I have spent way, way more time than is reasonable or appropriate or healthy trying to figure out what Hanna is wearing under the new outfit I sort of picked out for her.
Gabe, Bear, Hanna, and I are sitting around the conference table, debriefing the first trip. It’s mostly pro forma—things went pretty well.
Which leaves a little too much time for my mind to wander.
Those pants. I guess they’re technically yoga pants? Or flowy leggings? Is that a thing? They’re fitted at the top and wide at the bottom, a dusty rose color that reminds me of the color Hanna’s cheeks turned the other day when she blushed.
I have obviously broken something crucial in my brain because none of what is in it right now makes one iota of sense.
I was unable to stop thinking about Hanna for the rest of the weekend after our shopping trip. Hanna preening. Hanna enjoying her hot self in the mirror. Hanna’s tits and ass and pussy revealed by the tight clothes I’d stupidly, foolishly, self-destructively, suggested that she put on in order to win over Bear Warden.
On Saturday night, I may or may not have lost a very serious battle with myself over whether it was wrong to jerk off in the shower while thinking about Hanna stretching and twirling and then—in my fantasy—turning to me to ask, “Do you like it, Easton? Do you like the way I look?” in a purring voice.
And then going down on me in…
…a dressing room.
Hanna.
Hanna Hott.
What is this madness?
I mean, it’s not like I’ve never had a sexual thought about Hanna before.
I just try really, really hard not to, because she’s my co-worker and my friend and it’s inconvenient. So, in the past, if I’ve found myself noticing her body or getting hard while I’m bantering with her (which maybe happens every once in a while, inexplicably), I just remind myself of what a complete pain in the ass she is, and also that she thinks I’m a complete pain in the ass. And if neither of those things works, I think about what Gabe would say if I touched a hair on Hanna’s head.
None of those tricks is working today.
“Thoughts on what could work more smoothly?” Bear asks us, derailing my inappropriate thought train.
“Oh, dang, I left my notes in my cube,” Hanna says. “I’ll be right back.”
She shoves her chair out and heads away from us.
I try not to go another round on the is-she-isn’t-she game, but in an effort not to try to catch another glimpse of Hanna’s glorious, heart-shaped ass, I find myself watching Bear.
Who’s watching Hanna.
Not like a drooling asshole. Just taking little bite-sized glances. Most men twelve and up have successfully trained themselves not to ogle, and Bear is no exception, but I’m also a man, and I know their tricks. Peripheral vision and scanning the room as if looking for something else. And then the occasional slightly longer glance, just to satisfy the craving.
I should be ecstatic for my friend Hanna, who has accomplished exactly what she wanted to with those skin-tight yoga pants or whatever the fuck they are. But instead, I’m experiencing above-average amounts of anger—at the pants. And toward myself for bringing them to her.
And again toward myself, for saying that thing about the underwear.
Because if she had panty lines, I would not be thinking, Is she?
Or isn’t she?
And if she isn’t, how does the fabric feel against her body?
Is it snug against her pussy?
Does it feel good?
It took me this long to reach this fever pitch of sexual deprivation.
What, exactly does that mean?
“—thoughts on that, Easton?” Gabe asks.
“I—I’m sorry,” I say. “I was thinking about something else.”
He raises his eyebrows. “I asked what your thoughts were about any additional obstacles we need to take into account when we do the rafting version of Bear’s workshop.”
Hanna comes back to the table with her notes and plops into her seat. “The only thing I really noted was that”—she turns to Bear—“we need to start cooking earlier. By the time we ate, I could have torn a rabbit apart with my bare hands and eaten it bloody.”
I snort. Bear looks a little taken aback.
See, this. This is exactly what I meant when I said she shouldn’t think about changing herself for him. If he can’t appreciate her blunt, colorful way of talking, then…
Fuck him.
No, no. I don’t mean that. Hanna takes a little getting used to, and Bear is demonstrably a good guy. If he weren’t, Hanna wouldn’t be interested.
