All the Frogs in Manhattan - Carrie Aarons

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ALL THE FROGS IN M A N H AT TA N

CARRIE AARONS

Co nte nts Author’s Note Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21

Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Epilogue About the Author Also by Carrie Aarons

Copyright © 2017 by Carrie Aarons All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Editing done by Proofing Style. Cover designed by Okay Creations.

To all of the jerks who broke our hearts and gave us hilarious material, this one is for you.

Author’s Note

that some of the New York City events in Ithisknow novel won’t be factually correct, or fall on the historically accurate date in which they typically fall on. For the purposes of this story, I needed to change the timing on certain happenings or occasions. I hope that doesn’t detract from your reading and following Gemma and Oliver’s journey. And if it does, I’ll buy you an ice cream.

Chapter One GE M M A

id you know that it takes three times the effort D to wear high heels on any given day? I do. I've calculated it down to a science. And there are three factors as to why these goddamn death contraptions make us the weaker sex by simply sliding a toe into them. First of all, you must navigate in high heels. I swear, they design cities with footwear land mines installed purely to torture women. Curbs, subway grates, cellar doors. And cobblestones? Fucking

forget it. Then we have to worry about weather. Going out in rain? Wear a pair of stilettos with traction on the bottom, or you'll slide face first into the pavement, giving the big old Apple a flash of ass. Third, the time added to a journey to account for said foot destroyers. When I wear the fuckers, I have to plan to leave my apartment exactly thirteen and a half minutes early to arrive at work at a still acceptably late fifteen minutes. Mind you, I arrive there after my twenty-seven minute walk with aching feet, a possibly amputated pinky toe and a begrudging attitude. But here I am, Gemma Morgan, strolling into work exactly twenty-one minutes late, in my fiveinch crocodile Steve Maddens that I splurged way too much money on. "You're lucky that Medusa isn't in yet, or your flat ass would be toast." Dani Julian points a neon green coffin-shaped fingernail at me and clicks her tongue before spinning around to her metallic silver desk. The same one I have, placed exactly diagonally to hers.

She's right though, I think to myself as I set my Prada knockoff on the desk and turn my laptop on. My boss, Lauren McCraig, or Medusa as we warmly refer to her as, would rip my throat out for breakfast if she saw me huffing it into Femme's headquarters this late. "Did you see the new eyelash samples Katya got in this morning? I'm dying to try them." Dani gossips over our half wall as I check my lipstick in the compact I pull out of my desk drawer. "Do you remember what happened when you got the eyelash extension in the summer? You couldn't attend a happy hour for a month,” I jab back, annoyed at my work frenemy for pointing out my tardiness. But in my defense, I was doing her a favor. Half her eyelashes had fallen out and she'd looked half-dead for weeks. That's just how it was here at Femme. Your tongue was your biggest weapon, second to your smile. Use of a good cat eye was third. Femme was one of the biggest female lifestyle magazines in the country, if not the biggest on the

only plot of land that mattered. Manhattan, of course. We dictated what was hot in fashion, home, beauty, sex, dating. You name it, Femme had an opinion on it. And typically, the senior heads here thought their opinion was fact. I worked in the beauty department, or what was referred to as the Lipstick Level. We dominated the entire fifteenth floor of a skyscraper that looked over Bryant Park, and every single person's desk was overflowing with tiny samples of the most expensive beauty products in the world. On one hand, I had to protect my back from numerous knives a day, but my mascara cost over a hundred dollars and I didn't pay a thing for it. Getting to work, and ignoring the comments Dani made to two other entry level beauty associates who came in later than I did, I comb through the piece I'm trying to submit to Medusa for consideration. I've gotten three pieces on our website so far, and only a small paragraph in a sidebar of the magazine on the use of toothpaste to cure tiny whiteheads. I was gunning for my first full piece, at least half a page, in Femme's next

issue. I had compiled so much data and testimony on new "green" sustainable leave-in-conditioners that Medusa had to put this article in print. Not that I would do anything about it if she didn't. I'd gunned my whole life for a job like this, for a job here. I'd brown-nosed in college, emailing thousands of editors on LinkedIn before scoring an internship at Femme last summer. I'd basically been a grunt, running coffee orders and answering phones, but I must have done something right. Because when I inquired, more like harassed Human Resources for all nine months of my senior year at Columbia, they said I could apply and would have preferential treatment for a position in the beauty department. And now I was here, and a million girls, the same carbon copy ones as me, were gunning for the target on my back. The rest of the day passes at a snail's pace. And it only does that because it's a Friday, and every single person in their lowly cubicle wants to go out and take advantage of half-price cocktails. They still cost eight bucks though, because this is New York City.

"I'm gonna head to the Liptalk promo party. I heard they're serving sushi on naked male models. And there is bound to be some new starlet there willing to share her drugs." Whitney, a tall, Asian girl who was slimmer than my left pinky, curled one eyelash and then schlacked it with mascara. She was a second year beauty associate, and acted like she wasn't still living paycheck to paycheck like the rest of us. "The naked sushi trend? Isn't that so 2015? Promo parties are getting really desperate these days. As if Liptalk is going to do anything to rival those matte lip glosses the reality TV princess has been hocking." Dani wrinkles her nose and then powders it, making sure to contour just right. I, like everyone on a Friday at five p.m. at Femme, am putting on my face to go out. "Want to come to Le Loc with me? I bet we can get some banker to buy our drinks, Gem." Dani leans over, her cleavage nearly in my face. I shrug. "Can't, I have a date." "Oh, who's the guy? Show me!" Dani acts all supportive, but really I know she just wants to size

him up, make a comment about being able to land him too. I take out my phone anyway, because my date is fucking hot, and bring up Bradley Holden's Ember profile. "Ew, you met him on Ember? He's totally going to try to one and done you." Whitney peers over my shoulder, but by her body language, I can tell she thinks he's hot. "We've been talking for a week, and he seems really sweet. And you know what, if I don’t like him, at least I get a free dinner. Or an orgasm.” I check my teeth one more time before shutting my computer down and putting up my nonchalant front. There was nothing more important than appearing as “cool girl” as I could. Especially with these label whores. They weren’t real friends, therefore I couldn’t divulge how nervous I really was for this date. I had to remain calm and collected in their presence; as if I couldn’t care less whether this guy was really the one, or if he just wanted to bang me in a public bathroom stall. “Well, if he ends up being a total dick, come to

Le Loc. You can drown your single sorrows in a big ole glass of tequila.” Dani and Whitney clack out, their heels sliding on the smooth white tile. I wouldn’t go to Le Loc. If this date bombed, which I totally wasn’t planning for because I’d worn a matching bra and underwear, I’d just go home and binge watch Grey’s Anatomy with my baby blanket wrapped around me. Being single is totally fucking overrated.

