A/A/N: Hi all. I want to thank you all in advance for taking the time to read my small contribution to the world of fiction. This was originally written as a fanfiction piece but has since been modified to accommodate original characters. I pray you enjoy it.
I want to send out a very special thank you to VeryLongLadder who used her wit and eloquence to transform this once mediocre one-shot.
Black Versace Cocktail Dress... $1,280
Strappy Black High Heeled Sandals, Onyx Wrist Cuff... $432
Idiot Boyfriend's Net Worth... $106 million
Removing Said Idiot's Fingernails, Ripping out His Eyeballs, Shooting Off His Other Balls?... PRICELESS!
Our story begins as all stories must: at the very beginning. The beginning of a romance, the beginning of a problem, the beginning of a bowl of lasagna.
As was so often the case in Heather's kitchen, there had been no plan. Justyce, her best friend, and the boys had arrived at Heather's for an evening of poker, but after breaking into the wine it had degenerated into Robert's impromptu cooking experiment. It seemed there had been something he'd been just dying to try out, something he just needed to do. It'd taken him 15 seconds and exactly one of those pouts before she'd agreed, and he'd gone scurrying to the nearest shop with a grin.
The meal of course had been delicious. Robert and Heather had managed somehow to carefully position themselves at opposite sides of the table, but with the first bite Heather had made a noise that had him poised to lunge across the table. The entire group had gone silent, watching them, obviously enjoying the all new episode of the Robert and Heather Eye-Sex Show. It took a cough from Justyce to break the trance.
Naturally, their harmony didn't last; her kitchen had barely survived Robert's cooking adventures, with every single item of crockery, every last utensil dirtied in preparing the concoction. Upon seeing it Heather had turned to him, threatening the movie star's procreative capacity should the mess not be adequately cleaned. The noise from the kitchen spurred his pals to action, abandoning him to get to their respective homes and leaving Robert to tackle the disaster alone.
An hour and a half later, Robert stood and admired the spotless room. The dishes washed and re-shelved, the utensils relocated, the counters cleaned and the lasagna splashes removed from the walls. He'd rearranged the shrine to the Styrofoam deities in her fridge to make room for leftovers, and doing it gave him comfort. Maybe he'd annoyed her and almost ruined her kitchen, but he could make sure she ate properly for the rest of the week.
It was well past midnight as he trudged from the kitchen. His slave driver was fast asleep on her brand new rug, an open file from her security firm by her side, notes long forgotten. She looked uncomfortable, head resting on folded arms. He wanted to pick her up and carry her to bed, snuggle against her until morning. He was aware when watching her of a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with wine or lasagna. It was her.
After a few moments lost in quiet admiration he knelt by her sleeping form and shook the brunette beauty's shoulders gently.
"Heather," he whispered, "Heather."
"What?" She responded without opening her eyes or moving from her position.
"I'm all done. I need you to give me a ride." He paused, replaying his last statement in his head. "That sounded dirtier than I intended."
She groaned and rolled over, her arm folded over her face to cover her eyes. With the twisting motion her shirt began to ride up, giving Robert an unobstructed view of her midriff. Glancing up to check she wasn't looking at him, Robert began a leisurely perusal of the stomach on show. The room was lit only by a lamp, but even in the partial darkness he could see that she was as tanned and toned as he'd imagined: her waist a dramatic indent, a perfect navel on show. Robert felt his stomach tense, felt his mouth run dry.
"What time is it? Why can't you get a cab home?"
"It's almost one and it's raining outside," he whined.
"Jeez Louise Robert I can't deal with the whining tonight. I'm too tired. Either call a cab or crash on the couch. Stop being such a girl." She lowered her arm to look at him. Her eyes found his in the dim light, and as something crackled between them she felt the stirrings of a dull ache. "There's no way I'm going out in that weather," she added with a newly husky voice.
The actor felt the girl comment was a little harsher than necessary, but refused to let it show. Instead, he donned a sideways smirk. It was his I'm-about-to-mess-with-you-smirk. Sadly, she knew it well. He began a very slow, very deliberate inspection of her figure: his eyes oozing over her slender legs, dragging his attention across her hips. He deliberately held his gaze at her exposed torso, even having the audacity to chew his lower lip. Under the sweep of his eyes she felt her body simultaneously flush.
When he spoke his words positively dripped with lasciviousness.
"A capable agent like yourself unwilling to go out in the rain" he asked in mock horror which quickly morphed into devious glint. "Or is it you're afraid of getting wet tonight?"
