Just One of the Guys(47)

“Yes, I spent a year in Paris, actually. I loved it,” I say in answer to a Ryan question. And now Trev and Angela have moved on to family…kind mention of the O’Neill clan from Trevor, countered by Angela’s listing of two sisters…oh, and he’s telling her about Michelle, really, it’s such a personal and painful subject, I’m a little surprised.

“I never did learn to sail, no, but I do love water sports. I row every day, and I go kayaking once in a while. How about you, Ryan?”

Damn it. Trevor is laughing, and I missed the joke. Well. Almost with a vengeance, I turn my full attention to Ryan, who hasn’t noticed that it’s wavering. As I said, I’m good at this. Trevor is leaning forward to catch whatever Angela is saying, and I lean forward, too.

Just then, Ryan’s cell phone buzzes. He glances at it, then frowns. “Excuse me, Chastity. I’m so sorry. It’s the hospital. This will only take a minute.” He stands up, touches my shoulder and walks to the foyer.

The waiter brings the bruschetta we ordered, and, forcing myself not to look in the direction of Trevor and Angela and trying to turn off my eavesdropping skills, I pick up a piece. It’s fantastic, and I’m starving. The bread is warm but not too crisp, the tomatoes succulent, the basil fresh. I look at the ceiling, at the table, at my purse. Just not at Trev.

I pick up another piece of bruschetta, and just as I open my mouth for a bite, a chunk of the topping falls off the bread and lands right on my silky white blouse. Right on the left breast. I dash the tomato bit away—it leaves a streak of olive oil and a bit of chopped basil. I swish again, quickly, but the basil, which is about the size of one of those little round watch batteries, stays.

Directly over my nipple.

And the other thing is, it’s a little cold in here. You get the idea. I have a blob of green on my chilly nipple.

“Shit,” I mutter, dabbing with my napkin. The basil is stuck as if it’s been superglued on. Glancing back, I can see that Ryan is still talking on the phone. Good. Fine. At least he can’t see this. I dab again, but the basil fleck doesn’t come off.

My cheeks flush with embarrassment. If Trevor—or anyone else within fifty yards—is so inclined, he can have a perfect view of my faux pas. I sneak a glance. Trev is listening intently, his beautiful dark eyes smiling at Angela, but he seems to feel my gaze. As his eyes shift to me, I automatically jerk my arm awkwardly over the offending breast. He looks back at Angela, and I let out a sigh of relief.

“I’m so sorry.” Ryan sits back down.

“Excuse me,” I blurt. “I’ll be back in a flash.” Clearly, I can’t sit here across from Harvard/Yale with some basil on my nipple. Keeping my left arm angled awkwardly across my breast, I grab my purse and flee for the bathroom, racing past Trevor and Angela en route.

Safe in the loo, I hold my white blouse—of course, it had to be white—away from my chest and scratch at the tenacious basil. It doesn’t move, sitting there like an eye. “Come on!” I exclaim, scratching harder.

It’s a mistake.

Instead of flicking off as I had hoped, the basil has become pulverized. “Oh, crap,” I moan. Now, instead of a small green leaf fragment, I’ve got a green stain directly over my nipple, as if I’m lactating pesto.

Grabbing a couple of paper towels, I run them under hot water and dab at my breast. Big mistake. The green remains but is now spreading with help from the water. “Come on,” I mutter. The white blouse is wet, my bra is beige, it’s even chillier here in the bathroom. You get the picture. Looking in the mirror, I see what seems to be a bright green, anatomically correct nipple.

“Damn it,” I say through gritted teeth. Maybe dry, it will be less evident. Is there an air dryer in this bathroom? I look around desperately. No. Of course not. I’m stuck with the grainy brown paper towels. Why didn’t I buy that handy little bleach pen I’ve seen on commercials? I meant to! I really did.

I have two options. One is to cop to the stain and basically order Ryan and every other human in range to stare at my nipple. The other is to get help. I opt for help. Angela, who is organized, smart and thoughtful, will know what to do. Maybe she’ll even have the bleach pen. I’ll just flag her down and we’ll think of something.

Yanking open the bathroom door, I nearly crash into Trevor.

“Hey,” he says. “Were you trying to tell me something? You looked…” His voice trails off as he glances down. “Oops.”

“Shit, Trevor! I have a stain.”

“Yes, I can see that,” he murmurs, still staring at my breast.

“So? Do you have a bleach pen or something?”

“What’s a bleach pen?”

“Stop staring! How about a jacket? Do you have a jacket I can wear?”

“How about if I ask the maître d’ if they have something? You said a bleach pencil?” He drags his eyes up to mine and smiles reassuringly.

“Yes! Good idea, Trev. Bleach pen. God bless you. And stop smiling, okay? I’m dying here! Can you tell Ryan I had to take a call? An emergency call? Should we ask Angela to help us?”

Trevor puts his hands on my shoulders. “Calm down, Chas.” He grins. “I’ll be right back.”

I skulk back into the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. There’s my chilly green nipple. Hello, Eaton Falls!