Chapter Two GE M M A

a sorority girl, aren't you?" "Y ou'reBradley, or Hot Guy as

I've been referring to him in my head, swirls his glass of topshelf scotch and winks at me. Actually winks at me. I try to hold back my bile and grin in a just-so way, even though I want to end this horrific date right here and now. He's been downing glasses of Oban like it's water, when any guy who was seriously trying to

get to know me would probably have nursed one beer all night. This isn't the first time he's winked, a gesture that looks way too feminine on his pretty features. I hadn't noticed just how too-perfect his looks were from his Ember pictures, and I was beginning to realize that I wasn't even attracted to him. Worst of all? He kept doing that thing schmucks did to try and flirt with a woman. He'd throw out a statement that sounded like an insult, or made me sound like a slut, and back it up with a laugh or a suggestive raise of the shoulder. Like this sorority girl comment? He was trying to stereotype me into being that easy, fun-time college girl who liked to drink a lot and sleep around. He was making some suggestion about me as a person simply because I'd told him I lived in the Psi house at school. And if he were a real man, and weren't just trying to get me on my back, he would just get to know me, instead of trying to insult me like we were first graders on the playground. "Of course I was! Psi all the way!" I flutter my eyelashes and chew on the straw in my second rum

and Coke. Because that's what you do when you're a twenty-five-year-old single girl living in Manhattan. You try to make it work with these dickhead assholes who aren't even really worth your time because pickings are slim and your biological clock is chiming in your ear. The rest of dinner, at an overpriced and understaffed Midtown Italian steakhouse, drags by. Bradley is cocky and loud in all of the wrong ways, and my alcohol buzz leads to a pounding in my temple by the time the check comes. "So, you want to split?" Bradley hesitates as he pulls out his wallet. Great, going Dutch. The tackiest thing a man could ask in the history of first dates. I smile tightly and remove my slim white wallet from my purse. I already want to get out of here from the sheer embarrassment licking up my neck, but I have to wait the obligatory five minutes to get the check back. By the time he walks me out to the busy New York sidewalk, I want to bolt. "So, how about you come over to my place for

a drink?" His eyes roam over my curves, landing in between my admittedly nice cleavage. Seriously? This cheapskate is going to try and fuck me now? Hell no. "Sorry. I have my period." I don't even smile when I say it, just blank stare as his face goes white. There is nothing funnier than watching a total schmuck get completely turned off by a little talk of menstrual blood. "Uh, eh ... all right. Well I guess I'll see you around." He waves and doesn't even wait for me to respond before walking off. I'd be insulted if I wasn't clued in to how big of a weasel he was. Defeated and wanting to get naked alone under my covers, I turned to hail a cab. Except one goddamn crocodile-skin heel gets stuck in a crack, twisting and sending my body spinning. My tasteful but sexy black skater skirt flies up, I'm sure giving the crowd on the pavement a nice view of my SoulCycle-sculpted ass. I clutch my fake Prada to the low cut white blouse I donned for

tonight's date, not wanting it to scuff when I eventually hit the ground. My auburn hair clouds my vision, making it impossible to place when I'll fall or how hard. I just brace, gritting my teeth and preparing for insane embarrassment. Serves me right for using the period excuse to get out of sex. Just as I feel my body tip over, I smack into something solid, and my motion stops. Great, I probably just assaulted a homeless guy with my falling limbs. "Do you think it was the period that made you lose your balance?" A deep voice rumbles in my ear, and I snap my head up, thinking I've mistaken what that voice just said to me. "Huh?" I ungracefully wipe hair and spit off my face, trying to right myself. Hands steady me as I regain full use of my extremities, even though my face is burning red from having a bunch of people just witness me trip. "Your period? Time of the month? Menstrual cycle? Maybe that caused you to almost fall flat on

your face." My attention focuses away from the chaos of a Friday night Big Apple sidewalk, and onto the stranger who just kept me from cracking my face in half. The very tall, kind of hot stranger. Lifesaver has to be about a foot taller than my five six, and built but not in an obvious way. He's not Ken Doll hot, no chiseled jaw and symmetrical nose and sexy floppy hair. His skin is clear, though, and a nice shade of tan, and his hair may need a cut but the overgrown brown curls work on him. I can't make out the color of his eyes because they're shielded by sleek black-framed glasses. But overall, he's a nice looking stranger; not a Brad Pitt, but maybe an Adam Brody or Ashton Kutcher. And then I remember what he just said as he stood me upright. "You heard that?" I can't help but laugh, a sharp hyena-like sound. Nerdy hunk shrugs as people sharply walk around our still forms on the curb. "Not the worst line I've heard a girl use to get out of going home

with someone. Hey, it scared that guy off." I can't help but chuckle again. And then feel supremely awkward because I don't even know this guy who I'm standing in the middle of pedestrian traffic with. "So uh, thank you for saving my face from permanent damage. I'm going to call a cab and head home, as you can tell, my night has been a shit-show." Cute stranger adjusts the leather shoulder bag hanging off his shoulder, his suit and tie wrinkled like he'd worked a long damn day. "Here, why don't you take my cab?" He gestures to the bright yellow taxi that I'd yet to notice parked right next to us. Saved me from eating pavement, and he's going to give me his cab on a Friday night in Midtown? He's definitely gay. Damn it, this always happens to me. I resign myself to being single forever. "Thank you, that's too nice." But I don't hesitate to climb in, because fuck if I'm going to pass up an already hailed taxi.

I breathe as I get in, the driver already shouting at me for a location over his blaring radio. My gaze shifts up just in time to see Brody look-a-like close the door with a grin. "Get home safe, Red." Jesus. All of the good ones are either taken, assholes, or gay.

Chapter Three GE M M A

y the time I take my shoes off in the cab, a B blister has formed on my left toe. "Goddamn shoes." I rub at them while the driver's non-English radio program drones on in the background. "Where you go?" he yells at me over the blaring Midtown traffic. "The West Village please, West 10th." I lean my head against the window and stare at the blinking, glittering lights.

It's nights like these that I get sad. I put up the front nicely, the twenty-something single dream of living spontaneously and fucking strangers when I feel like it. In reality, I want a man who's going to bring me guacamole in bed and scratch my back whenever I ask. Oh, and give me an orgasm without having to use my fingers to produce one. The cabbie mutters to himself the whole way, and a stormy headache is forming in my right temple before he pulls up to my red brick-front building. I slide my card through the reader in the backseat, a convenient technology my mother loves to point out whenever she comes to visit. Shutting the door and walking barefoot on the dirty Manhattan streets, I scale the crumbling cement stoop and shove my key in the front lock of my building. I jiggle it twice, shoving it with my shoulder. Next comes the five-floor walk up, which has sweat pooling between my boobs, my hair a frizzed mess and my lungs burning. Next comes the triple lock and bolt on apartment 5C and finally I'm into Fort Knox. Or

Fort Cocks, as my roommate and real best friend Samantha calls it. "Do I need to put my headphones in?" Sam's raspy smoker voice hits me from somewhere inside the apartment. And by somewhere inside, I mean within the seven hundred square feet we pay two grand a month for. EACH. "No. He was a total asshole." My jacket and bag get slung over a kitchen chair pushed into the table we never use. Our apartment is basically one big great room with two doors off of one wall, another on the opposite wall, and the front door on the back wall. Five hundred or so of the feet are dedicated to the living room/kitchen/hallway/workout studio/drying rack/Netflix and chill all-encompassing great room. Our bedrooms are the size of a closet, and not Lisa Vanderpump's type, and the bathroom is basically a coffin with a toilet and a showerhead. It's the price we pay to live five floors above a street with noises that never stop and homeless people fighting at three a.m. But just when I think I'm through with this city,

with the grind and keeping up appearances, some cute guy smiles at me across a rooftop bar and I'm hooked just like the most gullible fish. New York always finds a way to pull me back in. "Did you tell him you had your period?" Sam joins me on our couch, Real Housewives of wherever muted on the TV, and her boob about to fall out of the ratty tank top she has on. I slide my eyes to her and smirk. "You know I did." She holds up a hand for a high five, which I gladly smack. "You know I love that excuse. Makes them scatter like the cockroaches they are. I have some Halo Top in the freezer we can share." Low fat ice cream and taking off my bra? Yes please. I strip down before she can even dig out two spoons, throwing my clothes wherever they land and grabbing the first okay-smelling T-shirt off the pile on my floor. Sam and I have been best friends since sophomore year of high school, when I snorted milk onto the lunchroom table and everyone

laughed at me. Yeah, I was THAT girl in high school. She told me I was hilarious and gave me a napkin to wipe my nose. We'd gone to school together in the city, vying to get out of our boring existences in New Jersey, although she'd gone to FIT and I'd gone the Ivy route. We'd discovered our twenties, fake IDs, jungle juice, and crop tops together. I held her hand the first time she'd had to buy Plan B, and she dried my tears when I found out my junior year boyfriend was fucking everything on two legs, including those who had dicks. She always knew what I needed, and right now, it was ice cream in my underwear. "So get this, I think Melinda and John are screwing at work." She points a spoon at me, her blond hair falling from the topknot and into her face. Sam works as a receptionist at a high-end art gallery. Believe me, I blanched when she told me about the job too, but apparently if you last a year, you can go anywhere in the fashion and art space. Which is right where she wants to be.

