Out On a Limb(2)

Couples costume? Me? Single Winnie? Puh-lease.

They must have mistaken Caleb for a pirate and my betrothed. Westley was the Dread Pirate Roberts, after all. So it’s not a far-off presumption. But my pirate style is a lot more of your classic wench-whore. My boobs are practically earrings at this height, and my fishnet stockings are ripped from years of re-wear, giving them the perfect accidentally slutty look. My waist is cinched with a wide pleather belt, and I’ve tied a red bandanna around my shoulder-length black hair. That’s a new addition after my accompanying pirate’s hat was lost during last year’s debauchery. May she rest in peace.

I will keep wearing this costume until the joke gets old. That wasn’t a lie. But it’s also because—let’s be real—I look hot in it. Additionally, I’m too broke to buy something new. But let’s not talk about that.

There’s another layer of Sarah’s genius. Lock down the cutest computer geek as early as possible, make them fall madly in love with you, and then wait for them to become filthy rich. Now Sarah’s the fun friend full time. Party hostess, event planner, voracious reader, a childless housewife with a maid. She’s currently trying to decide between themes for my thirtieth birthday party, which still isn’t for another eighteen months.

“Pardon me?” a low, sardonic voice calls from behind me, making me turn.

Oh, there he is. The other pirate I’ve been unknowingly paired with. Though this one, I would certainly not make walk the plank.

My first thought? He’s tall. Really tall. As if his body was stretched out with a rolling pin before being placed into whatever magical golden boy oven he was baked in. He’s got that tousled, nineties-boy-band, middle-parted hair that’s suddenly back in style. It’s dark blond, which I can choose to forgive. He has a crooked smile that says get out while you can under a not-crooked but rugged nose and soft eyes. The juxtaposition of which is strikingly adorable.

“I’m so sorry,” he says without any sincerity, “but one of us has to change.”

“Oh my god,” I say, flattening my skirt before resting my hands on my waist. “This is so embarrassing… What are the odds?”

“Right? I mean there’s no way either of us is winning the singles costume contest this way and”—he leans in to whisper by bending over at the waist, and he’s still taller than me—“I’m not wearing anything under this.”

I fight the laugh, not wanting this bit to end. I so rarely get a new sparring partner. Never one this cute.

“Well, that’s unfortunate. You should have planned better. I have a few costumes under this one.”

The corner of his lip twitches, but he seems to resist giving me any reaction beyond that. Challenge accepted.

“Such as?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

“A Viking,” I answer.

“Now that you mention it, I do see a horn peeking out just a little.” He motions to the side of my head with a bent finger.

“That’s actually standard issue for all of Satan’s spawn, but I could see how you got confused.”

“Concerning. What else?”

“A sexy maid, of course,” I say, batting my lashes.

“Well, that I have to see,” he quips back far too quickly.

Here, I think, is where I win the laugh-off we’re pretending not to have. Shock value always wins.

“But I must insist on keeping the pirate costume, I’m afraid. You see”—I let go of the hook’s inner handle and pull it away in my left hand, revealing my smaller, less-developed right hand underneath—“I am in need of a hook.” I wave at him mockingly, my tiny, curled fingers, shorter than the first knuckle, waggling as best as they can.

He doesn’t break like I want him to. But he does grin mischievously. His eyes crackle with humour, pulling me in at a concerning speed. I’d be frustrated if his expression wasn’t so damn intriguing. Something about his amusement signals that, perhaps, he’s one step ahead of me.

“Oh, I see. Well, then… maybe we can come to some sort of compromise.” He sticks out his foot between us.

You’ve got to be joking.





CHAPTER 2





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.