She rose to her elbows, and smirked. It was her I'm-going-to-make-you-sorry smirk. Sadly, he had no idea.
She reached for him, took a fistful of his shirt and pulled him in close; Robert groaned as their lips touched, but for what followed, he was wholly unprepared.
Unprepared for a very wet agent indeed.
Unprepared for the thrill of a woman wrapped around him after almost a year of celibacy.
Unprepared for just how good sex on the firm floor would feel.
Despite his best efforts the movie star quickly, very quickly, lost his battle to keep from finishing. When he opened his eyes she was looking at him, sweaty and flushed. All it took was a quirk of her eyebrows.
"Oh shut up," he said.
And they started again. Post-floor sex against the wall and post-wall sex in bed extended the evening to a more satisfying experience.
So that marked the transition from Heather and Robert, security agent and client, to Rob and Heather, lovers. It was an easy shift, to their surprise. They'd expected the increased proximity would crowd them both and leave them stifled. When not working publicity events, the two spent most of their time indoors. He cooked for her, read to her, chained her to the bed. When they did venture out, it was to familiar places like Mazie's, The Salad Bowl, or a nearby coffee spot.
Which was fine. At first.
If Heather was surprised by Rob's restraint during public outings, it was only because he turned into an octopus behind closed doors. He made it perfectly clear that he loved to touch her, but wouldn't come anywhere near her when they were in public. For a while she was content to be confused, but after 4 months his distance in social situations started to irk her, concurrently doing a number on her self esteem.
He'd never guide her in or out of a room with a hand on the small of her back. Never a hello or good bye peck out in the open. Walks down city streets or through Central Park characteristically involved him stuffing his hands in his pockets while she either swung her arms loosely or folded them over her chest to keep from looking like an idiot.
But when they were alone, he couldn't keep away from her. Even when just sitting together innocuously watching a movie, he would cozy in so tight their limbs brushed, often drawing her closer to wrap an arm round her shoulders. They could lie entwined together for hours, just being close.
Though they shared a bed most nights, they never left at the same time in the mornings. Either he would somehow find a way to wake before her, dressing and heading for the door before she'd even had her first coffee, or else he would hang back, loitering with one excuse or another, delaying things until she was at the same time very late and very annoyed.
It wasn't as if Heather was massive on public displays of affection: she could often be heard complaining about people who were 'too touchy-feely'. As well she understood the ramifications of getting frisky with a celebrity in public. She'd already had more than her share of unwanted attention from the rags during her stint as the head of Robert's security detail. She didn't want him all over her all the time, she just hadn't realized how badly she wanted him to be proud of her, wanted him to want to be seen with her.
But then came the night out with Justyce and her boyfriend, Michael, a fellow agent who'd worked with Heather for years. They'd settled for something simple; nothing fancy, just two couples enjoying each other's company. They'd gone to that new place on 5th, excited to finally try the scallops the press had been raving about. Rob had warned there might be photographers – despite not having done a movie in a while he was still a major New York celebrity.
Heather had made more of an effort than usual, and it showed. In the car on the way there he couldn't keep his eyes or hands off her. She swiped his hands away with a grin. She'd been wrong; he was proud of her, he did want to be seen with her. They were alright.
As Rob helped Justyce from the vehicle they were spotted by a lone paparazzo.
"Can I get a picture?" The guy asked.
Rob threw his arm around Justyce and pulled her in close.
"Go ahead," he said, blinking as the camera flashed.
"One with Stormy Heather?" He asked, referencing the name the press had given her after she began shadowing the hot actor.
Heather willingly stepped forward, but Rob frowned and handed the man a $20 bill.
"That's enough for tonight." When he turned back the rest of his party were looking at him. He shrugged. "He was bothering me."
The evening went well, or as well as any evening ever went for them. The meal could perhaps have been improved had Heather's boyfriend not situated himself in a seat a full chair-length away from her own. Initially she was only slightly perturbed, and not a bit surprised, but the distance between them was soon emphasized by the fact that Michael and Justyce were so close it was impossible to tell if they had regressed to sharing a single chair. There was definitely something not right with her and Robert.
