“Mom!” I yell so loudly the other patrons turn our way. “What the hell?”
Octomom looks under the table, turns beet red, and jerks her foot away from His Royal Hardness.
“I’m so sorry,” she says to Tigger. “I thought it was Harry.”
Once again, Tigger seems impervious to embarrassment. “It’s an honest mistake,” he says. “It would’ve been worse if Gia had mistaken Harry for me.”
Great. Thanks. Now that mental image makes me want to commit suicide by sausage.
“No,” I say sternly. “I’m sane enough to know that foot play isn’t for the dinner table. A table in public. In front of someone I’ve just met.”
“Hey,” Octodad says, matching my sternness. “Don’t kink-shame your mother.”
“Yeah,” Octomom says, her blush dissipating. “You should be happy your parents have an amazing sex life.”
I glance at Tigger.
He seems to be on their side.
Taking a few deep breaths, I say, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to shame anyone. I’m happy for you guys. Just keep all your appendages away from my man going forward.”
Upon hearing me call him “my man,” Tigger gives me his cockiest smirk yet.
Octomom winks at her husband. “She’s jealous. Definitely not a pretend boyfriend.”
I stuff my mouth with tomato toast before I say something I might regret.
“Yep, he’s real,” Octodad says. “First one twin, now the other. It’s the karmic balance at work. Isn’t love grand?”
Is he on Ecstasy? Maybe both of them are? It might explain some things.
“Let us know if you ever need sex advice,” Octomom says to Tigger with utter seriousness. “Between the two of us, we’ve got decades of experience. We believe everyone should have the most toe-curling, mind-boggling, tantric orgasms they can accomplish.”
I nearly choke on my bread.
“Thanks,” Tigger says, matching her tone. “I might just take you up on that.”
Coughing tomato-y crumbs out of my breathing pipe, I squeeze out, “Or we’ll manage on our own.”
Octomom nods solemnly. “Just know that the support system is there, should you need it.”
A lanky guy waltzes up to our table with rubber bands on his thin wrists. “Good evening, folks. My name is DJ. I’m your entertainment for tonight.”
Ah. Right. Another reason I like this restaurant is that they hire magicians to work the tables. Though this is not my style of performing, I like supporting my fellow deception artists, plus there’s always that small chance that someone will actually fool me.
“Are you a magician?” Octomom asks him.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says.
“My daughter is too.” She nods at me.
DJ looks me over skeptically. “That’s nice.”
Octodad grins at DJ. “Are you as passionate as our Gia about your art?”
DJ shifts from foot to foot. “Sure.”
Octodad smiles. “I admire people who follow their passion. Magic makes people feel good. If you put out loving energy into the world—”
“Dad, let the man do his trick,” I say.
DJ frowns at me. “Maybe what you do are tricks. I perform effects.”
So, he’s one of those—magicians who consider the term “trick” demeaning. Some of my roommates are in this camp, but I consider the distinction silly. When people go home and tell friends about the magic, it’s always, “I saw her do this cool trick,” and never, “I saw her do this cool effect.” Even the term “illusion” is rarely used by lay people—and that word does sound better than “trick,” even to me.
“DJ, was it?” Tigger says coldly. “Please watch your tone.”
Wow. I’m conflicted. A part of me is giddy that Tigger is defending my honor, but a much bigger part is annoyed because I can take care of myself.
“Let’s give him a chance to show the tricks,” Octomom says to DJ with a smile.
“Effects,” he mutters, then pulls out a red sponge ball.
So, let me get this straight. He’s about to do something that involves an object resembling a clown nose, yet he wants it dignified by the term “effect?”
I don’t say anything because DJ already looks pretty sullen.
Since everyone else is silent as well, he performs a few mediocre vanishes with his ball.
My parents look bored. I did this sort of thing for them when I was ten.
Hopefully, I did it better.
Tigger looks grudgingly impressed, so I make a mental note to do something magical for him that also involves balls. All kinds of balls.
“I’d like to borrow someone’s hand,” DJ says in a bored tone.
“Have mine.” I open my gloved hand.
Reluctantly, DJ puts the “single” sponge ball into my hand and makes a magic gesture.
Feeling mischievous, I use this moment to steal the rubber bands from his wrist.
“Open your hand,” DJ says triumphantly.
I open, and two balls fall out—as I expected.
