-eyeing me in a totally curious, stirring way that seems effortless to him despite the way it makes my heart pound. “Fair enough,” he begins. “I’m twenty-nine. I’m a financial analyst.” He puts up a hand, as if to stop me from interrupting—which I was going to. “I know, it’s a riveting career choice, but I actually love it.” He scratches his nose with the back of his thumb, looking sideways across the room. “I’m an only child,” he adds. “My father lives in France, so I don’t see him all that often. But he’s, rather pathetically, my best friend. My mother passed away when I was young.” He laughs dryly, as if maybe he’s unsure of whether he’s oversharing.
“Uh… I worked as a barista through university, and it made me agonisingly pretentious about coffee. When I was a teenager, I read a book about healthy brain habits, and now I do a sudoku puzzle every day because I’m paranoid about my brain rotting. My favourite animals are dogs, but I’ve never had one as a pet. Um, my favourite colour is purple?” he asks, as if he’s unsure of where to stop.
“That was great, thank you,” I say. “Yeah? I pass?”
“Yes, very informative. Though I do have some follow-up questions.” “Don’t you have to tell me about yourself first?” Bo asks, raising one
brow.
“Oh, right, okay,” I say, reaching for the cup that I placed on the table in front of us.
Bo waits for me to speak, his eyes intently focused as he leans farther against the back of the couch.
“I’m twenty-eight.” I take a sip of my drink. “I work at a café, so I’m also a bit of a coffee snob. I work as a lifeguard seasonally, which I love. I’d spend my whole life outdoors if I could. My mother used to affectionately refer to me as her pet squirrel because of that and because I tend to hoard things. Currently, that’s plants. My mom lives in Florida now with a string of boyfriends who are nice enough… I try to visit her once a year, but we aren’t exactly close. I never met my dad. And…” I try to think of one last thing. “Oh, my favourite colour is green.”
“Well, it’s good to meet you, Fred.”
“Please don’t call me that,” I say forcibly, half joking. “What? Why not?” He looks comically offended.
“It’s not a particularly sexy name,” I say. “Winnifred is bad enough, but
Fred? I sound like the creepy uncle you don’t invite to Thanksgiving.” “Agree to disagree.”
“Imagine crying out ‘Fred’ in the bedroom.” His smirk grows, and I glare at him, deciding to make my point clear. “Oh, Fred.” I moan. “Yes, Fred!” I cry, probably a bit too loudly, in fake passion. “It’s awful.” A few of the other party guests, confused and perhaps the tiniest bit offended, turn toward us. I salute them before they go back to their own conversations, my eyes held on Bo.
It’s horribly cliché, but his smile is beaming—far brighter than the sun. I feel myself bloom with it, as if it’s my own personal version of photosynthesis.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask, feeling suddenly shy. “You’re funny,” he says matter-of-factly, his expression remaining. Huh.
I do my best to look around the room, pretending the other guests and their costumes are suddenly much more interesting to me. I’m hyperaware that I’m blushing at the compliment and wishing, desperately, that I could stop.
When I do finally look back, Bo’s attention is focused on the back of the tufted couch. With his hand around the top of my seat, the tip of his thumb traces one of the fabric buttons in a small, circular motion over and over.
I shouldn’t be affected by it, and I’ll deny it if ever confronted, but there’s something inherently sexual about the motion. I watch, feeling far too enraptured, as he circles the button tenderly. My throat tenses as my lips part, imagining his thumb working me over in a similar way. It’s been months since a date went well enough that I allowed a man to touch me like that—not that it was all that great when he did. Still, judging by the rattling of stuttered breaths in my chest, I think I’d let Bo give it a try.
“So,” Bo says, dragging my gaze from the button toward his face, “you’re not here with anyone…”
“Is that a question?” I ask, regaining my voice with a noticeable rasp. He rolls his eyes. I like that too.
“I suppose,” he elongates the word, “the question is: why?”
“Oh, so we’ve gotten to the what are your faults? part of the evening?” I ask.
“I was thinking more along the lines of how is someone like you single?
but sure,” he says.
“Ah, well, thanks.” Despite my sarcasm, I feel my face heat again and curse myself for it. Three blushes in one evening? It has to be a record. One that I hope to never beat. “Honestly, the answer isn’t all that interesting. I’m just not looking for anything permanent. I’ve been told by Sarah that I’m independent to a fault.”