“What if we keep the rafting or the hike—whichever we’re doing on a given trip—relatively short?” Hanna continues. “Then you’d have more time for the meat of the workshop.”
“Makes total sense to me,” Bear says, recovering and smiling at her. “The other thing I’d love to do next time is get both of you on camera more. I know you were basically just learning the drill the first trip, but next time I want you and Easton to get a chance to shine.”
“I don’t care if I get camera time,” Hanna says. “I want to learn how to forage and cook so I can add those elements to Wilder’s other offerings. Don’t you think that would be cool, Gabe?”
Hanna, ever the diplomat.
“We should probably talk about that another time, Han,” Gabe says, giving Bear a wry no-we-aren’t-openly-discussing-stealing-your-workshop glance.
“It’s fine,” Bear says. “If I can be useful to you guys that way, I’m happy to. And Hanna, I’d be delighted to share what I know with you. I’m looking forward to it, in fact.”
Hanna beams at him.
He beams back.
I resist the urge to smack my head on the conference table.
Barely.
My sister Amanda shows up, as she does almost daily, with lunch. Amanda, who’s the next older sibling than me and the only Wilder girl, runs a catering service called Around the Table, and one of her gigs is feeding us lunch every day. When she can, she shows up in person with the food and eats with us.
Today it’s Cuban rice and black beans. Around the Table’s lunch offerings have gotten extra delicious in the last few years, since Rachel, who’s Cuban-American, and Jessa, who’s Korean-American, started dating my brothers Brody and Clark. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love a good pasta bake—but the Perezes’ rice and beans and Jessa’s family’s soft tofu stew have been welcome additions to the lunch menu.
In addition to the regular staff—aka my brothers—lunch time often brings a raft of other Wilder family and friends—mostly girlfriends, wives, husbands, and kids. There’s a mob today, everyone descending on the offices from their various day jobs. Cuban food day tends to do that.
Today’s lunch mob crowds the table, jostling and joking, until they all remember we have a guest and step aside to let Bear to grab his food first.
Hanna’s the last one to get the memo. I’m standing too far away to nudge her, and she’s about to scoop a huge helping of rice and beans onto her plate when she looks up and sees that everyone else has drawn back.
Her face turns red.
See, that’s the thing about Hanna. She’s blunt and no-holds-barred, and she can put her foot in it, but I think sometimes she just doesn’t know how to play the game. Or she’s in her own head and can’t see that there’s even a game in progress.
I know she’s embarrassed, and I want to come up with a way for her to save face.
My way, I admit it, will probably involve giving her shit so she can give me shit back and we can both walk away from it laughing.
But what happens instead is that Bear gently takes the scoop from Hanna’s hand and fills her plate for her.
And Hanna turns even more red.
I’m torn between gratitude toward Bear for rescuing her, and irritation. Because Bear’s assistant, Cypress, is filming the whole scene, and I know that’s part of why Bear did it. Because he’s got this gallant guy role thing, and Hanna provides him with a chance to play it to the hilt.
But there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m not exactly going to call him out on it, and being nice on camera isn’t a sin—so I just get in line and grab my lunch.
By the time I get my food, Bear is surrounded by Wilders, laughing and talking and answering questions.
Amanda is the only one standing aside, setting out dessert on a card table she uses for that purpose. I drift her way, and she smiles at me.
“I guess Bear was a good bet,” she says. “The response to the first workshop was phenomenal. Everyone likes him.”
“Yeah,” I say.
Her eyebrows go up. “Do I detect some reticence?”
“He’s very… camera-ready,” I murmur.
“That he is,” she says appreciatively.
I scowl.
“What’s your problem with him?” she asks. “Even Hanna likes him.”
“I don’t have a problem with him. I just don’t think he’s necessarily as all-that as some people think he is.”
“Okay,” she says slowly. Her eyebrows draw together.
I don’t like that look on her. It’s her thinking look. Her figuring-it-out look.
For whatever stupid reason, I don’t want to be figured out right now.
At all.