The coup de grace occurred as the friends made their way out of the restaurant. Heather and Robert stood side by side, joking about Michael's jacket, definitely not touching. Looking to all the world like Heather and Robert the platonic friends. Standing at 5'11" in her crippling heels, she subconsciously leaned in close to her man; pressing herself against him and letting her head fall onto his shoulder she laced their fingers together. But before she could bask in the warmth of him, the actor abruptly took a step away; her head slipping from beneath his jaw, fingers dislodging. He didn't look at her, seemingly checking their surroundings. No matter how closely they stood, she couldn't close the distance between them. What worried her was that perhaps he was happy with them being so far apart.
She didn't miss the questioning looks from Michael and Justyce at the actor's obvious aversion to PDA. In Robert's defense this was something they'd never talked about; it was an unspoken understanding that they would be hands-off at work. Maybe he figured that translated to all social situations, in fact it was entirely possible he was just as confused as her.
Okay, she decided, that was it. He'd always followed her lead, so lead she would. She slipped her arm into the crook of his elbow, trying to discreetly capture his attention. Somehow he wriggled free and moved over a step. She would not be discouraged, engaging him in a twisted game of chase, but for all of her attempts to cuddle her man, he took strategic steps in every direction but nearer to her.
She finally managed to grab his arm and yank him towards her, no longer interested in cuddling. Just as she prepared herself to call Robert out on his crap her phone rang. Cursing, she pulled her phone from her clutch. Her boss, how convenient. She was summoned back to work to deal with a new security detail, and he went home to bed. Without her.
So here she is two days later, dressed to the nines and looking sexy as hell, watching her boyfriend entertain other women. He's been over to see her twice, bringing her a full champagne flute and an empty smile, checking she's comfortable. He'd given her a wink and been on his way, and she'd have been pleased if only she hadn't seen him do the exact same thing to Justyce, Michael, their good friend Lance, Lance's fiancé Janice, and just about every other guest at the party.
They're at a movie launch for what he's claiming is the biggest blockbuster he's yet to be a part of. He's worked hard for this, she's seen it, and she knows it means a lot to him. He didn't even suggest that she accompany him to this function as his date. Of course she didn't care, not if anyone asked. She could live just fine without the attention, without the press. But it would have been nice to be asked. To know that he wanted her on his arm, wanted her with him. And how could her boyfriend not ask her to the launch of his movie? A movie for which she has memorized the script, routinely running lines with him every night. She's wearing Versace for God's sake.
She's trying to ignore the heated glances he'll shoot her way, as if she doesn't see he's doing it only when he's absolutely sure no one is watching. She seriously considers approaching him and making a scene until she realizes that outside of their immediate friends and family, there isn't a single person at this party who knows that Robert Freaking Love is hers.
And as it is, no one will ever know. He's laughing with some blonde, grinning into her camera and wrapping his arm around her. Heather frowns.
"What the hell is he doing?' It's Justyce. She looks as irate as Heather feels.
"He's an idiot."
"Girl what do you want to do? You want me to go over there and yank his ass?"
"I don't know what that means." Heather mutters into her drink.
"It means I drag the moron into the back alley and I act as lookout while you torture him, the same way he is torturing you right now."
"Don't 'Justyce' me. Did he drive the Porsche here tonight? We could always key that bad boy and flatten the tires. See how he likes that."
"Any damage I do will not be to his car." She stops. "I don't even know if he drove here tonight."
"What do you mean you don't know if he drove here? You guys didn't come together?"
"Girl, how long are you going to put up with this?" Justyce scowls.
Heather says nothing, taking her eyes off Robert long enough to throw back her drink. Justyce leans over, grabs the hem of Heather's dress, doing a very inappropriate girl-on-girl inspection.
"Where's your gun?" Heather swats her away and gives her the glare. "I'm not saying you have to shoot him, just beat him with it. I'll hold him down."
"Justyce, the man is working. This is how he does it. This isn't what he's really like; it's just part of his job." Neither of them is convinced. There's a pause. "And do you not see what I'm wearing? Where exactly do you think I've stashed my gun?"
"Oh please. You always have that damn gun with you." Heather sniffs; it's in a holster strapped to her thigh. "If you want to stand here and watch your man flirt with airheads that's entirely up to you. I'm just saying you're a better woman than me."
Heather looks down at the empty glass in her hand and groans out loud.
"I need another drink," she says.
"Those are the third pair of panties he's signed," Justyce whispers.
Fourth she corrects internally.
Not that she's counting. Not that she knows he has signed two bras and four very scandalous looking pairs of panties. Not that she is keeping a tally of the number of women who have caressed his arm, kissed his cheek, pinched his other cheeks.
