Free The Wife of Reilly by Jennifer Coburn Page A

from the dead. It would have been a smarter move for me to let Matt’s call roll over to voice mail, but I couldn’t wait to hear his voice. On the plane ride home, I thought of so many things I wanted to tell him about. How the lady in the seat behind me snored like a power tool. How I read an interesting article on stem cell research. (I actually had read it the week before, but wanted to work it into the conversation to impress him, so I would tell him it was an article I read on the plane.) How I had a meeting in the morning with a man who owned a chain of jazz brunch restaurants across the country. I wanted to hear about his documentary he was working on, what his house looked like, who his friends were. Anything that had to do with him. I sat on the tile floor of my bathroom, resting my back against the bathtub, and watched the blue light from the window grow brighter as the sun rose.
    “Hey, Malone, it’s me.”
    It’s me. It’s me. Me. Like I should just know who “me” is. His confidence was delicious. Me. Do men get any sexier than this?
    “Hey, you,” I whispered. “How was your flight back?”
    “We landed. Everything after that is gravy. Hey, the address you gave me. Is it your home or your office?”
    “Huh?”
    “You wrote down a suite number here. Did you give me your office address?”
    Shit, why did I put my suite number?! How easy would it have been to just write “apt” or just the number symbol? How do I earn a living with this semi-functional brain of mine?
    “Oh, well, I work so much, it’s like my second home,” I laughed.
    “Well, how ’bout giving me the address to your first home?” Matt said. “Maybe I’ll surprise you one day.”
    I think it would be you who was surprised.
    “Of course,” I gulped before giving him the address to the loft. “Matt, I am kind of embarrassed to tell you this, but, well, I’m really kind of vain and I’d hate for you to just show up here when I look like a slob. Promise me you’ll call before you just come here?”
    “Malone, just the thought of you looking like a slob is getting me turned on right now,” he teased. “You know what they say about sloppy women, right?”
    That they’re lying, cheating, murdering adulterers? And they’re sloppy too?
    “Sloppy chicks are easy lays,” Matt said. “So, what are you wearing right now? I’m sure you’re not all made up at this hour.”
    Why are sloppy chicks easy lays?
    I tried to create a raspy sound to my voice, but came across more like an adolescent boy. Instead, I whispered. “Well, I’ve got on old sweat pants and my Giants jersey, and my mascara is smeared underneath my eyes,”
    “You fucking slob,” Matt said, knowingly and seductively. “Go on.”
    “And my hair is a mess,” I giggled.
    “Jesus, Malone. I am so fucking turned on by you right now. Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me over here?”
    Cool chick, think cool, sloppy chick.
    “I’ve got some idea,” I said.
    Finally, I am sticking to the script!
    “Take off your jersey,” Matt whispered.
    “What?” I whispered with masked trepidation.
    “I hate the fucking Giants,” he teased. “Take off the jersey.”
    My heart was pounding with both excitement and terror. I loved the thought of having cross-country phone sex with Matt as the take-charge fuck master. But at six o’clock, Reilly’s alarm would go off and he’d head straight for the shower. If he found me curled naked on the floor of the bathroom with the cell phone clutched in my hand, then he really would drop dead.
    Still, I had a sloppy vixen reputation to live up to with Matt. More than that, I wanted to take off my jersey as he ordered. Quietly, I tiptoed back into the bedroom and looked at Reilly’s clock without saying a word. Five thirty-nine. I grabbed my watch from the nightstand and scampered back to the bathroom to resume our conversation.
    “Okay, it’s off,” I told Matt.
    “You know what I want you to do now?”