Tigger’s eyes widen.
Yep, I definitely see major ball action in his future.
“For my next effect, I’m going to use cards,” DJ says and pulls out a deck from his back pocket. “I’ll demonstrate a technique called palming.” He looks snidely at me. “Maybe you’ll learn something.”
“Excuse me?” I narrow my eyes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Hmm. Maybe that was too unfriendly? Cards are my weakness, so I guess I’m a bit touchy.
“Girls are bad at palming,” DJ says. “Everyone knows that. Their hands are too small.”
Oh no, he didn’t. If Clarice were here, she would make him eat that deck. She might be the best in the world when it comes to palming—and the fact that her hands are tiny only helps it seem more impossible.
“I bet she can palm better than you,” Tigger says and pulls out a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill.
“Yeah,” I say. “And just to make it easier for you, I’ll do it with my gloves on.”
DJ scoffs and hands me the deck. “Be my guest.”
I take the cards out and spread them out as I say, “Let me see if you play with a full deck.”
What I’m really doing is desperately thinking up something on the spot. Then it hits me, and I sneak the four of clubs into a palm position—something no one should see since the trick hasn’t officially begun.
“Name any card,” I say to DJ as I put my hand with the card into my pocket and fasten his rubber bands over it.
“Four of clubs,” DJ says as I get my hand out of my pocket.
“Four of clubs?” I do my best not to show my glee. As I hoped, he named the card most popular among magicians. Now for a bluff, “Do you want to change your mind?”
Please don’t.
He shakes his head. “I’ll keep the mind I have.”
Thank goodness.
“Watch me palm it,” I say and wave my empty hand over the deck. “Did you see it?”
DJ rolls his eyes. “You didn’t do anything.”
“Oh?” I ask. “Then what if I told you I did palm the four of clubs, snuck it into my pocket, then stole your rubber bands and wrapped them over it?”
Tigger’s eyes widen, and even my magic-savvy parents look impressed.
DJ’s gaze darts to his wrist, and he pales when he sees it empty.
“Want to check my pocket?” I ask.
Tigger clears his throat. “If he touches you, he’ll lose his hand—and he needs it to continue palming.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. How about you fish it out for him?”
Tigger complies, holding the rubber-band-wrapped card up to DJ’s face.
DJ snatches the card and backs away. “I have to go to another table.”
“I accept your defeat,” I call after him as he skedaddles.
“This reminds me of the bet I made with your father the other day,” Octomom says. “He thought my Kegel muscles were not strong enough to crack a walnut.”
And just like that, the happiness from my win is gone without a trace. All I want now is for someone to bathe my brain in bleach.
“Yeah,” Octodad says wistfully. “I still owe her a sexual favor for losing.”
Maybe bathe my ears in bleach also?
“Would anyone care for dessert?” the waiter asks, appearing out of nowhere and thus proving himself a better magician than DJ will ever be.
“I’m stuffed,” I say, though even if I were starving, I wouldn’t want to continue this conversation.
“I’m too full also,” Octomom says, and the men agree.
“Here’s the check then,” the waiter says.
Tigger snatches it quickly. “My treat.”
Octomom beams at him. “Only if you let us get it the next time.”
She thinks he’d be willing to do this again?
“It’s a deal,” Tigger says, sounding like he means it.
Somebody give this man an Oscar. Or if it’s for real, a halo.
“You’ll also have to visit the farm,” Octodad adds.
“Sounds good,” Tigger says.
Yeah, sure. Over my dead and fully decomposed body.
As Tigger pays, a hint of anxiety spreads through me. Bidding parents farewell, I miss whatever embarrassing thing they say as a goodbye because the feeling grows.
When we start the drive back, I’m able to pinpoint the cause.
I’m worried about that moment when we get to my place. Despite knowing that this wasn’t a date, my parasympathetic system is on full alert—as though it totally was a date, and it’s about to end in the usual disaster.
By the time he parks next to my house, I’m ready to bounce off the walls.
Tigger turns to me. “Just to make it clear, I will not try to kiss you.”
I blink at him, not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed. “You won’t?”
“Not unless you want me to,” he says, his hazel eyes soft and warm. “Bear in mind, we’re skipping all training today. If anything happens, it should be purely out of desire, not for educational purposes.”
Unbuckling my seatbelt, I process his statement.
