Almost Matched (Almost Bad Boys) (13 page)

ELEVEN

“It doesn’t matter what you do in the bedroom as long as you don’t do it in the street and frighten the horses.”

Mrs. Patrick Campbell

Colin’s twenty-seventh birthday is tomorrow, and I have no idea what to get him. What do you get a guy for his birthday that’s not cheesy like a tie or something? I’m not good at it. I asked Ali at work, but she was totally preoccupied with sorting through new customer profiles, so her advice wasn’t original at all: ‘just dress up as a French maid and tie his wrists to the bed with your stockings.’ Yeah, yeah, and gag him with my garter belt. Like I couldn’t think of that on my own. Honestly, I don’t think gagging Colin is my best bet. Or dressing up in French maid costume.
 

I text Jena, but she’s in class and can’t talk. I call Caroline, but get her voicemail. Where are your friends when you need them? I open the fridge and contemplate the contents: milk, croissants, fat free vanilla yogurt, baby carrots. Well, there are a few other items like soda and turkey breast, but my mind is wandering, and can’t concentrate on food. So I close the fridge and flip through the People magazine on the kitchen counter. One photo catches my eye—a model in some really cool lingerie, stilettos, and a chef’s hat, holding a cupcake on the palm of her uplifted hand.
 

That image just rings the big-gun bells in my head. The longer I study the photo, the clearer it becomes what I’m about to do for Colin’s birthday. I grab my purse, put my shoes and a coat on, and go to my car. I’m going to drive to Garnelli’s bakery. Their birthday cakes are to die for.
 

Garnelli’s is crowded. Or it rather looks like it since the place is tiny, and a couple of customers make a good crowd inside. Mr. Garnelli and his wife are both taking orders and moving with a grace and speed normally reserved for people fifty years younger than these two tiny Sicilians.
 

When my turn comes, Mrs. Garnelli smiles widely at me. The smile makes the deep creases around her eyes even deeper and longer. “Ah, Natalie, my dear,” she says in the thickest Italian accent possible. “What would you like? Try these Tartufi al cioccolato.” She gestures to the small, chocolate truffles displayed behind her.
 

My salivary glands are already working overtime, and pretty soon I might start drooling. And my stomach decides to clench and whine. I cave in. “Yes, I will take a dozen. No, make it two.”

She beams at me and hands me a napkin with a truffle to sample. I’m easily persuaded, of course, and so I immediately stuff the chocolate in my mouth. My senses explode, and I experience a short but satisfying case of culinary orgasm. I immediately envision myself at home, curtains drawn, doors locked, eating one truffle after the next, and shooting nervous glances around in deep resolve not to share this heavenly creation with anyone else.
 

“Ohh, that is good,” I moan.
 

“La mia ricetta preferita.” She giggles.
 

“Your favorite recipe?” My Italian is a bit rusty, but I understand that one.
 

“Yes, from Sicily. From the aunt on Benito’s father’s side.” She points to her husband, Benito, who’s shouting something in rapid Italian into the ancient-looking rotary phone.
 

I nod. “Oh, I need to order a cake. A birthday cake. What would you suggest?”

“For Miss Allison?”
 

“No, for… uhm… for my boyfriend.” Why do I have such a hard time with admitting that I actually have a boyfriend? Old habits don’t die easy. I curse all the crazy men I’ve dated in the past who made me become overly guarded.
 

“Ah, orange Neapolitan cake then. Or Cassata Alla Siciliana. I will make one for you with my special almond extract.” She rubs her small, brown hands together, excitement shining in her eyes.
 

“I know the Neapolitan cake, but what’s the Cassata Alla Siciliana?” I inquire.
 

“He will love it.” She waves her hand indifferently and proceeds to explain what ingredients she will use.
 

It sounds great, and so I settle on Cassata Alla Siciliana. Ricotta cheese filling and candied fruit is the perfect choice for my plan. Plus a thick dark chocolate frosting. Mhmm.