"How do you know?" I try to tune into her gossip and forget my horrible night. "Her top was inside out after lunch, and I swear I saw red lipstick on his collar. Only that bitch would wear that shade of red." She nods her head solemnly, as if we are discussing America's overseas agenda instead of which of her coworkers are shtupping each other. I notice she's looking at me like I've missed a beat, and I spoon another mouthful of strawberry between my lips. I'm going to have to run an extra mile for this one. "Was it that bad?" Sam pouts her lip, her natural indigo eyes flashing. I hang my head, running my hands through my hair. "I'm just so tired of looking. Isn't there one guy in this whole goddamn city for me?" I'm being dramatic but the day was long, my calves feel like aching boulders, and the marks from where my bra was cutting in are really itchy. "Oh shut up. You're twenty-five, not dead. Look at me, I don't date and I'm happy as a clam. Be thrilled that you're single. Someday soon Mr. Right

will come along, and you'll be happy for like two years, and as soon as he puts a ring on your left hand he'll get fat and start recording Sportscenter and Cops on your DVR to watch while he scratches his balls and yells about dinner." Sam was a total pessimist when it came to relationships. Her parents divorced nastily when she was ten, and she's sworn up and down since the day I met her that she's never getting married. She falls into the category of "hot girl who doesn't want a boyfriend but has the most gorgeous men sniffing around trying to attach her chain to their balls." "You're right," I say half-heartedly as I dig into the container for another scoop. Another Friday night of failed dates and eating ice cream with my roommate in my underwear.

Chapter Four O L IVE R

ovies always show a fit younger man running M through the city in his Nike gear and Beats headphones, sweat barely glazing him as the skyscrapers rise up around him. In reality, it's pure fucking chaos. If you continuously run in the city, you'll get hit by a goddamned car or truck. You have to stop at each crosswalk, jogging in place like a moron until the swarm of people around you surges forward when the white little walk sign blinks across the street.

In the winter you're freezing, in the summer my balls stick to my leg so bad that I have a heat rash by the time I peel off my shorts. I have to dodge strollers and suitcases, street grates and homeless men. But on that one day, the one perfect day where everything comes together and traffic at six a.m. isn't as bad as it usually is, and the donut shop on the way home has a fresh pot of coffee brewing, and your playlist perfectly syncs up a Drake song after a fucking great Eminem pump-up jam … running five miles before work feels like a high you couldn't achieve anywhere else. "Thanks, Ernie!" I yell as I step back out onto the street. Unlike every other person on this island, I've spurned Starbucks and go for the locally owned places. I've been going to Java, Ernie's shop, for the last year. It's conveniently located in the storefront below my thirty-story residential building in TriBeCa. The beauty of Manhattan; being able to get any thing at any time. My doorman, Johnny, pulls open the toned

glass and gold door of my building and nods hello as I take my first sip of coffee. I've lived here for three years and the service never waivers, the people generously paid for the jobs they do. I make sure of that. "Good morning, Mr. Anders!" Darla, the woman who mans the marble front desk until noon, waves at me. "Darla, I told you, it's Oliver. Mr. Anders makes me feel like my father." "Well you sure don't look a day older than twenty-five." She winks at me, her eyes glued to my ass. So she won't use my first name, but she'll make sexual advances at a tenant. The world we live in. I shake my head and smile as I ascend on the elevator up to my floor. And she's wrong anyway … I'm thirty. A fact I like to both pride myself on and try to hide. True, I'm one of the youngest millionaires in the New York tech space. But on the other hand, new entrepreneurs are coming in and trying to push out an older guy like me everyday. I don't let up for a

second, and that's not boasting. It's just fact. I can't let myself take the easy way out even for a second. A woman cloaked in heavy perfume gets into the elevator on the fifth floor and presses the button for the lobby, even though this elevator is going up to the twenty-eighth floor. She looks older, maybe in her forties, because whatever plastic surgery she’s had is obvious to a man who scientifically categorizes every person he meets. But the work works, because I find myself checking out her tight work pants, the way her ass lifts in those spiky heels, how her blouse hugs the firm swells of her breasts. I hold back my chuckle, because I really need to get laid soon. It’s been awhile. And then she drops the contents of her entire bag, and I have to bend down to help her because it's the right thing to do. "I'm such a klutz." She smiles at me and I feel bad. I reach for her things, handing what I can back to her as she embarrassingly shoves it back in her bag the size of a small nation. "The things you women carry in these, you

could cure the fatally ill." I try to make a joke. And that's when my hand grabs what I know is a tampon. Sure, I've never used one or had a girlfriend who let me see one. But I've seen the sporty girl commercials with beautiful women running or doing gymnastics. I swear my face turns red as I hand it to her. And if mine is red, hers is eggplant purple. “Uh, you don’t … you don’t have to be embarrassed. It’s totally … uh, fine. I get that women have menstrual cycles, it’s smart to carry supplies.” And then I want to smack myself in the forehead for alluding to her bleeding for one week of the month. “It’s just to say … I know it’s a natural part of womanhood. Scientifically, its brilliant the way your bodies were designed.” I swipe a hand through the air to motion to her body as we rise to stand straight again. Jesus, I might as well conk her out with my bludgeon and throw her over my shoulder I sound like such a caveman. Sometimes, my scientific

brain gets in the way of my logical sense and social manners, and I let it take over. I make situations awkward, so much so that I have had to train my mind to tick a second behind my mouth whenever I’m in front of a woman. Not that I have any chance with this woman now, if I even wanted one. We ride the rest of the elevator journey in awkward silence, until I get off at twenty-eight and she continues to the ground floor. And just as I'm unlocking the front door to 28K, the tampon incident pops into my mind. And directly after that, the girl I gave my cab to last Friday night. The pretty one with the sky-high heels who told her meat-stick date that she had her period so he'd cower away. Now she was funny. Refreshing compared to the desperate women I meet and am seduced by. But alas, I have no time for dates or that personal crap. Sure, I have sex. Casual sex. Great sex. But the women I bed know what they're in for. My woman is my business, and I don't have time to worry about expectations, rings or babies.

I don't get three steps into my half-a-floor luxury apartment before my phone rings. Just a regular Tuesday morning, I think, as I connect to a conference call taking place somewhere halfway across the world. My morning consists of showering, dressing, and taking an Uber to the office ... all while on phone call after phone call. That's what it took to run Graphite, my multi-million dollar technology company. I'd started the business in my junior year at Bowling Green, and the ideas had spiraled out from there. My initial, and most successful product, was an underwater smart watch with headphones that played cordlessly in any body of water. I'd designed them myself, done the calculations, worked up a prototype, and pitched it on an investor reality show. The clip of my pitch makes the rounds at least once a year, a small town Midwestern boy turned golden tech mogul. I'm so green and stuttered that I blush every time I see the video. Nearly ten years and twenty successfully patented products and I still feel like that nerd in

his dorm room while everyone had wild drunken sex around me. Sure, I've gotten more skilled when it comes to schmoozing and things concerning my dick and a woman’s pussy…but deep down, I’m still the geek dreaming up creations while the social world spins too fast around me. These fingers have no time for swiping. Or anything more sexual than that.

