Plus ONE

Chapter 3

Kimbra

I don't see Mr. Willis the next day or at all the rest of the week. I even avoid talking to my mother. We shared a few quick texts. She told me the wedding is rapidly approaching. It's this coming Saturday. And even though she's asked more than once for Timothy's tux size, I haven't yet had the courage to tell her about his dramatic fall from the Empire State Building observation deck. Although the story makes me chuckle, I'm concerned that she'll be able to fact-check me on that one. I give more thought to the taxi story.

It's a little scary how much detail I've added in my head.

All in all, getting hit by a moving vehicle in Manhattan is more believable than plummeting to your death from a busy tourist landmark. My parents have been to New York twice to visit, but with that limited experience, they aren't aware that traffic is more often at a standstill than it is whizzing around city curbs.

The truth is that I wouldn't mind if Timothy actually had an accident. With all the talk of him at Scarlett's wedding, I can't help but recall New Year's Eve, searching for him at the party, opening that door, and finding him with Carla from accounting. When that memory comes to life, it really isn't that hard to envision him maimed or at the very least, missing a few key body parts.

As I emerge from the subway tunnel onto the bustling street, my phone's chirp fills my ears via my Bluetooth. A quick glance at my watch and I know it's my mom. Taking a deep breath, I decide it's time to bite the bullet. In my defense, for the last week I haven't only been avoiding my mom's calls; I've been helping Shana pack and get ready for her move. It may be a defense mechanism, but I figure if I keep denying that I have to tell my mom the truth, I'll come up with a fail-safe plan.

I haven't, and other than making Shana my plus-one, I'm out of options.

"Mom," I say, pressing my Bluetooth closer to my ear. The morning sunlight causes me to squint as I concentrate on her voice.

"What time do you get in?"

"Get in?" I ask, guilt filling me as I decide how best to break her heart.

As I play dumb to her twenty questions, I realize that I never made airplane reservations. s**t, it's Monday. The big day that the entire family—minus me—has prepared for is Saturday. Five days away.

To say I'm unprepared is a gross understatement. I don't have transportation. I don't have a dress...

"Thursday, dear. Your dad has that appointment. We tried to make it for another time, but the doctor is well-known for his work with those kinds of problems. We didn't want to wait longer, and we want to be sure we can pick you up at the airport. If we can't, Susan said—"

"Thursday?" I say, interrupting more conversation of my sister-in-law. "Mom, the wedding isn't until Saturday." I try again to deny the time has arrived to come clean. "Which appointment does Dad have?"

"The urologist. Oh, I've told you. Remember, it used to be with stress, but now—"

Okay, that isn't where I wanted to go. "Sorry to interrupt, but I need to get to work. You were saying Thursday. I figured Friday..." Or Saturday, ten minutes before the ceremony. I don't say that, because I know it won't fly.

Speaking of flying, why didn't I book a flight before now? A last-minute flight will cost a fortune and will probably take me to Indiana via Texas. I'll chalk that one up to denial too.

"Just tell me what time your flight arrives," Mom says. "You know it's race weekend. I told you not to book a hotel, and if you listened, there's not one available for miles. Besides, we have plenty of room. I have a surprise for you."

"You do?" I ask sheepishly.

"Yes," her voice brims with excitement. "I've talked with your father and even he agrees: Timothy can stay with you in your room."

"What?" I choke.

"Yes, you're a grown woman and we want him to know that if it'll get your man to propose, he can stay in your room."

"M-Mom..." I struggle to find appropriate words. How on God's green earth does she think that sleeping with someone in my parents' house is going to be romantic?

"It's all right. You know, despite this issue that we're seeing the doctor about, your dad and I are still quite active—"

My body shakes in denial as I interrupt. "The race. Crap. How did I forget about the race?"

"Well, I don't know, dear. It's only the biggest spectacle in racing. Your dad and brother aren't too happy about missing it. They were hoping to take Timothy. But there's the big family pig roast on Sunday. Dad had to give the tickets away. He gave them to Scott McKinney. You know, Darrin's father. By the way, your dad said Scott seemed disappointed that you are bringing a plus-one from New York. Apparently, Darrin was hoping..." she rambles.

My stomach twists. Darrin?

No. "Mom?"

"Oh! Did you get Timothy's measurements? I need those today. Besides filling in for his friend from California, Kurt wants Timothy at the bachelor party. You know, I'm not a big fan of parties the night before the wedding. Remember that incident with Jimmy..."

