Stipulation by Sawyer Bennett

“Do you have
your pajamas?”
    “Yes,” I
say with a smile.
    “And
toothpaste?”
    “Yup.”
    “And
everything you need in your briefcase?”
    “Double-checked.”
    “Finally…
and most importantly, did you pack sexy lingerie?”
    My eyebrows shoot
upward at Macy while she gives me a lecherous grin. “There is
no need for sexy lingerie,” I admonish her. “It’s a
business trip, for goodness sake.”
    “Yeah, but an
overnight business trip… two nights to be exact, with sexy,
hot, and orgasm-inducing Number 134,” Macy points out.
    “He’s
not Number 134,” I snap at her. “He’s Matt
Connover, my boss.”
    Macy sighs in
pleasure, assuredly replaying all the sexy details of my encounters
with Matt, which I ultimately told her about over two bottles of
wine. “He’ll always be Number 134 to me.”
    “You’re
demented,” I tell her. “Demented and sad… but
social.”
    Macy throws a pillow
at me, catching me squarely in the face. “Stop quoting 80s’
movies. It freaks me out when you do that.”
    “I did it just
to get you to shut up about Matt. You skeeve me out when you start
fantasizing about him based on my experiences.”
    Snickering, I bend
over and zip up my suitcase. I have to meet Matt at the airport in an
hour, so I need to get down and get a cab. Pulling out the handle on
my overnight and snapping it in place, I start rolling toward the
front door. “Will you miss me while I’m gone?”
    “I will
totally miss you while you’re gone,” Macy tells me.
“You’re my girl.”
    “I’ll
always be your girl,” I tell her, and then amend. “That
was Forrest Gump… definitely not an 80s’ movie.”
    “Much more
palatable,” she commends me.
    I give Macy a quick
hug, tell her to not get into any trouble while I’m gone, and
then head to the airport.
    When I get there, I
hustle my way through security and toward my gate. Even though JFK is
crowded, I immediately spot Matt. He’s reading a newspaper, a
briefcase and carry-on suitcase beside him. He’s wearing
another perfectly tailored suit, that probably costs more than a
month of my salary, and has one leg crossed over the other. He looks
like the height of confidence and sophistication all rolled into one.
    As if sensing I’m
there, he lifts his face up and scans the crowd, coming to a firm
rest on me. His whiskey eyes trail down me briefly, and then come
back up. The look isn’t sensual, but it isn’t
businesslike either. In fact, I might categorize it as wistful. Matt
gives me a small smile in welcome as I approach.
    I take a seat next
to him and ask, “How was your weekend?”
    I ask because I
still can’t help the inane jealousy that courses through me
when I think about Matt hitting up One Night Only as he said
he would. I also ask because I’m a glutton for punishment.
Because not knowing is worse than knowing the absolute worst thing he
could possibly say to me, which I realize is a confusing and
spectacularly tongue-trippy sort of thought had I indeed actually
voiced it, but since I used my inside voice, it’s all good.
    Matt doesn’t
disappoint. After staring hard at me for a moment, his lips curl up
and he says, “I had an amazing weekend. One of the best ever.”
    Bitter acid swirls
in my stomach. His comment is pointed, designed to hurt, and also to
make sure I clearly remember what he told me. Our time is over, and
he has moved on. He apparently had a great hookup with someone and
just like that… I’m forgotten.
    It makes me a little
bitchy, so I say, “What a coincidence. Me too. Gotta love that One Night Only .”
    That tiny muscle in
Matt’s jaw pops back and forth as he stares at me, then he
smiles at me. Almost evilly. “Definitely love it, although they
should rename it Two Nights Only . It was that good of a
weekend.”
    Oh, that pisses me
off, and I’m pissed off at myself that it pisses me off. Score
one for Matt Connover. That was like a punch in the gut and, even
though I have no right to