My Best Man by Andy Schell (top 10 novels TXT) 📕

you. And besides, it’s our inheritance we’re waiting for. It will be yours as well. So you don’t have to date him,” I offer, coming back to the sofa.

“Harry, I don’t date someone unless I want to. Besides, he’s great,” she says, enthusiastically. “He’s an electronics importer. Old family business. I told him I so desperately need one of those new multiple CD players.” She does the pouting gesture, bottom lip out, eyes drooping. She quickly reanimates. “He also has several other businesses and part interest in a racehorse. He’s going to take me to the Derby next year!”

“Winston goes to the Derby every year,” I warn her. “He’ll grill you like a steak if you show up with a guy named Kim.” “Wigs and glasses, baby. Wigs and glasses.” “What about your accent?”

She speaks in a perfectly British accent, “Not to worry, my dear Harry. I shall not expose myself in any way.”

“Impressive. So how come you didn’t spend the night with this guy?” I ask, fully ambivalent.

She looks shy. Reverts to her Texas twang. “First date. It just wouldn’t be right.” She’s in her Emily Post mode.

“Where did you guys eat?” I ask, sipping my coffee.

“On the Border.”

“Mexican food? He didn’t take you to the French Room at the Adolphus?”

She snaps quickly from the demure Emily Post mode to the thinking girl. “Oh, no. I insisted on going to On The Border. There’s plenty of time for truffles, foie gras, and lobster later on. First impressions are indelible you’ve got to make these guys think you’re low maintenance from the get-go. He’ll always associate me with On The Border, even when we’ve moved on to the Adolphus. Believe me, babe, it’s to my advantage to sit there and eat my inexpensive Mexican food. Besides, I had a taco salad! Have you heard of them? They’re these new things a big ole fried bowl of dough with everything but the cocina sink thrown in. By the time we left the restaurant, I was farting like Mama Cass’s corpse. And oh!” she says, her eyes flashing. “I told him you’re gay. So he doesn’t know about us, of course.” Then she changes her tone, to sex kitten, while sliding her hand over my back and down to my ass. “I don’t want him to know how my man really makes me feel,” she purrs. “I have to pretend I’m his girl, so he thinks you and I are just roommates.” She pulls herself to me and whispers in my ear, “He’ll never know I’m your girl.”

It’s as if we’re fooling the whole world, but not ourselves. Or are we? She smiles devilishly at me and raises an eyebrow. This whole conversation has made me uncomfortable. In fact, this whole charade is starting to gross me out. “Amity, Troy called again last night.”

She looks slightly agitated, rises, goes to the kitchen. “Just a minute, babe,” she calls, ,“I need some more lemon and tea.”

“He’s just so pathetic,” I yell. “Can’t you at least talk to him?” “I don’t know what else there is to say!” she answers, exasperated. She wishes I’d drop it. I’ve been bringing it up now and then, and her Southern calm is being tested, I can tell.

“He didn’t get your note,” I say.

AllOy onunn

“Then I’ll send another one?” she chirps. “Or I’ll call him. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of Troy.”

Amity is out on a date. I pick up the phone on the fourth ring, just before the machine clicks on, hoping that it’s Nicolo, but knowing it’s probably Amity offering to bring home food. “Hello?” “Harry?” “Yes?” “Nicolo.”

Two days. I’ve waited two whole days for this call, but it seems like forever. I was starting to wonder if he’d ever call. I had imaginary conversations in my head with him for practice, and I was so suave, cool, and funny that I almost wanted to date myself. “Hey, Nicolo,” I answer, all those urbane conversation skills pounded out of me by my nervous heartbeat. “Hey, Nicolo.” That’s it. That’s all I can say.

“How come a cute guy like you is home on a Monday night?”

he asks quietly.

“Football.”

“Who’s playing?” he asks, almost in a whisper.

“I don’t know,” I laugh nervously, swallowing. “TV’s not on.

I never watch it.”

He laughs. “I do not blame you. Besides, it’s not really football. Football is what we play in Argentina. We use a lot more feet, and we have more balls,” he says, flirting with me.

“I don’t doubt it,” I say, doing my best sexy-man voice though I probably sound like a nervous telemarketer. “So where are you?”

“I’m at the library,” he answers. “On a pay phone. That’s why

I sound so romantic, because I have to whisper.”

“Damn,” I answer, relaxing. “I thought you were trying to seduce me.”

“Maybe I am.”

I take the phone cord in my hand and twist it around my finger. “How will I know for sure?”

“The next time you see me, if I’m wearing a light yellow shortsleeve polo shirt, and a faded pair of button-fly jeans, then that means I’m trying to seduce you.”

“Your two favorite pieces of clothing?”

“They work better than drugs and alcohol, and there’s no hang over.”

“So you’re a nice heM thy Latin American boy, huh?” “Mind and body.”

‘ The body is evident. I’ll have to get to know the mind.” “I’m hoping you will,” he says strongly. “I knew when I saw you at the restaurant that I liked your looks, but after listening to you speak, I knew that I also liked the inside of you. It makes me want to offer the inside of me.”

Whoa. He’s not messing around. Man, it’s hard to find this kind of forthright honesty from an American boy. I’m unbelievably flattered, but I’m also taken aback. “I’d like that,” I answer sincerely

“Good. I’m hoping to get a day off sometime next week. It’s hard for me. I go to school full-time, and I work full-time.” “What are you studying?” I ask. “Journalism. It’s a family