Free Acts of Desperation by Emerson Shaw Page B

water, and I’d never mixed business with pleasure. This, had pleasure written all over it. “No,” I said. “He was in advertising.”
    “Was?”
    “Yes. Was.” I held off on elaborating on the details of “was.” I felt it unnecessary to drag him into the ugly scene that had been my life that past Friday. It could have easily launched into a John bashing session and that’s a big no-no on a first date—if that’s what this was.
    “How unfortunate.” He grinned then leaned back and picked up his wat er again, locking his eyes on mine.
    We proceeded to have a conversation about normal get-to-know-you things while we ate our soup, but it was wrought with double entendres and innuendo. By the time our server cleared our soup bowls, I was aflutter. I excused myself to the ladies ro om, and when I returned with my composure, our pizzas had arrived.
    He stood and pulled my chair out, and when I was seated, I draped my napkin across my lap. I cut neatly into my first slice. I forked a small bite into my mouth while he, in true masculine form, picked his up and bit down into his. A roasted tomato slapped onto his chin and before he could catch it, it slid down and splatted onto the chest of his shirt. I lifted my napkin to my mouth to hide my snickering.
    He huffed quietly. “That’s great,” he said, chuckling at himself under his breath. He wiped his chin then picked the tomato off his shirt. He discarded it on his plate, and looked down at the stain. 
    “It’s not that bad. If you put some cold water on it, it might come out a little,” I said, grimacing.
    “I’m going to need to do something. I have a case conference at three. I can’t go in like this.” He picked up his napkin and dunked it clumsily into his water. As he blotted the stain, it didn’t lift. In fact, it slowly bled and was being surrounded by an ever growing wet spot. I could make out the hint of dark chest hair as the wet shirt attempted to cling to his skin. He sighed. “I’m only making it worse. There’s a Brook’s Brother’s downstairs, I might need to pick up a shirt before we head out. Whose idea was it anyway to put water on it?”
    “Hey, hey…I said put some water on it, not the whole glass.” I laughed. “But, I agree, you’re going to need a new shirt. Your jacket won’t cover it.”
    “Yep, I’m out of luck on this one.” He threw his napkin down in defeat. “Oh well.”
    After we finished our lunch, we headed down the escalator to the men’s clothing store on the first floor. We walked through the doors of the store and went straight to the back where a bulk of dress shirts was located.
    A sharply dressed clerk approached us and offered his assistance. Jax explained his situation and quickly picked out a shirt. After riffling through the stack and locating the correct size, the clerk went into the storeroom to steam out the wrinkles. He returned within minutes.
    “Here you go, sir. The dressing rooms are right this way,” he said.
    We followed him then Jax stepped inside the stall and pulled the curtain shut. I thought it was odd that a store of this caliber would have such a crude changing room system. A swift breeze of someone walking by would be enough to blow it open, but I guessed the laws that governed men’s dressing rooms weren’t the same as women’s, much like the doorless stalls I’d heard about in their bathrooms.
    I took a seat on the bench just outside his dressing room and noticed a small crack in the curtain. Jax’s reflection stared at me in the mirror. His hands and arms moved up and down, tugging his shirt from his waistband, and I couldn’t peel my eyes away. He undid his buttons slowly, each one giving a more revealing glimpse than the last. His dark chest hair lightly blanketed his hard pecs, trailing downward over his rippling abs before trickling into a thin line, and then disappearing into the mystery that lied beneath.
    P rovoking and taunting me from his chamber of torture,