Chapter Five GE M M A

he only thing twenty somethings in the city love T more than happy hour or free drinks is brunch. Brunch. Every single person I know traipses out of bed on Sunday, chasing a hangover while schlapping makeup on and recurling the oily hair of last night. And then we gather at the hottest new cafe that offers some new variation on eggs Benedict, all while slurping down mimosas as fast as the waiters will bring them.

In reality, it's a gathering, a family affair of all the friends you gossip with about what happened the nights before, and what guy you're chasing this week. On this Sunday, I sit around a crowded lunchroom-style table with Sam across from me, our friend Jillian next to me, and Myra, Sam's hilarious coworker, next to her. Piled high family-style on plates in front of us sit chicken teriyaki eggs, miso breakfast soup complete with bacon, lo mein with breakfast sausage and hollandaise, and bagel cups with pork fried rice. This week's trendy brunch spot was called Staysian Bed. It was a stretch on a food concept, but it had been written up in the New Yorker so of course everyone and their hungover roommate were swarming the place. "I let him put a finger in my ass, and I have to say, it just felt like I had to poop." Myra flips her hip-length blond hair over an anorexic shoulder and downs another glass of straight champagne. "Whoever said anal was ah-mazing for women was probably a male ad exec with a secret red

room in his apartment." Sam rolled her eyes. "I actually liked it with my ex. It felt … illicit. Maybe you're just doing it wrong." Jillian shrugs and picks up a bagel cup as she scopes out the available dudes in the place. Myra isn't buying it. "My friend actually shit on her boyfriend's dick. Actual poop, on his penis. I would be fucking mortified." "Not me," I chime in. "He asked to stick it up there, that's what he gets. Although I agree with Jill. I did it a few times in high school, and it was hot." Sam eyes me, raising her eyebrows about this new discovery. "You slut! Was this before I knew you? Letting some douche pump your booty in high school? Were you one of those girls who said if it wasn't in the vagina, you were still a virgin?" I popped a teriyaki egg in my mouth. Smiling, because she knew me too well. "You know it. I was intact, and therefore plundering the back door still left me white and pure." Sam shakes her head at my ridiculous explanation, and I admit I've done some really

idiotic things when it came to men. Or ... boys, really. I hadn't found a man yet, someone who took responsibility but also knew how to be vulnerable and loyal in a relationship. At this point, I thought he, whoever he was, might be a unicorn with a sparkly pink horn and all. "Well, the whole no condom thing is going well though. Except the part where it leaks into my underwear when I sleep. I wake up with a fucking pool of leftover sex juice in my boy shorts. It's ruined like, three pairs of good lace underwear." Myra was steadily seeing a guy named Jase, and had been for the past four months. I didn't dare drop the boyfriend word because she would freak, but the fact that Myra could make a relationship work and I couldn't was depressing as shit. But Jase was actually a really nice guy. Not for me, I really wouldn't vibe with his hipster, polka band, tattoo artist style, but for Myra he was more than perfect. The fact that she'd let him stop wearing condoms was a good sign. "Ah, the condom drop, love it. It means you're committed, and they are too. If he puts a bun in the

oven, he's semi-okay with it because he took the love glove off." Sam nods solemnly. "Oh my God, no one is trying to father a child here! It's just a plus that I can have an orgasm in under three minutes flat when my guy doesn't wear a raincoat." Myra manages to look horrified and pleased at the same time. "Ew and then you have to like catch it before it falls out of you onto the sheets? Men have it so easy! Like here, let your baby juice just slide down my leg. The worst part is, they think it's sexy to see it drip out. Fine, you can sleep in the wet spot and buy me new underwear then!" Sam has an outburst as the other tables stare at her in amusement. I don't say a thing, just sip my mimosa and ponder why the hell I'm still single and can't manage to have an orgasm with any man I've ever slept with. "This is really inappropriate brunch talk." Jillian side-eyes us and I can't help but laugh. I may be on the more conservative side compared to Sam and Myra, if anyone in their right mind would even call me conservative, but Jillian

was a saint compared to us foul mouths. I don't even know why she put up with us, besides the fact that we were literally each other's family on this island. We brought each other soup when we were sick, threatened to slash the tires of any guy who broke your heart, encouraged you to do that extra tequila shot, but also sat on your couch watching endless episodes of Law & Order SVU. It was all love and support, even if we threw in a few cunts and dicks into our vocabulary and made her blush. "Can we just get out of here? Stabler and Benson are literally calling our names and this place is crawling with guys young enough to be my son. When did we get so old?" I lament as I polish off the last of my drink. "Um, no we can not. Not until you go up and talk to gorgeous over there. He's basically eyefucking you." Sam discreetly shakes her head in the direction over my shoulder where this supposed guy stands. "Oh he is hot, in a kind of nerdy, sexy way." Myra flutters her lashes in mystery man's direction. I sit up straighter, consciously feeling a pair of

eyes on my profile. "I can't just turn around!" I whisper shout. The liquor has begun to do its job, fading my hangover away and making my head buzz with happy tipsiness. The girls poking at me is more fun than annoying, and the thought of a sexy man ogling me has my insides doing backflips. It's been too long since I had a proper, hairmussing, sweaty sex session. The last guy I let into my panties couldn't even find my clit, rubbing incessantly at my right pussy lip while I tried to steer him in the right direction. He'd come in four minutes, I was actually counting in my head, and grunted as he stuck his tongue in my mouth and called an Uber in good-bye. My vibrating purple egg was the only thing that could get me off these days, that and a steamy clip of this guy pretending to be this porn star's boss. "You should turn around, he hasn't stopped looking at you." Sam plucks a chicken teriyaki covered egg off my plate. I decide I'll do the tuck-the-hair move and then subtly turn. Except when I do, it's so un-subtle that

the guy who had clearly been looking at me raises an eyebrow at my horribly planned tactic. I feel my cheeks redden even as I keep my cool, making sure I smize and lift my nose a little higher in the air. Cool blue eyes, longer curled chestnut hair, tall lean limbs encased in what I know have to be designer jeans and a short-sleeved button down. I catalogue his features, handsome in a nerdy way but still refined somehow … and realize I know this guy. "Wait a minute …" The guy waves, and the girls sigh around me. "Oh shit, you're gonna get some post-brunch action for sure. He's coming over here." Myra gets an evil gleam in her eye. If there is anything Myra loves in the world, it's a hot hookup and details afterword. I turn back to them and whip my head around, feeling like a damn bobble head as my mind swims through champagne and orange juice to realize where I know this guy from. What if I've already fucked him? I'm not a saint; I've had my share of drunken one-night stands and if I saw one of them

out now, there is probably a fifty percent shot I'd recognize them. "Are you feeling better? Any cramps today?" And now hot nerd guy is upon us and he smells like sandalwood and musk and my clit starts to tingle because, well, alcohol and good smelling man. When other women tell me that it takes a certain something to turn them on, I feel not normal. Give me a hot, sexy smelling guy and my pheromones go wild. It doesn't take much. He has to be a filthy talker in bed and I'm good to go. His eyes don't need to be pools of amber; he doesn't have to drive a motorcycle. Although possessing a hefty debit card and a sleeve of tattoos has known to make me even wetter. "Um, excuse me?" It's just now that I realize he didn't say hi. He said something else. "Your uh, Aunt Flo? That's what women call their monthly visitor, right?" He says this with such a straight face that I feel the spray from Sam's drink on my arm before I turn to see champagne dripping from her mouth after she's sprayed it.