She can't help but think about the underwear he's signed; how many were worn beforehand, worn and washed, worn and not washed, and how many will be worn afterwards. The idea that her boyfriend's personal signature will be sprawled across another woman's crotch is extremely unsettling.
She doesn't know what to do with herself. She doesn't know how to reconcile the Robert Love she knows intimately with the Robert Love Superstar-brand. One is a man who will suddenly stop while they're making love just to look at her like he can't believe she's with him; the other man doesn't even have time to drag himself from the embrace of the busty bimbos provided by his agent. There's the man who makes a forehead kiss just as erotic as anything he does between the sheets; and there's the one with a pair of red unmentionables hanging out of his dinner jacket, stuffed behind the lapel by a blonde knockout who also graced him with a kiss. One of them, she loves; and then there's this man.
Besides the open bar, the saving grace has been that with all the crowding and coquettish behavior, he has managed not to sign one pair of breasts. Of course, the universe hears her the moment she thinks it, and at that very second a pair of perfectly rounded mammaries are presented to her soon to be ex-boyfriend. Her soon to be dead ex-boyfriend.
"Oh hell no!" Heather can hear Justyce say but she is already out of her seat en route to collect her long-overdue drink. She's almost at the bar when she hears the M.D. calling to her security agent boyfriend. "Mike baby, let me borrow your gun."
The instant Heather sees Robert press his pen into the waiting, supple bosoms, his hand ghosting over the ample flesh her resolve snaps. He's grinning like a little boy in a candy store, and she can't bear it. She can feel the rush of blood as jealousy and hurt scramble to the surface.
Enough of the bullshit. She pounces, her hand flying to her thigh, willing and eager to single-handedly administer a breast reduction and a pre-frontal lobotomy with her .45. Before she can take her second step, her view of Robert's stupid grin is obscured by a man built like a refrigerator. He's in her space and babbling something about her being the most beautiful woman there, wondering (despite the roll of her eyes) why she is at this shindig alone. Her first instinct is to brush him off, to halt his advances, but in the corner of her eye she sees the flash of a camera, and she thinks better of it. Maybe this is the wakeup call Mr. Love needs.
So she pays attention. With his 6'4" stature, sparkling blue eyes and dirty blond hair, athletic physique, on any other day paying attention wouldn't be difficult at all. She takes his hand under the guise of introducing herself, but realizes too late that she's already forgotten his name. Did it begin with a 'J'? Jake? Nevertheless, he could be just the guy to make an idiot boyfriend fretful enough to finally break their public stand-off. Jack or John says something bizarre, but she makes a point of exaggerating her laugh anyway. She smiles, and twirls her hair, places a hand on his thick arm, makes a comment about how strong he must be. Any minute Robert will be at her side in a caveman show of possession. She can feel him watching, she knows she has his attention now. When James or Jacob places a lock behind her ear and runs a finger from her bare shoulder to her elbow, it takes everything she has not to break the damn thing off.
It's at this moment that she becomes painfully aware that Robert isn't coming. He's turned his attention to a whole new swarm of fangirls. Either he is confident that no other man could threaten their relationship or he simply doesn't care whether she's exclusively his or not. Heather just doesn't understand how they came to this; Rob on one side of the room with his harem and her on the other with Jake. Or was it Jonah? She doesn't care. Robert's actually turned his back on her and Jason: leaving them to it, not exactly the behavior of someone in love. Had any of it been real? Her eyes sting with tears unshed, but she blinks them away with searing resolve. She turns away, pushes her way through the crowd and out the door. She vaguely registers Jerry making a crack about making sure she leaves her glass slipper on the step outside, but before Robert can even turn around, she's gone.
Over an hour later she hears his key in the door to her apartment. Since leaving the party she has managed to do two things: shower and whip herself into a frenzy. It's only when she sees the door handle turn that she stops pacing.
"Hey babe," he says, noticing neither the scowl on her face or the folded arms across her chest. It constantly amazes her that he can notice her body, yet not notice her body. It's her pajamas he sees. She wears these a couple of days every month, but their last appearance coincided with Robert fiddling with her work computer, inadvertently deleting a substantial amount of client data from her security firm's database. He didn't get any that night.
Robert has learned that these are Heather's 'no sex' pajamas.
He says nothing, instead busies himself removing and hanging up his coat, placing the keys on the hook by the door. He unties his bowtie and rummages through his jacket pocket; pulling something out he laughs, and drops it onto her counter.
It's a pair of red panties! On her counter!