My neck stiffens as I feel the anxiety build. I can't avoid this any longer. No matter how badly I don't want to attend the perfect wedding or return to Indiana and field all the questions about why I'm not married, why I'm living far away in New York, or why I have a life instead of being pregnant with baby number three at twenty-five years old, I have to put on my big-girl panties and face the music.

"Mom," I try to interrupt as I push my way through a crowd of obviously lost tourists. "Mom, um, Timothy..."

"Kimberly, you're breaking up. What did you say?"

"We're not..."

"Kimberly Ann, I RSVP'd for you plus-one."

The anxiety grows as she says exactly what I expect.

"That was six months ago. Oh my Lord," she continues without taking a breath. "Tell me you're not single again! I was afraid this was why you weren't giving me his measurements. Why didn't you tell me? You know your aunt and uncle paid for a sit-down dinner. The reception is at the Hyatt. It's very fancy, place settings with real silverware and everything. Oh dear Lord in Heaven, don't tell me that I have to tell them you don't have a plus-one. I know! I can call Darrin. Do you want me to call him?"

Nothing like a little down-home guilt. I take a deep breath and tap the microphone of my Bluetooth. "No. Not Darrin. I-I'm...said...see...going...Thursday...rental car..." I say as I disconnect the call.

One day she's going to catch on.

In the meantime, I'm going to bask in the reprieve.

I told her...well, I tried to tell her.

My thoughts fill with the details of my upcoming trip of disgrace. I need to book a flight and a rental car. I need to buy a dress. If only my plus-one was as easy. I practice my responses in my head. "Children? No, not yet....no, no dog either...Married? No...Yes, I'm sure he's out there somewhere too...Yes, I suppose I'm sort of married to my job...." And then there's the abundance of disapproving looks from my aunt, grandmother, and mother as I sit in my assigned seat at the reception next to an empty chair or next to Darrin McKinney, Indiana's shoe king.

Maybe if I call Aunt Laura now, she can move me to the kids' table. Or I could get one of those blow-up, life-sized dolls.

I half giggle, half grimace as I make my way along the street to the building where I work at a real job. When I enter the lobby of the building that houses the offices of Buchanan and Willis, my mind is hundreds of miles away. Out of habit, I squeeze my way into the coffee shop.

"Caffè vanilla light frappuccino. Venti," I say while making mental notes: it's Monday. I need to be in Indiana on Thursday. I haven't asked for time off or bought a dress or ordered a blow-up date. My mind's a blur as the barista hands me my coffee and I turn, bumping right into him.

"s**t!" I say louder than I intend.

"Miss Jones."

I look up from the steaming coffee that managed to mostly stay within the confines of the cup—thank God for lids—and stare as some trickles down my hand and a small drop lands on my white blouse. My gaze goes to the floor. In front of me are those same shiny, dark leather shoes. My eyes move upward: his dark blue slacks that narrow at his waist. I suck in a breath at the way his suit coat hangs from his broad shoulders. Finally, our eyes meet.

Gritting my teeth, I force a smile. "Mr. Willis." I search his suit for evidence of our collision. "Did I..." I motion with a tip of my head.

Mr. Willis grins his panty-melting smirk. His deep voice drowns out the crowd. "Near miss, I believe. No harm, no foul. Have a good day, Miss Jones." And then he steps around me.

Shit.

A week ago, I was on my knees in front of Duncan Willis at a high-end restaurant. Now I'm bumping into him at the coffee shop. In general, I'm not a klutz; however, I doubt I could convince him of that.

First my mom and now this.

Can this day get any worse?

Not that any of that matters.

Shaking my head, I make my way to the elevator. Minutes later I walk the length of the hall and large room to my cubicle. Leaving my cup of coffee on my desk, I decide that before anything else, I should attempt to save my blouse. Maybe if I can wash the coffee stain away, my day will begin to look up.

Not wanting to strip to my lacy bra in front of half my female coworkers, I turn down a less-used hallway to a smaller employee bathroom, one with only two stalls.

Any other day I'd be irate about the coffee. After all, this is one of my favorite outfits, a white silk blouse, navy pencil skirt, big red chunky necklace, and red high-heeled, f**k-me pumps. It would seem like the shoes would be uncomfortable, but surprisingly they aren't. Besides, I love the way they accent the red. With everything else that's happening, sadly today the spilled coffee seems to rank lower on my list of concerns.