Oh my fucking God. "Shit, you're that guy who witnessed my awful date the other night!" I can't even spin his remarks into something else and try to salvage it to make myself look cool. I'm so amused that he even remembers it that I'm not worried about picking him up. "Oh fuck, the period guy?! You didn't tell me there were witnesses?!" Sam leans forward, a hilarious smile on her face. She quickly fills Myra and Jill in, and we all have another sidesplitting laugh at my rejection of the beefcake I went out with. "I've never seen a girl do something like that, of course I remember that. It was the most brutal but honest rejection I've ever witnessed, and I've had some bad replies to some pick up lines I've dealt." He rubs the back of his neck and his curls move, and I realize that he's sexier than I originally noticed. He's got a cool confidence about him, but he's also oblivious to it. "If you had been on the date, you'd have done it too. Plus, giving a guy like that a clue about the red

rage will shrivel his dick so fast, it's a slam dunk." Myra cackles and I realize I just said that out loud. To hot geek. And he's smiling so wide that I think I have a high school crush on him by the time he sits at down on the bench beside me. "I'll remember that next time I have to get rid of a Swipe date. That's what that was, right?" "Swipe dates are so hit or miss. Once, I went on one that ended with the guy doing me in front of a glass window facing the High Line. It was so fucking kinky. All the lights on. But this other time, the prick ate his weight in chicken wings and Moscow Mules and then told me he forgot his wallet." Myra wistfully looks up at the ceiling, at what I'm assuming is a memory of the guy in the glass window. "Myra!" Jill looks appalled. "No, no … it's okay. I get it. I once picked up this woman at a bar, I thought she was hot, sweet. She knew almost every song the DJ played, I liked that about her. When I got her back to my place, she laid face down on my bed and asked me to suck on her feet until she came. I faked a work call so bad,

I even said it came from South Korea." This guy tilts up his lips after his horrible date story and I can't help but want to trace the lines in his face with my pinky. Although, that could be the champagne talking. "No fucking way. That's insane!" Sam laughs along with everyone else. The conversation lags after Jill asks why some women are so vulgar and we all kind of roll our eyes. I love the girl but she can be too much of a goody two-shoes to swallow sometimes. "Hey, we are going to take off. That new lip kit is out at Sephora and I need to grab it before the Times Square tourists do. You stay, swap some more dating horror stories." I know what they're doing of course. The subtle brush off, the made up excuse of why they have to go and I have to stay. It's the classic set up of trying to get a friend laid. And I couldn't love them more for it. "Sure." I turned to cute guy, the one whose name I didn't even know. "Care to get another drink?"

Chapter Six O L IVE R

really isn't my spot. B runch I find it time consuming and trendy, two things I usually do not partake in. But when your oldest friend asks you to meet him and his new girlfriend at an Asian fusion breakfast café and promises to give you back your vintage Chicago Bears jersey … well you go. Except when said buddy stands you up because his girlfriend freaked about the Instagram model he's been direct messaging. And you're alone at the

dumbest fucking café in all of New York. But when I saw the girl from a week ago on the sidewalk just sitting there across the room, gossiping with her friends and eating the ridiculous items on the menu … my interest was piqued. It wasn't everyday I saw a stranger two times on this island, especially a hot one with a sundress that scoops so low I can make out the way her waist curves in just above her ass. I won't say that's why I go over to talk to her when she glances back at me, but it's definitely a contributing factor. And now I'm here, sitting next to her in this same shitty brunch spot trying not to get distracted by the floral print that rides up her thigh every time she crosses and uncrosses her legs. When they said men think about sex four hundred times a minute or something of that statistic, they really weren't lying. "If my dick won't shrivel up, I'll take a whiskey ginger." I use her own words back to her, the way she'd explained why she told her date she had her period still makes me smile. She laughs and pulls out her wallet, but

something in my chest puffs out and won't let me allow her to pay. "Actually, I'll get these. It's the least I can do to show you that some men still have manners." She tilts her head, and I already know she’s jumped four steps ahead in her logic about what we’re doing here. I need to shut that down now. Women, sheesh. “Hey, don’t go thinking this is a date, because come on I just used your own menstrual cycle rejection line to get a seat at your table. I’m simply a nice guy who got stood up at this lame joint and wants to buy a pretty, funny woman a drink. I’m not going to marry you. So stop you’re thinking right there.” Auburn hair shakes as her laugh tinkles across the crowded bar, and she sticks her hand out. “Okay Most Honest Guy I’ve Ever Met, I’m Gemma Morgan. And I should keep you around. With those tips, I might just land me a decent guy.” The bartender takes our order and I hand my black AmEx to him, trying to shield it with my palm. It’s bad enough I’m about to tell her my

name, she doesn’t need to know what demographic my bank account is in. “I’ve seen every strategy a woman can pull, stick with me and I’ll have you MacGyvering a four-karat ring from some guy with a house in the Hamptons. Oliver Anders, at your service.” Those eyes, the color of whiskey and burnt cinnamon, don't even register a hint of recognition at my name. Good. As much as I love my inventions and reaping the rewards from them, one thing I don't love is the notoriety. I don't like to be noticed or have my picture taken, and I especially don't like being given special privileges due to who I am and how much I'm worth. "So Gemma, what do you do?" I take a long sip of my drink and revel as the liquor hits my throat. I don’t get nervous around women per se … but I was a nerd growing up. Still am, I just filled out and lost the glasses and braces. Half the time, I’m still amazed a pretty woman will look at me. “I’m an editor at Femme, the fashion magazine?

I get to play with makeup and beauty products all day … pretty much every girl’s dream,” Gemma says this with a little smirk on her face, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Which tells me that while she may love the bare bones of her job, the internal drama or complications have made her come to resent it. I run my own company, I can tell a lot about an employee’s expression while answering a question. “What do you do?” Gemma’s slim fingers play with the delicate neck of her champagne glass and the red polish on them distracts me momentarily. “I’m in the technology sector, it would bore you to death.” Vague and noncommittal. I don’t want to tell this girl, no matter how caustic she may seem, that I own my own multi-million dollar company. “How long have you been in Manhattan?” She hits me with another question, and even though we had an honest beginning, I can tell she’s sidling up to me. Blinking so I notice her eyelashes. Pushing out her chest just a touch.

They might be practiced motives or they might just be unconscious movements in the presence of a man buying her a drink. “I’ve lived here for about three years, before that I was in San Francisco.” Again, noncommittal. “Well, welcome to our little island of heaven. If you can get it here, you can’t get it anywhere else.” She clinks her glass to mine and gulps down the rest of her mimosa. “So, are we going to get out of here or what?” I actually choke on the dregs of my Maker’s Mark and ginger ale. “Excuse me?” Gemma tilts her head, her very full lips pouting and those amber eyes mocking me. “Come on, Oliver. I can tell you’re into me. You wouldn’t wait around here buying me a drink if you weren’t. You may be able to land me a husband, but I also know when a man thinks I’m sexy. And since we can be honest with one another, I want to have sex with you. No strings, because I think we’re totally past the obligatory period of pretending we don’t want to go home and use each other to have an orgasm. Let’s just do it. And afterwards, you can

tell me more about how I can use a guy’s game against him. But right now, I’m horny. I haven’t had sex in a month and a half. And I think you’re hot, in a nerdy way. So are you in or not?” Sex with a hot woman, no strings, and no fooling around trying to figure out what she likes? There had to be a booby trap, pun intended, loaded somewhere in this situation. But with an offer like that, how could I refuse?

