“Oh my gosh, I totally forgot about Birdie’s Bakery, our little Christmas cookie scheme.”
“I think I can still taste your ginger snaps. It was supposed to be a hint of ginger flavor, not a burn your tongue off flavor.”
“Yeah . . .” she chuckles, “we might have added a little too much ginger. Thank goodness you guys were our taste testers.
“Yeah, thank goodness,” I deadpan. “How is Marla Hooch, is she still around?”
Emma nods. “She is, wearing a diaper now because she just squats wherever she wants. My mom finds it endearing, taking care of a cat with urine issues.”
“Endearing? I can think of a hundred other ways to describe that situation and they don’t come close to endearing.”
“Not into being the cat-pee kid?” Her laughter once again hits me in my soul, lifting me up.
“Never. No one ever wants to be known as the cat-pee kid.”
***
“Don’t wuss out on me, just take a sip.”
With lips sealed shut, Emma shakes her head rapidly as she tries to back up but is trapped by her chair.
“It’s one of a kind, lass,” Phillip the bartender says, a deep brogue in his voice.
“Yeah, it’s one of a kind, lass.” I mimic and hold the glass in front of her and shake the contents just enough so it doesn’t spill out. “When will you ever have another chance to drink this fine flavor of vodka?”
“Never. Not going to happen.”
I set the small tumbler on the bar and step closer, invading her space. I place one hand on the bar counter and the other on the back of her seat. With a low, seductive voice, I say, “I dare you.”
Her mouth quirks to the side as she slowly shakes her head, her soft, lustrous hair floating from side to side. Fuck, I want to run my hands through it. “I’m not the type of person who can be dared, Tucker. I’m the responsible one, you should know this.”
Shit, she’s right. She is the responsible one. I need a different approach. “Fair enough. You drink this shot of pickle vodka, and I’ll do something you want me to.”
That garners her interest. “Anything?”
I lean forward and whisper into her ear, my nose grazing against her soft skin. “Within reason.”
She scoots forward and tugs on my leather jacket while her eyes look up at mine. “What does within reason mean? What are your limits?”
“It’s startling to me that whatever you’re thinking might pass someone’s limits.”
“Just keeping my options open.” She wickedly grins.
I study her for a second and then answer, “No public nudity—”
“Well, there goes my idea.”
“Funny.” I nod at her. “Nothing that involves the freezing lake. Unlike you, I’m not interested in whether or not I can get a black foot. And I refuse to purchase the giant recycled material flamingo you couldn’t take your eyes off two stores down.”
“But it would be the perfect toilet paper holder,” she fake whines and then pouts her bottom lip. I stroke it with my thumb and shake my head.
“Sorry, babe. That flamingo will have to find a home with someone else.”
“Fine,” she drags out. She folds her arms across her chest, glances around the bar and then her head whips to mine. “Oh, I know.”
I don’t like that look on her face, the one that says I have something good to make you do. Is the pickle vodka really worth it?
“Do I even want to know?” I ask, a little worried that she’s going to make me lick the underside of one of the tables. At that point, the answer would be no. The vodka is not worth it at all.
“Do you want me to drink that disgusting vodka?”
I look down at the vodka and then back at her. “I really do.”
“Good.” She smiles and props herself up. “Remember when you went to the bathroom and left me here, at the bar, all alone with no one to talk to?”
“Yesss,” I say, unsure of where she’s going with this.
“Well, while you were ‘pissing’ as you so crassly said, I met a very nice woman who seemed to have taken a liking to you.”
“Oh yeah?” I buck up. “Hard not to resist such a rugged man like myself.”
Emma rolls her eyes and says, “Well, she said she would give anything to rub her face up against a set of abs like yours.”
“How does she know I have abs?” I ask, getting an idea of where this conversation is going.
“I confirmed when she asked. I said they were little divots you could get lost in.”
“Did you now?” I smugly ask.
“Don’t make me get a pin to pop that obnoxiously large head of yours. I was just giving the woman a happy image to consider during her day.”