Crazy makes a reappearance as Heather storms towards her bedroom, mumbling something about this ending tonight. He doesn't hear, or he doesn't want to, and dead on his feet he makes his way to the couch. He lifts his feet onto the coffee table, reclines his head, and closes his eyes.
She emerges from the bedroom in a flurry, his overnight bag in hand. She slams it on the coffee table next to his feet, rips the zip open with a flourish. He doesn't even open his eyes. She disappears again, returning with an armload of his clothes. She shoves them brutally into his bag and heads back to the bedroom. She makes the trip several times; each turn presenting a new set of his belongings and soon reducing the bag to a sloppy heap.
She makes a final trip with his shoes and toothbrush, but as she returns to stand before him she is dismayed to find him asleep. She makes sure the head of the toothbrush is smeared against the bottom of the shoes, the table and the floor. Still, he doesn't move.
"Bastard!" She mutters, "How could I have been so stupid? I'm done playing games. Heather Buchanan does not play games. Time for him to take his shit and get the hell out." Her voice rises to a cruel mimicry, storming back to the living room. "'Oh Heather you're so wonderful. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. I don't know what I'd do without you.' Yeah right. Well it's time to find out buddy, because we're done!"
She throws his slippers at him furiously, one landing on the table and the other colliding with his leg. He splutters as he wakes, taking one look at the slipper and smiling.
"Thanks Heather, you're the best. These shoes were killing me." He slips off his dress shoes and replaces them with the slippers. He reclines again and drifts back to sleep, vaguely aware of noise in the background that sounds an awful lot like the opening and closing of kitchen cupboards, the refrigerator.
She's speaking, but he doesn't really hear it, and he hums in passive agreement.
In the kitchen she's bent over in the refrigerator, removing the tasty 'delicacies' he's stored in there. Robert has always had a suspiciously effeminate love of strawberry sorbet and peach cordial, and Heather gleefully grabs them in both hands.
"Cordial? Really? It's flavored water! Take this crap with you too," she yells. "It tastes like sewage. Who drinks flavored water? It's water, there is no flavor. That's the whole point."
She adds his coffee mug to the pile of fridge items in her arms, and pauses by the marvelous high-end blender that seems to have migrated to her apartment. Would he even notice if she -? No. Hell no. She won't give him the satisfaction of thinking he has anything she wants. It'd only bring back memories of him anyway. She'll save up and buy one herself, maybe as an early Christmas present. Yes. Hell yes.
Feeling empowered she drops the last of his things into the now-overstuffed bag, almost wincing as the blender clangs on the table. One of the water bottles topples from the mountain to land on his foot. He wakes with a start and sees the bottle.
"Thanks but I'm not thirsty. Think I might just go to bed; I'm exhausted." He rubs a hand down his face and forces his eyes to open, peers at the bag, filled to the hilt. He spots the trail of clothes leading from the bedroom, pulls the bag closer to him and starts rifling through.
"Are we going somewhere?"
"Not 'we'. You." She says it with a pointed finger, before folding her arms and shifting to her left hip. If only Justyce could see her now.
"Why, did my agent call? Where am I going?"
"Hell, for all I care. You can go to….to…..to Cleavage Ohio since you love boobs so much." It hadn't sounded as cheesy in her head. "I don't care where you go Robert but you have to get the hell out of here."
"Why? What happened?" He's on his slippered feet now.
"What happened? What happened? You're what happened. You're an insensitive ass who seems to enjoy playing with women's hearts." She takes a step back as he moves forward, placing himself between her and the bag.
"You heard me. I'm done with this Rob. I'm done with you."
He looks to his packed bag. "So you're breaking up with me?"
But there's a lump in her throat she hadn't anticipated, and oxygen all of a sudden seems that much harder to come by. To her horror, she can't say the word, so just nods.
He considers her, looking all kinds of hurt and if she didn't feel as though her heart was cracked into a thousand tiny pieces she'd be inclined to ease his pain as only she knows how. Long, tense seconds inch by until finally he speaks.
"You heard me. You are not breaking up with me. No way. You're not allowed to just break up with me."
Heather is so amazed she actually shakes her head.
"What? Are you sick?" She steps around him, squashes the items into the bag and wrestles with the zip. Cursing, she hands him the blender and rams the still-open luggage into his chest. "Get out Rob." Because no one tells Heather Buchanan she is not allowed to do something.