Chapter Seven GE M M A

liver Anders suggests that we go back to my O place for our Sunday afternoon delight. I jump at the offer, because it means I won’t have to awkwardly leave after we’ve both come, and I can immediately put on a robe and eat cheese doodles while my Netflix loads a new episode of Parks & Recreation. This hookup couldn’t be going better and we’d barely even started. I knew from the moment he started talking about the tactics that people used to

date and fall in love, that I’d sleep with him today. Oliver, with his eyes made of dark denim and smile that dripped with genuine sarcasm, was the most honest man I’d ever encountered on the island of Manhattan. Sure, he saw right through my “cool girl” strategy, but I thought he was funny. He didn’t seem like a serial killer. Had a wardrobe that was obviously bought with some money. He was the perfect hookup material. Too jaded to turn into a serious boyfriend, but sexy and looked like he’d be a barrel of fun. “A West Village girl, huh? This is a nice area.” Oliver remarks on the scenery as we walk up the stoop to my building. We opted to walk instead of take a cab, the balmy May afternoon a beautiful day in this city of concrete and man-made gardens. The sun shines through my sunglasses, making my head spin just a little with the five mimosas I consumed. I’m more tipsy than drunk, which might be why I’m allowing a near-complete stranger to take me back to my place and fuck me with no commitments. “Where do you call home inside of the Big

Apple?” I fish out my keys. “TriBeCa.” Oliver doesn’t elaborate, and I notice this is a talent of his. The guy clearly doesn’t do commitment, I smelled it all over him the second we sat down at the bar. No real answers, didn’t want to lean into my advances or try to put a hand on me in the bar to ward of other men. He is a clear commitment phobe, which is fine with me. If his dick is big and he knows how to use it, that’s all I care about. On the walk over, we talked about trivial things. His favorite sports teams, the San Francisco Giants and Oakland Raiders. We talked about my favorite articles I’ve overseen at Femme; the one about nail polish that detected date rape drugs in college girl’s drinks. I learned that he actually grew up in California, and that he hadn’t seen snow at Christmas until he moved here. I told him about my family over the river in New Jersey, and how I didn’t believe there was actually trends being created off of this island. When we make it to 5C, I push in, hoping to God Sam and I left the place in some kind of neat

order. I’m the cleaner, the one who is constantly picking up after her lazy, disorganized ass. Luckily, the apartment smells like the vanilla candle I was burning this morning, and none of Sam’s bras or underwear lay on the couch. And, she got the hint at the cafe and didn’t come home right away. Girlfriends know the code when one of their friends needs to get laid. We stand in the middle of my apartment, in broad daylight, and for just a split second I begin to feel awkward. “Listen, I don’t need a drink of water if you’re going to offer, and don’t feel weird. Come here.” Oliver crosses the room and wraps his long arms around my waist. If I tip my chin up, I’ll be staring at his jaw, his lean form rising a head above mine even in my three-inch wedge sandals. For giving off no-PDA vibes, he sure has no problem taking control when it comes to sex. Just his gesture now tells me, and I shiver when he matter-of-factly bends his head and places his lips on my neck. “Thank God, because I don’t want to wait

another second for an orgasm.” It may be shameful, but it’s true. I don’t know why I’m being so genuine or up front with this guy, but something in his personality speaks to me. He’s no bullshit, and in this situation, neither am I. “Good, then let’s get these clothes off. I can’t wait to bury myself in you.” Oliver makes no bones about it, except well … the large and growing bone in his pants. He fumbles with the material until I shrug out of the sundress, his lips tracing a pattern down my jaw and neck. One that has my clit pulsing and tingles shooting down my spine. Jesus, it’s been a long time since I’ve taken a ride on the Bologna Pony. I shove my hands under his button down, trying to signal to him I want him to take it off. Abs and chest hair greet me, and my fingers delight in trailing what feels like a lot of exercise and hard work. "How do you like it? On the bed, on the floor? Up against the window? This is your orgasm fest, so you tell me, Gemma." Oliver may have big hands, but when it comes

to my bra, he may as well be using two oven mitts to open it. What is it with men and clasps? It's like a five hundred piece puzzle they're trying to complete in a second flat. They always end up pulling at it, twisting it, I even had one guy blow on it like it was hot food or something. "Uh, let me." I quickly undo my bra and slip it off, my breasts popping free for his pleasure. Oliver must have pulled his shirt off while I slipped out of the plain white bra, because when I look up there is a torso full of abs and sculpted biceps practically winking at me. “I think I picked the right Sunday hookup. Christ, who knew you were hiding that ammo under all of that brainy façade?” Oliver smiles and my nipples harden. "If your body isn't healthy, then neither is your life. Or more importantly, your bank account." "I'll keep that in mind when Class Pass has a sale. I want it in the bedroom." I crook a finger at him and walk towards my room. I want to be on my back, pulling at his hair while he eats me to a climax.

As soon as my back hits my blush and gold comforter, Oliver is on top of me. His fingers pull at my nipples and then rub them. Two fingers, flat handed, kind of like how I go at my clit when I'm masturbating. I've never had a guy rub my nipples like this before. It hurts but it's also sending jolts of pleasure and lust down to my slit, waking me up until my cotton thong is soaked. "Do you like this?" He rubs them harder, so much so that I think they'll be bruised. But right now I don't care. "A lot." My answer comes on a gasp as he trails his way down my body, leaving half pressed kisses that don't do anything but make me want to yell at him to get down there faster. I don't know about other women, but I don't need the romantic, lingering kisses. I need a man who can lick and suck me just the right way, for just the right amount of time, to make me come. "Do it already!" I growl as he takes his time biting my inner thighs. I hear Oliver chuckle into my skin. "You're feisty. I like that."

He stands then, to my utter frustration, and unbuckles his belt before pushing his jeans and boxers down. I don't even focus on his dick yet. "Just because I know what I want and can ask for it, doesn't mean I'm feisty. Or needy. A man can do the same thing and he's called dominant, or sexy." Oliver is buck naked now, his lean body tanned in a natural way and not because it's almost summer. He fists himself, stroking a cock that is long enough to be one of the biggest I've seen. No horrible pubic hair, no veins or scars in the wrong place. He's got a nice, above average dick that will do perfectly. "No need to get all feminist on me," he chuckles as he strokes again. "I like that you're vocal. Sex should be vocal. Let me know whatever you need." He wastes no time diving back down between my legs. At first, he just teases me, licking up and down tentatively ... like he's trying out a new ice cream flavor. "Suck on my clit." I have to guide him if I want

my medal from Orgasm University, and I didn't bring him home for this to last hours. Oliver does as he's told, sucking the sensitive piece of skin between his teeth. I inhale sharply and then we are off to the races. In no time, my fingernails are clawing his hair, my back is sweating, I'm cursing, and basically riding his face. "Come on, Gemma. Let go, come on my lips." Oliver taunts me with dirty words, words I think he knows will only get me closer to climaxing. He's been eating me out for probably ten minutes now, but what can I say, I take a while. I envy any woman who can get off in under five minutes. But once he sticks two fingers in me as he works my sensitive nub, I'm a goner. "Just. Right. There," I grit out before sensations hurtle down my spine. The room spins, my ass and pussy pulse with release, my skin and pores dance with the feeling of sweet relief. I'm still on a high when Oliver comes up for air. "Where are your condoms?" "I like a responsible man, thanks for not trying

to convince me you're clean so protection isn't needed. They're in that drawer." I point, barely able to move from the orgasm that knocked the goddamn wind out of me. Oliver's eyes are stormy gray as they catalogue my body. He rolls the condom on before assuming the position between my knees. "Actually, I want to watch this sweet ass the entire time I'm inside of you." Without asking, he flips my leg with ease, turning me over until I scramble up on all fours. It's so not what I was expecting, and neither were all of the parts south of my waist. Suddenly, they're tingling with anticipation once more. Is it strange that I’m this turned on by practically sober Sunday afternoon sex with a stranger? I usually hate being in the daylight, for any man to be able to see my fat and insecurities. But the only thing I can think when Oliver Anders enters me, and yes I have to keep calling him by his first and last name because he's just got one of those names, is FUCK YES. "Ahhh …" The growl comes from deep within