The next day I leave work early and go to the gym. While abusing my triceps with a fifteen-pound dumbell, I decide to get a set of tiny crystal aperitif glasses at Macy’s for Colin’s birthday. After a quick stop at Bellevue Square, I’m on 405, heading to Seattle. I find a parking spot close to Garnelli’s and practically run there to get my cake. Mrs. Garnelli hands me the box with a red satin ribbon tied into a bow on top.
 

“Wow, this looks perfect,” I say and inwardly regret that Colin will never see his cake so beautifully wrapped. I dismiss the pang of disappointment and scold myself for such girly thoughts. What I have in mind is so much better.

Colin’s supposed to meet me at my apartment at six p.m. I told him that I would leave the door unlocked, so he needs to walk in and go straight to my bedroom. He made me promise to wear some sexy lingerie for him. I smirked, saying that we have a dinner reservation and would be leaving right after he arrives. I made it up of course, since the reservation is for seven thirty. Bad, bad, Natalie. But that’s the part of my big surprise. I doubt he came even close to suspecting what is to await him tonight.

I race back home and take a shower. After I get my hair to cooperate and look the way I want it to, I apply some makeup, and then put on my naughty-girl red lingerie with the fishnet black stockings and stilettos. I pose in front of the mirror, puckering my lips and fluttering my eyelashes like an idiot. That cracks me up and, despite having to admit that I look totally hot, I roll my eyes at myself. “You’re so immature,” I tell my reflection.
 

A champagne bottle chills in the ice bucket by my bed, and soft music plays in the background. I light a few candles and take a look around, mentally patting myself on the back for creating such a romantic ambience. The birthday cake is still in its pretty box in the kitchen. I go to unwrap it, stick one tiny candle in the middle, and bring it still in the box to the bedroom together with a lighter. I set the cake and the lighter next to the champagne, and then pull the comforter off the bed, and cram it underneath.
 

“Okay then,” I murmur to myself. “Now we wait.” I’m not sure who
we
are, but it sounds better than ‘now I wait”. Somehow ‘I wait’ seems lonely and desperate. And I’m not feeling like either.
 

I climb onto my bed and lie on my back, with my knees bent. I’m half-reclined against the pillow behind me. The stilettos heels sink into the sheet as if trying to puncture all the way through the mattress. I lift one leg, straightening it to examine my fishnet stockings and garter belt. I’m not wearing any panties, and the lacy babydoll ends right where the garter belt hugs my hips. Perfect.
 

My butt itches. I don’t want to scratch it, fearing that my nails would leave red welts on the skin. Not sexy; not good for the overall image I created. So I kind of rub my butt cheek on the sheet a few times until the itching stops.
 

The display on my alarm clock reads five fifty four. Six more minutes. Colin should be here at any moment. My heart pounds in my chest when I reach for the cake. Carefully I set it down over my pubic bone and very slowly lower my back onto the bed. My abs scream at that motion, but I can’t recline any faster. “Patience, Natalie. Patience,” I whisper, biting my lower lip. When I feel my back touch the sheet, I exhale in relief.
 

I hear a loud knock on the front door. Finally. “Come in!” I yell.
 

The door opens with a little creak, and there are steps on my hardwood floor. I lift my head and glance around one more time to see if everything—especially the cake—looks right. It does. Phew.
 

And then I hear old Mrs. Yeng, “Natalie, darling. Where are you? The mailman messed up again and put your letters in my mailbox.” Her elderly voice sounds like a squeaky herald of doom.
 

“Fuck!” I whisper. My first thought is to get up and grab my bathrobe from the bathroom. But I remember the cake. If I move, it will slide off and onto the bed. Or the floor. “Fuck,” I say again very quietly, and then I holler, “Mrs. Yeng, just set it on the hallway table. I’m… uhm… I’m in the shower!” The lie comes to me curiously fast. I seriously need to evaluate my dark side.
 

“What?” Mrs. Yeng is ninety-three, and her hearing is terrible. She lives two floors below me. I often lend her a hand and carry the groceries from her car. Yes, she still drives, and God helps anyone who happens to drive close to her. She’s a really sweet Chinese lady though, who usually minds her own business.
 