He’s not training me today, but it also sounds like if I wanted to kiss him, he’d be down.
Fuuuck. Do I want this—assuming I can do it?
Hells yeah.
It might be lust clouding my common sense, but I do want it. Badly.
And why not? Even if it’s just this once, what better first kiss can I ever hope for?
He’s a prince. The only way a kiss could be more epic is if he were a frog that turned into a prince after a little bestiality action.
Which gets me back to “Can I?” That’s a million-dollar question. The answer is that it’s super unlikely today, but what I do want to try again is touching him without a glove.
That should be doable, right?
Tigger watches me think silently, and I can’t help but feel that he looks like a predator patiently stalking his prey.
“I want to touch hands,” I say finally.
“Sure.” He puts his hand out, like for a high five.
I shake my head. “I don’t want to do it here. I have bad associations with cars.”
He nods in understanding. “Just tell me where you’d be more comfortable, and we’ll go there.”
“My room,” I say. “But you should know that I will most likely chicken out.”
His lips quirk. “No worries. I’d be happy just to see another magic trick.”
I playfully narrow my eyes at him. “Like, say, my clothes disappearing?”
His gaze grows heated. “That would be nice.”
I clear my suddenly dry throat. “Just give me a moment. I need to make sure my room is presentable.”
He walks me to the door. “Come get me when you’re ready.”
I rush into my room and hide a few unmentionables before swapping my tricked-out shoes for an exact duplicate pair that aren’t enhanced. Then I set “The Final Countdown” to play on a loop to set a pleasant mood.
As I head back to get Tigger, I spot Hannibal going into the kitchen.
Oh, no. This won’t do.
I knock on Clarice’s door.
“Come in,” she says.
I stick my head in and ask her to take her cat and keep him in her room tonight.
“Why?” she asks.
“I’m bringing Tigger to my room.”
She claps excitedly.
I give her a flinty stare. “It goes without saying, but I’ll say it just in case: stay away from my room. I don’t think anything will happen between us, but if it’s about to and you mess it up, you’ll start finding laxatives and sleeping pills in your food and drinks. Sometimes separately. Sometimes together.”
She grins. “I love it when you ask me nicely like that.”
I leave Clarice alone then, and just in case, I conduct a similar “stay out” conversation with all of my roommates.
Here goes nothing.
I return to the front door and open it for Tigger.
He looks me over. “No hazmat gear?”
I shrug. “What’s the point? You’re clean.”
“And I’ll be even cleaner once I wash my hands,” he says, grinning.
He knows me so well. Grinning back, I wave for him to follow and point him to the bathroom. When he emerges a moment later, I lead him to my room.
“See, no serial killer getup either,” I say as he steps in and looks around. “That mannequin is for pickpocket practice, not to hang skin suits made out of ex-boyfriends.”
Tigger looks Manny over disapprovingly. “So you don’t attach dildos to it?”
I shake my head. That’s a great idea, though. Why didn’t I think of it?
Tigger’s eyes are catlike as he shifts his attention back to me. “What now?”
I take in a calming breath. My palms are sweating, and my heart is hammering against my ribcage.
“Put your hand out,” I say. “Like the other day.”
He complies, and the sexy flexing of his biceps makes the anxiety gnawing at my stomach worth it.
“I’ll touch your palm, okay?” I say.
He nods, his feline eyes hypnotizing me.
I reach toward him. This time, it looks less like a slow-mo high five and more like I’m channeling E.T. and his glowy finger.
Just like the last time, I stop when my finger is a hair width from his hand, so close I feel the heat radiating from his palm.
Damn it.
As if it’s got a mind of its own, my damned hand refuses to move any farther.
Closing my eyes, I even out my breathing.
“You can do it,” he says softly. “You’re stronger than you think, remember?”
As my racing heart begins to slow, I psych myself up by listening to the song.
“We're headin' for Venus.”
Well, that doesn’t really help. If women are from Venus, I’m headin' for Mars. I should’ve put on “Eye of the Tiger.” Granted, touching the palm of an attractive prince might not be as big of an ordeal as what Rocky had to endure, but it’s close.
“It's the final countdown.”
Yes. It is. On three, I’ll touch his palm or give up trying.
One.
I grit my teeth.
Two.
I open my eyes.
Three.
I use all my willpower… and my finger connects with his skin.