his throat and makes my nipples hard. There is something about doggy style that's more illicit than any other position. A lot of girls I know think it's demeaning, only made for male pleasure. But really, it's mutually beneficial. I don't have to look at him, whoever he might be, and I get to focus solely on my pleasure. Or the pleasure we are giving to each other without having to maintain eye contact. I can screw up my face however I like, say words I might not say face-to-face. And the way his cock is hitting my G-spot … only doing it from behind makes me feel this way. A small chill runs up my back, and while it feels good to have Oliver stroking in and out of my slickness, I'm nowhere close to coming again. He picks up speed as he mutters oh yeah's and fuck's under his breath. "I want you to come again. That's what you wanted after all." His voice is deeper somehow; lust has wrapped its tendrils around his body. I won't come again, I know it. But I also don't want to keep Oliver here for the next twenty

minutes, when I know he just wants to come. So I do what any woman does in this situation. I fake it. Thrusting my hips back, moaning like the cows are coming home, scratching at my comforter. All signs that I am about to come, yet my buzz of arousal remains at the same level. "Yes, oh my God, I'm going to come." I make my words breathy as he picks up his pace. "Fuck yeah." His pace is punishing, and my bed squeaks with the impact of the headboard against the wall. My neighbors will probably complain later, but I’m willing Oliver to come and I can’t even think about that now. His fingers tighten around my waist, so much so that I know I’ll wear bruises and that two-piece I was hoping to wear to the beach is definitely a no-go now. "Fuck, fuck …" His breathing, words and unintelligible sentences blend together as his body stills and everything goes rigid for a split second. Then a growl rips from him as he presses his pelvis tight

against my ass and comes into the condom. I let out a breath of relief and annoyance. I could have come again if he had lasted maybe five minutes longer, but then again, I wasn't going to say anything and embarrass myself. "So it was uh … nice to meet you." Oliver cracks up as he pulls out and hobbles over to my garbage can. I flip over to a sitting position and hold one of my pillows to cover myself. "Don't you find it weird that animals can fuck like this all the time and then just go back to their lives like nothing happened." He chuckles as he latches his belt. "The curse of being a mammal. We can do that too. I don't have to ask for your phone number right now." We're at a crossroads. I could take him up on his offer, but I could also go back to him whenever I wanted a quick orgasm with no strings. It wasn't the best sex of my life, but it wasn't bad by any stretch. It would be so easy. "But what if I want to booty call you?" "Don't go putting labels on us now, Gems." His

bright blue eyes flash. We have a banter going, and it's fun. "A nickname? If that doesn't spell commitment I don't know what does." I hit him as good as I take it. Oliver actually tilts his head back and laughs, and I can't help but watch the curls bounce on his head. "Fair enough, fair enough. All right, I'll take your number and you take mine. That way the ball is in no one's court to call the other, but if you want hot sex you know where to find me." I don't tell him I faked my second orgasm as we exchange numbers. "And now you can leave because I have twelve hours to veg out before a brutal Monday morning. I'd walk you out, but that seems too polite. So bye!" I wave from the bed as Oliver smiles and nods before walking out. So I didn't find my soulmate today, but I didn't find another frog. I'd call that an even split.

Chapter Eight GE M M A

irls of my generation grew up worshipping G relationships like Carrie and Big, Rachel and Ross, Peyton and Lucas. No wonder we have a totally fucked up idea of how love should be. “Well, I’m off. It’s Martin and I’s one month anniversary and I don’t want to leave him waiting. He got us a table at STK!” Dani wiggles her fingers at me and clacks out of the office. Leave it to women to count silly things like

one-month anniversaries. In two weeks time, Dani would be bored with the marketing associate she met at a SoHo speakeasy last month. But for now, he was her sole focus. In the last four weeks, she’d declined all of the industry parties and launches she’d been invited to, hadn’t attended one work happy hour, and spent her days pinning engagement rings and wedding colors. It was so desperately sad, because I was usually the same way. I met a guy, he spoke politely to me, and in three minutes time I was imagining what Montessori school we’d send our future child to. Oliver was right; women were given an inch and took three thousand miles. It didn’t also mean most men weren’t horrendous jerks though. Oliver Anders. It had been three days since our little Sunday afternoon delight, and I had yet to text him. It wasn’t like I’d heard from him either, but the feelings I had toward him weren’t rage or disappointment. We’d both been consenting adults who’d fucked for mutual pleasure and made no lies about our true intentions. I wasn’t sad that he

hadn’t called, and my normally romantic brain wasn’t pining for a man I barely knew. On the contrary, I think the reason why I wasn’t stalking Oliver on social media to see why he wasn’t texting me was because he was honest. I rarely met a person of the opposite sex who was truly honest with me, and maybe the newfound brutal truth that Oliver laid out for me about what we did just kind of shut off any switch of possibilities in my brain. “She’s insane. You know my friend went out with Martin on a few dates. She said he tried to pee on her during sex!” Whitney had whirled around to face my desk. “Ew, he wanted to give her a golden shower?” My nose wrinkled up in disgust. I could get kinky, handcuffs and blindfolds if I felt up to it, but someone pissing on me? No fucking thank you. “Yeah, said he was a total pervert. But hey, Dani is completely nuts. Maybe they make a good pair. What do I know? What’re you up to tonight?” She took a nail file out of her drawer and

began filing at a hot-pink tip. I looked over my desk, at the products spilled all over it, articles that still needed edits. At the half-researched piece on period-proof underwear that blinked from my computer monitor. “I probably should stay here and finish some stuff up, but I feel like I’ve been here for twelve hours already.” Glancing at the clock, I realized I had been at work for twelve hours. “I do have another stupid date, but I was just going to cancel.” Whitney pursed her lips at me. “Honey, get out of here while you can. You know summer is the slow time, Medusa doesn’t even mind if you take a Friday off to go to the Hamptons. Take it before September starts and runway shows are here.” She was right, of course. Femme really picked up once September hit and the cities started having their fashion junkets. I should take all the time I could get while we were still in the beginning of June. “Fine. But if this date ends up being a train wreck, I’m blaming you.” Whitney shrugs and turns back to her desk,

talking to me over her shoulder. “Call me after if it is. I’ll buy you some Grey Goose on the rocks.” I packed up and put some of the articles I needed to edit into my boho chic Fossil bag before heading down to the lobby in the elevator. The building that Femme was housed in was all metal and glass, meant to exude power. Outside, the streets were emptying of the rush hour pedestrians, and a few late employees bustled home to their loved ones or Netflix binges. Men and women in after-hours attire walked briskly, headed out for dates or mid-week club nights. I walked past two characters in an Elmo and a Big Bird getup, probably headed for Times Square and trying to make a buck on the warm early June evening. The sun was practically set, casting an orange hue over the city that made me want to walk the streets all night. I had texted the guy I was supposed to meet on the way out of my building. We’d been talking on Ember for a few days now, and he’d asked me to dinner. His pictures were hot; blond and tall, kind of like a Viking. His name was Henrik, he was a

software developer for a large gaming company, and he lived in Brooklyn. Typically Williamsburg hipsters weren’t my type, but he didn’t fit the profile at all and I thought his job was cool enough that he might make for interesting conversation. So I was going. Trying my hand again at another spin round the Wheel of Dating Misfortune. I’d worn a flowing teal and blue maxi dress with crossing straps in the back and a pair of wedge sandals to work. It would have to do, because I didn’t have time to change before I had to meet Henrik at Bhandi, a tiny Indian restaurant in Murray Hill. I could have walked, but it was fifteen blocks, and I was tired after a long day at the office. Springing for a cab, I was there in less than ten minutes. Manhattan traffic on a Wednesday was lemon pie compared to Friday through Sunday. “Right on time.” A tall, blond Norske god stood in front of me on the sidewalk as I tipped my cabby. Jesus, this guy was like Alexander Skarsgård wearing Brooklyn garb. Long legs, broad chest, white-