Picturing a little old lady with white curly hair and a pink cane, I look around to find her. “All right, so what’s the deal? And where is this woman you speak of?”
Emma rubs her hands together and gets ready to lay it on me. Fuck, she’s cute. “She introduced herself as Floats Like a Barge Marge and she’s the dishwasher in the back. So the deal is, I drink this vodka and you let Floats Like a Barge Marge rub her face against your abs for ten seconds.”
My eyebrows lift in question. “You’re going to let another woman touch me with her face?”
Emma shrugs and takes a look at her nails. “Not like you’ve claimed me or anything so I have no reason to claim you. Although, if you actually put out yesterday instead of teasing me, your abs might be hearing a different request right about now.”
I knowingly nod. “You’re going to keep throwing that in my face, aren’t you?”
She leans forward and whispers, “Tucker, that was torture, so yeah, I’ll keep throwing it in your face.”
“You thought that was torture? You have no idea, babe. I can make it way worse.”
“Is that a threat?” She leans even more forward so our foreheads are almost touching from my bent position.
“I can make it one.”
Looking between my eyes, Emma says, “Don’t forget, Tucker. I’m the one with the hot pocket; you just hold the peperoni. You need my warmth way more than I need your meat.”
She leans against her chair and folds her arms again, causing me to throw my head back and laugh. Fuck if that weren’t the truth.
“Playing hard to get now?” I ask with a raised brow. She just stares at her nails. I sigh. “Fine, Floats Like a Barge Marge can rub against my abs.”
“Really?” Emma claps her hands excitedly and then lifts off her chair, standing on one of the rungs, and wraps her arms around my neck. Without seeming to take a second to think about it, her lips press against mine briefly before she taps on the bar counter. “Phillip, can you please tell Floats Like a Barge Marge that her dreams have come true?”
He nods, throws his towel over his shoulder, and heads behind the mirrored bar to the back. When Emma turns to me, she smiles brightly, kisses me again but this time, with a little tongue.
Hell, I like that. I like that a whole lot. I start to bring her in even closer when she pushes against my chest to sit back down.
“Hey, I was in the middle of something. Get your ass back up here.”
She wiggles her finger at me. “Uh-uh, you have to get those abs ready.”
“What do you want me to do? Hop up on the bar and start doing crunches?
“Might be nice.” She leans her elbow on the bar and props up her chin. “Kind of dreamy actually. Let’s see it. Do some sit-ups.”
I pull my jacket closed and turn my body slightly away from her. “I’m not some piece of meat you get to parade around. I’m a man with feelings,” I tease. “I have emotions and needs. I’m not just on this planet to give in to your every demand.”
She laughs, picks up the pickle vodka, downs it one swift swallow, cringes for a second, and then pats her mouth dry with a napkin. “Yeah, we both know that because if you were giving in to my demands, I would have had at least five orgasms by now instead of the one
from my vibrator.”
Holy fuck, Emma. Never in my life would I have imagined such a sentence coming from her sweet little mouth, but with every day we spend together I see a different side of her that I fucking like. Sassy, smart . . . sexy.
“I told you not to be salty.”
“And I told you to fuck me. I guess we both don’t listen to each other.” She winks and turns toward the kitchen door just as it starts to swing open. Phillip steps out first, holding a towel in his hand, leading the march like he’s the front man of a boxing posse.
In the right corner, we have Tucker Jameson, construction worker, and all around sex throb. In the left corner we have . . .
My mind goes blank as Floats Like a Barge Marge steps into view. Turning to the side to fit her shoulders through the doorway, a six-foot-five woman stomps—yes, stomps—toward me wearing a white apron, hair net, and white knee-high stockings. I gulp as she smiles, revealing a lovely gold shade set of teeth. With one swipe of her paw, this woman can flatline me in a second, and I’m a big fucking dude.
