They aren’t drunk, this time.
Becca’s nearly positive that they both remember the time on the plane (and the time behind the bushes) but they haven’t said a word. Or, Becca’s said a few words but she can’t seem to get past “Maybe we should talk.”
But they aren’t drunk this time, and Becca can hardly breathe with how gorgeous, like, really, really beautiful Rita looks in this color blue, more than a hint of cleavage playing host to a silvery necklace that Becca wants to run her tongue down.
And maybe this barbeque wasn’t such a great idea, because Rita keeps shooting her amused-yet-irritated looks whenever her husband opens his mouth or cracks another beer, and the boys are fighting over some kind of hand-held gaming device and Becca feels a little (okay, more than a little) out of her depth. So it’s a good thing when Rita gives her a little wave and says “I’ve got more food in the kitchen, if you want to help me out. Maybe break into my secret stash.” She smiles and all Becca can think about is sunshine. (Well, sunshine and how good it would feel to have Rita’s hands on her, untying the back of her sundress and writing secret messages in her heated skin.)
“You know me, I’m always glad to help,” Becca says, managing to not think about how Rita’s mouth looks really really good in that shade of lipstick for enough seconds to get the words out.
“Oh, come on, baby. That was the thinnest excuse I’ve ever made. Just do what you’ve been doing with your eyes for the past hour and a half, I’m about to explode.”
They aren’t drunk this time, or the next time. Or the next.
(Rita’s breast looks just how Becca imagined, firm, in her hand.)