He throws the bag and blender on the couch and crowds her. "You are not breaking up with me. I waited over 3 years for this and just like that you think you're going to throw me out? No. Now I'll sit here, all night if necessary, and you're going to tell me exactly what it is that's got you so worked up. "
"Like you don't know." At his confused look she rolls her eyes and continues. "Don't play clueless. I just don't get you Rob, I don't understand. We waited 3 years for this, not just you. You spent years accusing me of pushing you away, but now we're together you're the one holding back."
"Heather," he says, "I swear on my life I have no idea what you're talking about."
"When we're at your place or mine you say and do all the right things. It's perfect. You're affectionate and loving and there's no doubt in my mind that you want to be with me. Then as soon as we leave the comfort of home you turn into this whole other person. "
There it is again, the sharp lump in her throat. She pauses to stop any tears. "It's like you're repulsed by me in public." She holds up a hand to halt whatever it is he's about to say. "I know you aren't repulsed by me. I know that. But you make me feel repulsive. You won't hold my hand, you won't touch me, you won't even come near me, not in public. I'm only good enough for the famous Robert Love behind closed doors."
"Is that what this is about? Public displays of affection? Seriously? Phew." He makes a point of swiping a hand across his brow. "I thought you found out I got frisky with that blonde in the bathroom."
Her eyes stretch to saucers and she can feel her blood pressure spike before he amends.
"I'm kidding." He laughs, but she's already battering him with the sofa pillow. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding. Sorry." When her arms tire and the pillow assault dies, he reaches for her. "Come here."
She pushes his arms away, frowning.
"Why would you think that was funny?" She says. "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to watch you with all those women? You don't have a problem at all with public displays of affection, so long as it doesn't involve me."
"Heather, it's part of my job, you knew this when we got together."
"Of course I know it's your job, but they don't. To them you're just some handsome bachelor who's only baggage is a ridiculously cute dog. They don't see me."
"Are you saying they're supposed to?"
"No, but you are."
There's silence, and he takes a step closer.
"I'm sorry, I thought you knew. But since you don't, I'll spell it out for you. You, Heather Buchanan, are the only woman I want. I am completely and utterly, head over heels, ga-ga in love with you."
Her heart has left her chest. It's gone and it's only now she misses it that she realizes Robert's had it all this time.
"You're forgetting Heather, I know how this works. The press have been pushing us together for years, but the moment the rags get wind of our relationship, they'll do everything they can to break us up. They'll figure it out, they always do. If they don't know already, they'll probably have some idea when we start planning our wedding. Or when we have the twins, Pride and Joy, because that's what we'll name them."
She can't help but smile. She's such a girl. His fingers are on her hips, warm against her. Heather can't help but think that Justyce would have something to say about that.
"What we have, it's special to me. I wanted to preserve it for as long as possible. So no, I don't hold your hand, I don't touch you, I don't –" he falters, "– do whatever else it was you said." She smiles. "But if you want to go there, I'm all for us going public. I say we do it big. You could let me have my wicked way with you in the middle of Central Park, or atop The Empire State Building."
His arms are around her, and she gives him a light punch in the gut.
"I'm thinking we start with a little hand holding before we graduate to full on exhibitionism," she says. He gives an elaborate sigh.
"Fine, if you insist. We'll do it the boring way." He kisses her, and his lips against hers are hard and soft and wonderful. "Are you sure you're ready for this? Because once we go public, we're an easy target."
She takes a deep reassuring breath, "Yes I'm ready, besides I'm anything but easy."
"Could have fooled me – letting Sir Hands-A-Lot cop a feel?"
"His name was Jake and I didn't realize you'd noticed."
"His name was Daniel and he's been banned from every other MGN event. You don't think I'd notice when my girlfriend is being groped by some other guy?"
"My girlfriend," he growls, sucking on her earlobe. "Now then Agent Buchanan, how about some private displays of affection?"
This is the night Heatherbreaks her own pattern, retiring her 'no sex' pajamas to give the man she officially loves a very private display of affection. The day after tomorrow, they'll make the front page of the New York Post. Very soon, they'll make the front pages for very different reasons: wedding announcements and pregnancies, movie premieres and commendations.
And so our story ends as all stories must: with a whole new beginning.
Replacing A Ruined Toothbrush... $80 (the fancy pulsating kind)
Dry Cleaning For Peach Cordial-Stained Clothes... $300
Paint Job & Replacement Tires (After some nut job (or best friend) targeted the Porsche)...$8000
Convincing Your Girlfriend That Overnight Bags Are Silly When You Can All Live Under One Roof?...
Reviews would be lovely. :)