Stripping out of my blouse, I look at my reflection in the mirror and shake my head.

"Nice entrance, Kimbra," I murmur. "Face the fact. It's going to be you and Darrin McKinney or Mr. Blow-up, or..." I say with all the sarcasm I can muster. "... maybe you can sit at the kids' table. You've put it all off for too long. You are out of options."

My chest heaves with the crushing weight of my impending fate. My white lace bra barely contains my DD breasts as I attempt to fill my lungs with a strengthening breath. Carefully, I lower my blouse under a cool stream of water. As I gently rub the stain, the spot begins to fade.

Things begin to look up, until...

"Yes, in here..." A woman's voice coos near the bathroom door.

Shit!

"Of course," I mumble, clenching my damp blouse to my bare stomach and quietly slipping into one of the stalls. As I shut the door, the outside door crashes open.

"O-oh," the female voice pants. "Y-yes. Let me show you."

I shake my head. Really? It isn't bad enough that I have the whole mother-wedding thing and I nearly showered Mr. Willis with my hot coffee, now I get to listen to two people getting it on in a bathroom.

"A-ah, God..."

Silently, I sit on the toilet and hold my wet blouse on my lap. I might as well get comfortable and try to ignore what's happening beyond the stall.

I could hum, but it might not be their song. I could try to think about something else. What color dress would I like to buy?

"Oh. Oh!"

Should it be short or long? Sleeves or no?

"Y-yes..."

It's only the woman who's speaking.

Though my mind is doing its best to ignore the audible and disturbingly erotic scene, my body isn't following suit. My breathing quickens as I force myself to imagine dresses suitable for an Indiana spring wedding.

What are Scarlett's colors? I try to remember. My diversionary tactics aren't working.

The commotion beyond the stall becomes louder. More sounds...more breathing.

Holy s**t! Whoever they are, they're going at it.

My wrist vibrates, alerting me to emails or text messages. Ignoring that, I notice it's only a little after eight in the morning. I'm not a prude. I'm not against morning s*x, just not in the company bathroom!

The breathing gets heavier. Groans.

My core clenches and mind wavers between sweet bliss and indignation.

I should stop this. I work in HR. What is happening outside this stall is definitely against company policy. And at the same time, it's hot as s**t. Besides, I can't exactly run out in my bra and yell stop! Maybe this is the diversion I need from my sucky life. This will give me something to fantasize about during my upcoming shitty weekend.

I close my eyes and visualize the scene to go along with the sounds.

I haven't heard the man's voice yet, just his breathing.

From beneath the stall the female's legs bend. Blue pumps and a skirt come into view as she falls to her knees.

Oh s**t! "No!" I scream mentally.

The sound of a zipper echoes throughout the tile bathroom.

"Don't do it," I plead mentally. "Don't do it."

My mind may be disapproving, but the hotter it gets, the more my body agrees. I'm a little ashamed to admit, the sounds alone are turning me on. Wetness builds between my legs as I give in and allow my imagination to take over. Before I realize what I'm doing, I'm squeezing my thighs together, tighter and tighter.

A growl echoes through the bathroom. A growl...

Holy mother!

The growl rumbles through me, deep and primitive. Oh sweet Jesus. That's erotic.

I stifle a whimper and press my thighs as tight as they'll go. Taking a deep breath, I shift my body, praying for a little relief, but the readjustment makes my red pumps scrape the tile floor.

"s**t," the man's voice resonates through the small bathroom. My heart stills and eyes open wide.

"I-is someone in here?" the woman asks. No longer seductive, her voice holds an edge of panic.

Commotion—moving zippers and fabric straightening as well as the woman's heels and man's shoes against the floor. Without another word, they're gone.

He only said one word, but I know that voice. And those men's shoes.

I stand and place my forehead against the stall door as the twisting in my groin moves upward to my stomach. With my wet blouse still in my grasp and my wet panties beneath my skirt, I picture the man who just growled. Behind my closed eyes, I see his wide shoulders, his trim waist, the way his pleated trousers hang over his big c**k and surround his round ass.

Okay, I've never seen his c**k, but in my imagination, it's big.

Yes, I have imagined it.

The image of Duncan Willis becomes clear as I sigh in disbelief and yes, in frustration too.