Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
But this isn’t a Shakespeare play, this is my real life, and I desperately need some sane, solid advice. “No. I did something much worse.”
Elaina’s eyes glitter with excitement as she claps her hands softly together, bouncing on her toes. “Oh, yay! I’m so excited. You have to tell me everything! Throw on an apron and get back here. We can gossip between customers.”
“I’m serious, Elaina,” I say, frowning at my still delighted best friend. “I did a bad thing. For real. A very bad thing, and I can’t take it back, and if anyone in my family finds out, they’re going to hate me forever. I might hate me forever. I haven’t decided yet.”
Her smile fades and a worry line forms between her warm brown eyes. “Okay, okay, I hear you. We’re in crisis containment mode, not gossip mode. Got it. Just put on an apron and come sit next to your bestie, baby squirrel. We’ll figure this out. We always do.”
She’s right. We do figure things out. We’ve been problem-solving together since before we could read.
Back in kindergarten, Elaina would give me half her cookie at lunch, supplying the sugar fix my mother denied me, and I would boost my much shorter friend up on the monkey bars during recess so she could dangle from her knees beside me. We’ve been making up for what the other one lacks for going on two decades.
If anyone can help me figure out how to contain this latest crisis, it’s her.
“And get yourself a scone or something,” she calls after me as I head into the cat-heavy section of the café, where lazy felines bask in the morning sun streaming through the big windows or lounge on couches and tattered wingback chairs. “You look hungry.”
I’m pretty sure I look sick, not hungry, but she’s right. It’s hard to think straight on an empty stomach, and I didn’t eat much for dinner last night, either. I punch the access code into the door leading back to the kitchen and slip into the spotless food prep area with a sigh. I don’t remember baking with my mom as a kid, though Gramps said we made Christmas cookies together when I was really small, but I have enough warm memories of this kitchen to last a lifetime.
Elaina, Maya, and me—and sometimes our long-distance bestie, Sydney, from New York, who’s here in the summers—have spent hours in here sipping wine in the evenings, helping Elaina bake for vendors at the local farmers’ markets or for the country store down the street. We’ve helped make cakes for local friends’ weddings and baby showers, soda bread for Saint Patrick’s Day, and chocolate truffle candies…just because.
Because we like truffles and we relish a treat and because all four of us have been out with enough losers to know we shouldn’t wait for a guy to give us chocolate.
We shouldn’t wait for a guy to give us love or support, either.
I’ve always been proud that I have such strong emotional ties with my friends. I knew that my support for them and their support for me was what made it possible for me to be so picky about dating. I didn’t need a man for anything, so I was free to wait until I met someone who was everything I wanted in a partner.
And sure, I have urges that weren’t satisfied by a hug from a friend, but I also have a vibrator and a fabulous collection of kinky short stories on my phone. Until now, that’s always been enough.
But after last night…
As I toast an English muffin and fetch my favorite strawberry cream cheese from the fridge, I do my best not to think about all the things Weaver did to me…or how much I want him to do them again.
I can’t step foot on his boat again, let alone anywhere near his bed. Having sex with him when I didn’t know who he was is forgivable. Going back for more when I know damned well that he had a romantic relationship, no matter how brief, with my mother would be the rancid act of a depraved sex fiend.
And I am not depraved.
Or a sex fiend.
But as I finish my breakfast and fetch a mug for coffee from the collection hanging on the wall above the sink, I’m keenly aware of the ache between my legs. Part of it is being sore from having sex for the first time, but part of it is from wishing I were still in Weaver’s bed, with his talented hands warm on my skin, making me feel things I had no idea my body was capable of feeling.
A vibrator just can’t compare. It doesn’t even come close.
Or maybe I just need better toys…
That’s something Elaina will be able to help me with. She’s unabashedly sex positive and a big proponent of meeting her own needs when she’s in between partners. Bare minimum, I’m going to leave the café this morning with a list of top-notch vibrators and dildos, if not the absolution I’m pretty sure only a priest could give me at this point.