If she finds me here… like
this
… crap. What would I even say to her? Quick, think of something. Next, I hear another knock on the door, and I imagine—from all the people in the world—the idiot mailman entering my apartment. I squeal very quietly, trying to lift the cake without damaging it. But it’s already stuck to the inside of my thighs and to my crotch. Holy Mother of Sweet Jesus. My only hope is that they won’t open my bedroom door.
 

I start to sweat, quite profusely. I reach—veeery slowly and carefully—to my side table drawer and pull a washcloth out. I dab my forehead, underarms, and stomach with the terrycloth fabric. It feels way too scratchy and make a mental note to start using fabric softener.

I hear a male’s voice. Oh, no! Who the fuck is that? The mailman? That’s just the most stupid thought ever. But it keeps swirling in my head and refuses to dissolve into nothingness. Wait. Colin! Yes, Colin! Oh, my freakin’ gosh, it’s him.
 

At first, I don’t know what they are saying. But a moment later I hear Mrs. Yeng’s quaking voice dangerously close to my bedroom door, “She’s in there. She was calling out, but my hearing is so bad, I couldn’t understand what she wanted. I think she’s hurt. We must help her.”

Geez, woman. Where the hell did you get such a
brilliant
idea? Go away. Now! I frantically look around again, hoping for a flash of genius energy to my brain.
 

“I will check. You stay here.” Colin’s voice had never sounded as wonderful.
 

“Yes, you check. She stays there,” I whisper severely to myself. I press the washcloth to my face and neck, wiping off the beads of sweat. “Good Lord, please don’t embarrass me like this. I will make a donation to the Estranged Nuns or something. Just don’t let Mrs. Yeng see me now.” I’ve never heard of Estranged Nuns of course. It’s my brain, making shit up without reason or logic.
 

“Young man, if Natalie is laying there hurt, maybe even half-dressed, you have no business in seeing her degraded. It would be most mortifying to an unmarried lady to be seen by a male at her indecent state.” Oh no, oh no, oh no! I’m about to die. Mrs. Yeng most likely believes I’m still a virgin. I have to make a quick decision—stay like this and suffer the consequences, or dump the cake and hide. Ah, screw it. I paid good money for the cake. And it’s from Garnelli’s for goodness sake. It would be sacrilege to let this Sicilian beauty go to waste.
 

“Let’s just ask her,” Colin says in a pleasant and respectful tone. “Natalie? Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Please don’t open the door. I’m… I’m… I just got out of the shower. I’m getting dressed.”
 

“You see?” Mrs. Yeng probably wags her arthritic finger at Colin. “I told you.”

“You said she was laying there, hurt.” Colin laughs. “How about we let her dress in peace. Can I walk you to your apartment? Where do you live, Ma’am?”

I shake from nerves and hyperventilation. That was
too
close. I concentrate on breathing normally and slowing down my heartbeat. And I crave sugar. I always crave sugar when I’m nervous or scared. That cake never looked better. I dip my finger in the frosting close to my thigh, careful not to ruin the still-flawless surface of the chocolate. I suck it off my finger, almost forgetting about the company outside my bedroom door. They are gone. I’m sure Mrs. Yeng is totally smitten with Colin. The age makes no difference—women melt when he wants them to.
 

And the cake is slowly melting too. I feel a drizzle running down my folds and my buttocks. I’m covered in soft chocolate. Where is Colin? Ugh. I hope Mrs. Yeng doesn’t make him stay over for her legendary jasmine tea. I take another lick of the chocolate frosting. Yum, it’s so tasty.
 

I hear my front door open again, and Colin hollers, “Hey, Nat! Are you in the bedroom?”

“Lock the front door before more neighbors storm in!” I yell, licking my finger clean. I reach for the lighter and wait.
 

He walks in and freezes. A lazy smile starts to blossom on his lips. “Hmm, what have we here?”
 

I look in his eyes and slowly light the candle. “Make a wish, big guy.”