“There he is, the man of my wet dreams,” she says in the deepest voice I’ve ever heard come out of a woman. Step aside, James Earl Jones, we have a new Mufasa in the running. She holds out her foot-long hand and shakes mine. “I’m Floats Like a Barge Marge. And you, my little dumpling are . . .” She releases my hand and squeezes my cheeks together with her man-claw.
Barely able to talk over the clamp she has on my face, with my lips puffed out like a fish, I say, “Tucker. It’s a pleasure.”
FLAB Marge—Floats Like A Barge, see what I did there—lightly taps my cheek and says, “Oh no, the pleasure is all mine.” She rubs her hands together, looks down at my abs, and licks her lips. “I’m ready when you are.” She strokes her jaw and oddly winks at me. “And don’t worry, dumpling, I shaved this morning for you. This is one fresh face.”
Annnnnnd, my penis just shriveled up inside itself.
I glance at Emma who, with tears streaming down her face and her hand over her mouth, is silently laughing. Once again, seeing her so happy has me by the balls. With a sigh, knowing this will make Emma’s day, I lift my shirt up, close my eyes, and let Floats Like a Barge Marge do her thing.
***
“This is my wallpaper for the rest of my life!” Emma hugs her phone to her chest as we walk into another little shop on Main Street, Skaneateles.
“Laugh it up, pretty girl.” I shut the door behind us and take in the eclectic store full of house décor, quirky kitchen supplies, and coined tourism gifts.
She bumps my shoulder with hers and shows me her phone once again. It’s a picture of me with my shirt up, abs exposed, and a cringe on my face as FLAB Marge rubs her prickly face against my skin. Hands down, the worst ten seconds of my life—not really, but fuck, it’s pretty high up there. I’m scarred for life.
“I’d rather not reminisce on what happened back there.” I rub my stomach. “I’m not shitting you, I think she gave me beard burn on my skin.”
“She did not.” Emma laughs.
“She did. Ever heard of aftershave, Marge?” I pick up a wine stopper that looks like a daisy and then set it back down. Pointless crap, that’s what all this shit is.
“Maybe we can pick some up and you can give it to her, you know, as a little thank you for the experience.”
“And why the hell would I do that?”
She loops her arm through mine and rests her head on my shoulder. “Because you’re a nice guy?”
I kiss the top of her head. “Not that nice, babe. Hate to say it but my time with Floats Like a Barge Marge is over. It was a one-and-done deal. She got hers, I got to see you drink pickle vodka, which you took down like a champ amazingly, and now the moment is over. We’re moving on.”
“What’s Racer’s phone number? I want to send this picture to him.”
Or we’re not moving on . . .
“If you really think I’m going to give you his number, you’re delusional.”
She snakes her hand around my waist to my coat pocket and fishes around for my phone. I twist away from her and bump into a display of soybean candles, causing a slight clash of the jars against each other.
“Please no horsing around inside,” the shop owner calls out, sounding like a grumpy old coot.
Emma, of course, blushes in embarrassment and apologizes while scurrying toward me, trying to hide her face. From behind, I wrap my arms around her and whisper in her ear, “Oooooo, you got in trouble.”
Her boney little elbow flies into my stomach as she whispers, “You got in trouble too.”
I laugh and grip her tighter, ceasing her little elbowing attempts. “Yeah, but whereas it matters to you when you get in trouble, I couldn’t care less.”
It’s true. Emma has always been the goody two shoes, the compassionate and caring one. I’ve lived a hardened life and getting in trouble is nothing new to me. It’s actually quite fucking endearing to see how someone like Emma cares so much when she’s “scolded.” Fuck, it makes me want to wrap my entire body around her and protect her, tell her the world isn’t coming to an end just because she was lightly reprimanded.
I come to her side and put my arm around her shoulder as we continue to walk around the store. Her hand links with mine so she’s holding my arm that’s wrapped around her body. She’s affectionate, really affectionate actually, and I like it. I’ve liked that she hasn’t shied away when I’ve kissed her in public today, or that holding my hand has been a must for her while walking around. Stopping us in our tracks just to give me a hug comes so naturally to her, and I really like that.