What I don’t say is that I grew up watching my mom bring home loser after loser, knowing damn well we’d all be better off without them. It only took her boyfriends a few weeks into dating before they started acting like they had some sort of authority over her—our—life. They usually started off small, like my mom’s favourite brand of coffee being switched out for their preference. Then it slowly escalated. Our soap-opera evening marathons became well, sweetie, the game is on. Why don’t you go finish up your homework in your room? Or no, we’re not having tacos tonight. Insert-boyfriend’s-name-here doesn’t like them. Then, eventually, they’d leave, and we’d reset. Sarah, her mom, and I would enjoy the brief interim before Mom’s next man came through, and then we’d look after Mom when that inevitably went to shit again. Because of this, I learned quickly that in order to preserve the life I wanted, I had to avoid inviting a man in.
But, like most hopeless-romantic idiots, I forgot my self-appointed golden rule in my early twenties and moved in with my boyfriend Jack— who wanted everything his way and didn’t care how he had to act to have it. That, of course, also ended terribly. I’ve been picking up the pieces since. My self-esteem and life plans are still, mostly, in shambles.
“What about you?” I ask. “In search of a wife?”
“No.” Bo laughs out, his eyes flicking up to the ceiling momentarily. “I am not.”
“Well, that’s certainly… compatible.” I chew my bottom lip, hoping he catches my not-so-subtle suggestion.
He catches it, all right, and stares at me a little too long. To the point where I start to feel my heartbeat pulsating in my neck. I wanted this response, sure, but for some reason, from Bo, it feels a little overwhelming. Perhaps it’s the way his eyes search my face like he’s trying to place me. Like we’ve met before. Or maybe as if he can’t believe we haven’t.
Whatever this look is, I need it to stop. It’s causing too much blood to rush to my head—making me warm and flustered and dizzy.
“I like your pirate’s leg,” I say in a truly horrific attempt to take the attention off me. “I-I meant—your costume. Not just your leg, obviously. The whole thing,” I say, floundering.
“Oh, well, good. I was worried you only wanted me for my leg for a second,” he teases.
I choose to ignore his flippant use of the words wanted me and take a sharp turn away from my blunder. “Has that happened to you yet?” I ask, reaching for my drink, praying it can cool me off. “I got a doozy of a message last week on Instagram. Reese24 told me his dick would look huge in my baby-hand.”
“Oh my god.” Bo’s face distorts as he laughs in horror. “Yep.”
“That’s so many layers of fucked-up.” “Truly.”
“But…” Bo lifts two palms, mimicking a tilting scale.
“No,” I say, punctuated by a shocked laugh. “No. Don’t you dare.”
“I mean,” his eyes turn teasing as he shrugs, “he’s right. It probably would.”
“Oh my god.”
“It would do a great deal for the ego. Reese24 may be onto something.”
“Awful,” I sputter through a laugh. “You’re both awful.” I curl my lips up to my nose like the room stinks as Bo sits back comfortably, his arm once again resting behind me.
We continue to make small talk for enough time that Sarah’s playlist has now replayed ‘Monster Mash’ twice. Bo laughs at my theory around the song, unlike witch woman, and eventually decides he’ll need to do his own research with a thoughtful analysis of the lyrics once he gets home. The party is starting to die down when our conversation does too. A slow fade to contented quiet and a third round of drinks fetched by me.
But, oddly enough, our lull in conversation isn’t uncomfortable. I’ve been on plenty of dates where the banter stops flowing and it’s easier to either call it quits or take things back to someone’s apartment than it is to wait for the next quippy exchange to roll in. But tonight, there’s no shortage of topics and no fear of some forced, humourless conversation.
These quiet reprieves feel more like intermissions. As if we’re performing for each other. Taking turns being the entertainment and the entertained. Keeping each other laughing. Keeping each other guessing. It’s fun, and part of me wishes we had more time before Sarah and Caleb decide to kick everyone out for the night. But maybe I could convince him to stay a little longer.
Given everything I’ve learned about Bo so far, I’ll have to take the lead. He’s so completely unaware of his own charm it’s comical. He’s shy, almost. I could see him asking for my number, but I doubt he’d be bold
enough to ask me back to his place. Which, I’ve decided, is what I want to do.
“Is this a wig?”
I don’t notice until I feel the back of Bo’s finger brush my cheek, but he’s holding a strand of my hair between his thumb and pointer finger, twiddling it mindlessly.
“No, that’s all me.” I gulp as his thumb grazes the underside of my chin.
He continues twisting my hair through his fingers, curling it around the backs of his knuckles as if it’s a snake he’s charmed. I fight the urge to crawl into his lap and purr.
“Sorry,” he whispers, wetting his lips. I notice that he doesn’t let go, however.
“I don’t mind,” I answer softly. What I should say is: keep touching me.
Anywhere you’d like.
“It’s beautiful,” he tells me, looking at me with an unsteadying lack of humour. He releases my hair and leans back, taking a long breath that flares his nostrils. “I’ve had too much punch, probably.”
“I really didn’t mind.” I lean in, trying to catch his gaze. Attempting to plea with him, silently, to ask for more. But it’s no use. He’s so gorgeous, yet clearly oblivious of that fact. It’s as endearing as it is frustrating.
