Out On a Limb(3)

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.