Growing up, there was no affectionate mom in my life. Mine was neglectful. I would get hugs from friends’ parents when I was young, friends, when I got older, but I’ve never truly experienced the affection Emma dishes out. It’s sincere, wanted . . . needed.
“Oh my gosh, look,” she gushes as she drags me over to the kitchen area. Retreating from my arms, she slips her hands into a pair of lobster claw-shaped oven mitts and holds them up for me to see. “You need these.”
Attacking me with the oven mitts, she tries to pinch me but I dodge her while laughing. “Why the hell do I need those? So you can chase me around the house, playing demon lobster mistress?”
She pauses, holds the lobster claw mitt up to her chin and ponders for a second. “I never thought of that, but now you mention it, we are so getting these. I was just thinking you needed oven mitts since you don’t have any. But now that you mention this little lobster pinching game, it’s a slam-dunk buy for me.”
“Slam-dunk buy, huh?”
“Absolutely.” She jukes around, trying to pinch me but I’m too quick for her. When she reaches for my stomach, I yank on her arm and pull her into my chest where I trap her, arms at her side. No pinching is going to get her out of this little cage.
“What are you going to do now? Your little punk claws can’t help you here.”
“That’s what you think.” She wiggles in my arms but gets nowhere.
“All you’re accomplishing right now is some great friction between us. Face it, Emma, you’re trapped.”
“That’s what you think, but . . . with . . . just . . . urghhh, why are you so strong?”
“I work out every day and also do construction for a living. I’ve got muscles, babe.”
She struggles some more and says in a strained voice, “Yeah, but do you have brains? Hi-ya!” Out of the blue, she stomps on my instep, which frees her from my grasp, sending her into a turning wheel of booklets. The display topples over, and in cute Emma fashion the lobster claw oven mitts go to her mouth in shock. She looks completely horrified.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.”
The shop owner marches toward us, the depths of hell in her eyes as she starts picking up the display Emma knocked over. “I told you not to horse around. I’m going to have to ask you to vacate the store.”
“Oh gosh.” Emma starts fumbling around, trying to help the shop
owner with the display but is useless with her lobster hands. “Um, can I just get these items real quick before we leave?” Faster than I’ve ever seen her, Emma floats around the store and plucks random items from the shelves. She holds them to her chest as she walks over to the counter and plops them down.
I stand aside and chuckle to myself. Guilt purchases. That’s what she’s doing. She’s buying a bunch of shit because she feels guilty. I wouldn’t expect anything less.
Annoyed and wanting to get us out of the store as soon as possible, the owner leaves the collapsed display and starts checking-out Emma. When the total comes into view, Emma pulls out her wallet but I hand the owner my card before Emma can. I wrap an arm around her and kiss the side of her cheek. “I got it, babe. Consider it a little thank you for spending the day with me.”
Still slightly embarrassed, she mouths a thank you and puts away her wallet.
Disgruntled, the owner packs us up and sends us on our way. I hold on to Emma’s hand tightly, while I carry our goodies with the other and lead her outside into the chilly air.
“She was pleasant.”
“We destroyed her store. I feel so bad,” Emma replies.
“Don’t; we just spent over one hundred dollars in her little store. I’m not even sure what the hell we bought.”
“Me either,” Emma deadpans before looking at me and chuckling. “I was so nervous, I grabbed whatever I saw and blacked out in the process. Shall we look in the bag?”
Two lobster claw oven mitts, an Earthly Embrace soybean candle, garden-patterned cocktail napkins, eleven-bean soup mix, hummingbird feeder mix, and two “wine glasses” made of solo cups and plastic stems later, we’re in my truck, hands linked, laughing about the big night we have planned ahead of us with all our new goods.
***
“This soup really isn’t that bad,” Emma says while plugging her nose and bringing her spoon to her mouth. “You just have to avoid breathing when you eat it.” It should have a warning label saying, “Rancid. Do not smell while consuming.”
My bowl of the eleven-bean soup Emma snagged while at the kitchen store rests a foot in front of me, barely touched.