So I decide enough is enough. I can take charge. I’m a modern woman, dammit. I can go after what I want, even if I don’t exactly practise that concept in my daily life. I can do this.
“Bo, would you like to go upstairs with me?” I ask, my voice a touch louder than intended after forcing myself to speak with confidence.
His eyes widen in surprise, and his head tilts. “Upstairs?”
I didn’t count on having to repeat myself. Or clarify. I feel like covering my face with a couch cushion, but screw it. I’m in it now. “Would you, maybe, like to go have sex with me? I have a room here,” I explain, trying my best to keep my spine straight in order to not shrink into myself. The illusion of confidence is key.
“Here?” His brow twists in confusion. “Yes?”
“Do—do you live here?”
“No, I just stay here a lot.” I wait a few seconds, hoping he’ll put me out of my misery, but he appears far off and a little stunned. Was I truly misinterpreting all of this? I’ve been off before, but never this much. This seemed like a sure thing.
He laughs nervously, his head hanging. “Uh, actually, um—”
Blame the neon punch, I tell myself. “Sorry. Forget I said anything.” I will lie to myself in order to move past this. Bo is a virgin. Celibate due to his solemn lifelong vow. I’ve been the most tempting offer he’s ever had, but he must stay strong. It’s not me. It’s not me! It’s not—
“No,” he says a little too forcefully. “Don’t—don’t forget it. Uh, sorry, it’s just”—he shakes his head—“I haven’t since…” His eyes fall to where his hand rests on his knee, right above where his prosthesis begins.
Ah.
I should think. I should absolutely think before I speak. But I don’t. I rarely do, unfortunately. “Did something happen to your…?” I finish the sentence I never should have spoken by pointing to his lap.
Winnifred June McNulty, you cannot ask people if their junk is broken.
What is wrong with you?
“Oh, no. Nothing. Top shape.” He winces at his choice of words. Or perhaps just the conversation overall.
I have to fix this. I’m not this person—the one who pries and fumbles and makes someone feel uncomfortable about their body or its differences. I cannot be that person. That’d make me a massive hypocrite.
I approach gently, resting my hand on top of his. “Then I’m sure it’s not all that different.” I hesitate, waiting for him to make eye contact with me. “I’m willing to try, if you are. It could be a lot of fun.”
He turns to face me, and his eyes are darkened, enlarged pupils and tight- knit brow. “Why was that so hot?” he asks, whispering, his voice near disbelief.
There it is, I think. A sliver of my pride returns.
“The moment you shook my hand with your left, I was ready to do this.” I bite down on my smile. “I imagine it’s something similar to that? Knowing I get the holdup, to some extent?”
His eyes dip down to my lips again as he nods, eyes entranced and glistening.
“So what will it be?” I ask, leaning close enough that I can count the exact number of freckles on his cheeks that spread across his nose like a bridge between them. “Because if I have to inquire again, I may attempt to drown myself in the punch bowl.”
Without hesitation, Bo closes the distance between us and kisses me, tender and brief, with his hand across my jaw. His lips are plush and warm and damn near intoxicating. “Yes,” he says, inhaling hungrily, his forehead pressed against mine. He laughs lowly, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear before letting the same hand drag down my neck, shoulder, and arm. “C’mon,” he says, taking my hand in his as he moves away to stand.
“Wait,” I say, pulling him back. “I’m going to go upstairs first. I’ll make sure no one else has gotten the same idea and is defiling the guest bedroom. You go to the kitchen and get us some water or something. It’s the last door on the left.”
“Okay.” He nods eagerly, a few too many times for my liking. It reminds me of Caleb’s puppy-dog willingness, causing a quick thrill of panic to course through me.
I can’t handle one more guy being too nice in the bedroom. I need to know that all this chemistry between us won’t fizzle out the moment we get upstairs.
“Bo, can you promise me something?” I ask.
His bottom lip pushes out as he nods again, less eagerly. “Sure?”
“I need you to promise me that we’ll both enjoy tonight. I’ve had a string of lousy hookups this year, and if I have to fake another orgasm, I think I’ll be legally required to become a nun or something.” I bite my lip, anxious that I perhaps am asking too much from him, a near perfect stranger.
He doesn’t bat an eye, but his boyish grin comes back in full, brutal force. “Win, if you walk out of that room sturdier than me, I won’t be happy.”
A leg joke? Be still my beating heart.
I cover my mouth as I gasp, a singular laugh breaking through. “You did
not.”
“I did,” he says, relaxing back on the couch. He raises his hand back to my hair again, playing with it as his eyes fall yet again to my lips with equal measures of desire and amusement. “Now… go upstairs and wait for me.”
