Wild, wicked way.
What does Finley think is wild and wicked?
My brain spins, crafting scenarios that involve her bent over the Batmobile, or daring me to climb the fire engine sculpture and test its strength for a wild, wicked screw. I have no fucking clue why my mind finds these images permissible for assembly, so I shove a hand roughly through my hair, trying to clear my head.
“And I’m not thinking of stripping you down to nothing and having my wild, wicked way with you either,” I say.
She dusts one hand against the other. “Good thing neither one of us is remotely attracted to the other.”
“Yeah, not at all,” I say flippantly. But wait? She’s not? “You’re not?” My voice ticks up. Why does her statement bother me?
“Did you want me to be remotely attracted to you?”
I shake my head, unsure what to do or say next.
“Because I thought this was about figuring out women, and Cassie in particular,” she adds.
I hook onto something she hinted at last night. “I’m not terrible with women. I don’t know why you think I am.”
And that came out defensively.
“I didn’t say you were terrible with women,” she says gently. “I said I’d help you with one woman.”
“I’ve had plenty of women, you know,” I add, since I can’t seem to stop defending my track record. It’s one I embarked on post-Cassandra. After all, she dumped me after we slept together once. Only once. How would I know whether that had anything to do with it? I decided if there was an iota of a chance that I was bad in bed, I’d work my ass off to become good in bed. Suffice it to say, I know I’m the latter now.
She crosses her arms. “Tell me more about all the women you’ve slept with. Was Cassie your first or your tenth?”
“First. Same for her. We were each other’s firsts. The night of the cast party.”
“And now you’re a stud. So tell me all about your sexual prowess. You’re a good-looking guy. I’m sure women flock to you. Do you have to beat them off with a stick? Maybe some brooms? Sweep them away?”
“All I’m saying is I don’t think I’m a terrible case. The women I’ve been with have been pleased, thank you very much. And I get along well with women I work with too.” I point in the direction of the meeting I had earlier. “Just today, a woman at the standards organization laughed at my jokes before she asked me a bunch of questions about female engineers.”
Finley tilts her head. “What about them?”
“If there were many in my field. Because her daughter is in a related field. So I told her I meet lots of women.”
She raises one inquisitive brow. “Did she tell you anything about her daughter, by chance?”
“Like what?”
Twirling a finger around a strand of hair, she tosses out, “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe did she say her daughter is smart, pretty, and lives nearby?”
“I think so. Do you know her?”
Finley chuckles, clapping a hand on my shoulder, doubling over in laughter. “Did it ever cross your mind she was trying to set you up with her daughter?”
My jaw comes unhinged. I start to speak, but I sputter. “Seriously?”
“I suspect so.”
I replay the conversation with Midge in my head. “I honestly thought she was making conversation about the field.”
“I suspect she was trying to glean whether you were single so she could play matchmaker.”
I scratch my head. “Really?”
She pats my cheek. “You’re adorable. You truly didn’t realize that?”
Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m not picking up on all the signs. I cycle back to earlier in the day. I meant female ones. Especially smart, pretty, and single ones. Smacking my forehead, I blow out a long stream of air. “I’m oblivious?”
Finley laughs. “I think you might have high levels of obliviousness flowing in your blood. Do you want me to test you?”
“Like a pinprick? Won’t hurt, will it?” I hold out a finger, glad we’ve slid back to familiar ground—teasing, joking, playing around.
She shakes her head. “I’ll be gentle.” She tugs my finger then pretends to stick it with a needle.
“Ouch.” I yank back my hand like it’s burned.
She shoots me a chiding look then declares, “You’re off the charts. Just like I suspected. Which explains why you thought it was okay to tell a woman her hair is fine.”
Ah, the plot thickens. I might have been oblivious to Midge’s ulterior motives, but Finley is putting her cards on the table. “This is about your hair and the fact that I don’t want to sleep with you?”
That’s a lie. I’d totally sleep with her. I mean, I would if Cassie wasn’t in the picture.
Rolling her eyes, Finley flicks her hair off her shoulder. “I don’t care if you like my hair or not. I don’t care if you think I’m hideous. I care that you don’t scare off Cassandra.”
But that’s what I don’t understand. What’s in this for her? “Why do you want to help me? Why do you care? Are you a hopeless romantic?”
“Hopeless isn’t the adjective I’d use.”
“Then what is your preferred adjective?”
She taps her finger against her chin. “Practical. I’m a practical romantic.”
“What does that even mean?”
She glances down the street one direction, then the other, then speaks like she’s revealing a secret. “Look, even though I don’t think you should Lloyd Dobler your way through life, I did like Say Anything. And I can’t help but root for you to win this woman back. You love her. You’re looking for her. I want to help you. And yes, selfishly, I’m curious how it all pans out,” she says.
“Because you’re a writer? Do you hang out with everyone you find curious?”
Sadness streaks across her blue eyes. “Here’s the deal. I have this TV show. It’s kind of struggling. Well, more than kind of. And I’m casting about for any inspiration. For ideas to make it fresh. It helps to get away from the screen and talk to interesting people, to hear about their lives. You’re interesting, and spending time with you is”—she pauses, licks her lips—“creatively stimulating.”
“You do know that sounds vaguely dirty?”
“You can’t say stimulating without sounding dirty.”
“Some words are naughty by nature,” I say as the iron mermaid catches my eye, reminding me why I stopped on this street in the first place. Inspiration. I need it for my rides, Finley needs it for her show. “What’s your show?”
“Mars and Venus. I’m the creator and writer.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No,” she says, laughing lightly.
I grab her shoulders, grinning. “That show is awesome.”
She smiles shyly. “Stop it. You’ve never seen it.”
I mime hitting a buzzer. “Wrong. I’ve seen every single episode. Every single one.”
“No way. I have maybe ten viewers.”
“Want me to prove it to you?”
“Yes.” Her eyes are sparkling with excitement.
“Fine. How about the one where Lane is convinced his shrink gives everyone the same advice, so Amanda makes an appointment and pretends to have all the same issues.”
The total delight on her face is beautiful. And I want to put it there again.
“But the shrink was onto the gambit, so she played them by giving them contradictory advice.”
“And they didn’t even realize it at first,” she says, completing the thought.
“What about the time Amanda becomes obsessed with what the T.J. Maxx salesman wore every time she went to the store on Friday night, and whether he only owned one pair of pants?”
She bounces on her toes. “They clearly had to get to the bottom of the mystery.”
“So she and Lane stake out the T.J. Maxx, and it turns out”—I stop for dramatic effect—“he organizes his outfits by day of the week!”