blond hair and piercing blue eyes. “You must be Henrik. Hi, I’m Gemma.” I held out a hand, hoping it wasn’t clammy from the hot heat of the city in June. “It’s really nice to meet you. Thanks for having dinner with me, beautiful. I promise, it’s going to be a delight.” Okay, so a little cheesy on the sweet talk, but overall, good first impression. We enter the restaurant, a small hole in the wall that smells like curry and is done in deep purples. “I hope you like chardonnay, this place is BYOB.” Henrik pulls a bottle of white wine from his backpack as we sit. And I’m impressed. He brought wine and picked a place that already has my mouth watering? Bravo. The waiter, dressed in traditional Indian garb, comes over to take our orders and set down some Papadum for us to chew on. “So, Gemma, tell me a little bit about what you do?” The typical first date question, and I give my

typical first date answer. The night goes much like your typical get-to-know-you schtick, but it’s nice. Henrik is sweet, seems interested in what I’m saying, has funny stories about his job, and seems like he has a normal family life. By the end of my chicken tikka masala and nan bread, I’m starting to have hope that there is one decent man in Manhattan. And then … Henrik reveals the flaw that makes him completely undateable. After the waiter puts down dessert menus, my dashing date leans across the table to me. I’ve had two glasses of excellent chardonnay, the night has gone better than I even anticipated, and if he asks me back to his place I’ll probably go. That’s exactly what I think will come out of Henrik’s mouth, until … “You know, for brown people, they really do make some excellent food. Even if it does look like Indian shit.” Henrik whispers across our two-top and winks before sitting back in his chair. At first, I don’t think I’ve heard him correctly.

“Excuse me?” I’m almost too stunned, that I think maybe it didn’t even happen. His big, hulking body leans closer to me, and his fingers reach out to tuck my hair behind my ear. “I just think … you know, even for people who don’t even belong in this country, and can hardly drive for shit, they make some delicious food. God, they must live above this place though, like four or five people to one room.” Ding, ding, ding ladies and gentlemen. We have ourselves the freaking racist of all racists. I jerk my head back from where his hand still lingers on my cheek. “What the fuck?” My reaction must have him rewinding in his head, calculating where he went wrong in assuming I held the same ideas about the people who owned Bhandi. “Ah, um … Gemma I thought we were vibing. It’s just a little political incorrectness fun.” I stared at him, seeing him for who he really was. His coifed features, his snowy hair, the pale skin. This guy was as close to an Arian brother that

I’d ever seen, and apparently he was a closet racist. Well, not closet, considering he shared his sentiments within only an hour of meeting me. “That is a horrible thing to say, and so racist I can’t even justify it with a response.” Did this guy even live in this century? Christ! “Half the people who live in this city think that way, it’s not a crime. Not like I ever jumped a towel head or anything.” Now he was talking at full volume, and I was mortified for not only the staff, but everyone in the tiny restaurant who was listening to this Nazi jackass. “That’s enough for me. Have a great life, dickwad.” I stood and grabbed my boho bag. “Whatever, you’re an Ember slut anyway. Probably would have fucked me if I asked you home!” Henrik yelled at my retreating back. Oh, hell no. It was one thing to insult the gracious restaurant staff and out himself as a complete racist. But to attack me for being a single female who could do whatever she pleased? This day had been too long already, and my temper

flared right up. I whirled around on my heel, and screamed loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear. “Maybe I would have, you prick. But guess what? That’s my right. What I do with my own body is completely my choice. You know what you don’t have the right to do? Degrade these people, classify entire races, and just be a general boil on the butt of humanity!” I was beyond done with another horribly failed date, and another awful guy who ended being the froggiest of all frogs. And certainly no prince. Stomping out of the restaurant, I finally typed in the number I hadn’t called in three days. If there was any way to end a long, hot, miserable day, it was surely with a bang.

Chapter Nine O L IVE R

what, I’m going to be your fuck toy after “Soevery bad date?” I smile as I open the door for Gemma. “Hey, if the dick is that easy.” She shrugs and smirks, but I can tell the smile doesn’t reach her whiskey-colored eyes. Gemma is a willow in the long sundress she dons, her tits perky and on display. I’m half hard already, got that way when her number lit up on my phone. I hadn’t texted her since our brunch fuck,

but it wasn’t that I hadn’t thought about it. That sex had been seriously hot in a way I’d never had before. Gemma had been vocal, honest, told me where to put my hands and lips and teeth. She directed me but took direction, it was good for us both because we took and gave equally. I didn’t have to guess at what she wanted, navigating my way using moans or yeses. “What was wrong with this prince?” I ushered her in, but she stopped immediately when she saw my apartment. Shit, I cringed internally. I probably should have warned her, or … I don’t know. Sooner or later she was going to realize who I was, or more likely, Google me. She might want to date me, and that wasn’t something I was interested in. “You live here? You’re not like, house sitting for some Saudi billionaire?” Gemma’s mouth hangs open. I crack out a laugh. “A Saudi billionaire? That’s the most realistic scenario you came up with in your head? What if I was a porn star, or an international assassin?”

My quip seemed to make Gemma’s mood better. She set her bag down on the sectional in the middle of my open concept apartment. “I’ve seen your dick, and while it’s big, it’s not porn star big. Also, you’re too nerdy to be an assassin. James Bond would pick you out clear as day.” I put my hand to my chest. “You wound me. All right, tell me what happened with this bozo?” I joined her on the couch, where she began unstrapping the high sandals she had molded to her feet. They dropped to my hardwood floor with a thud as she massaged her insoles and groaned. “He was a racist. And when I say racist, I mean ‘Heil, Hitler,’ NRA, Nazi motherfucker racist.” Gemma rubbed her neck and her breast shifted. I wanted to get under there, rub my face in that soft skin. "That's rough. You really do know how to pick ’em, don't you." "Oh shove it, Mr. Closet Millionaire. At least I put myself out there." I laugh and get up to grab us some beers from

my fridge. Handing one to her, I tilt my head in mock annoyance. "How would you know I don't date? You don't know me that well." She smiles as if to say bless your heart. "Oh, Oliver. We may not know each other that long, but it doesn't mean I can't read exactly who you are. Call it a woman's intuition. I know that you don't date, because no man with that cynical of an attitude goes out with women to find love. I know that you only fuck women, no strings attached, because you did it way too easily with me. You're charming and friendly, but are really an introvert who only networks and converses when necessary. You say you're in the tech sector, but you've got to be some kind of company owner because no one lives in this kind of penthouse without some serious cash. You're originally a West Coast boy, but secretly love the East because you hustle just as hard as New Yorkers who have lived here for generations. Oh, and you have shit taste in beer." Her answer knocks me clear on my ass. I may have been blunt with her in our two encounters,

and eventual hookup, about the nature of women on the dating scene today … but she just pinned my ass as if it had a bullseye on it. And all I can manage is, "This beer is an imported pale ale from Ireland." Gemma laughs, and the sound isn't girlish or tinkling but more like a hyena and a pig meshing together. It's loud and obnoxious, but it's a real goddamn laugh and I appreciate it. "Anyways, yes. I had a shitty date and now I want you to screw me until my head clears." I set my beer down on the coffee table and scoot towards her. "I'm here to please." Before I can even touch her, Gemma reaches past her knees and drags the material of her dress clear up and over her head. Her curvy, long body sits perched on the edge of my couch, and in an instant I'm rock hard and throbbing. Her tits, a perky mouthful, are bare under the dress, and nothing but a silky thong rests on her hips. Following her lead, and wasting no time with foreplay or making out, I lift my ass and push my sweatpants down, leaving me in nothing but a T-

shirt with my steely-eyed friend standing straight up in hello. We are on opposite sides of the couch, and I sink down so that my body makes a seat for her. "You came here looking for one thing, take whatever it is you need." Laying a hand on myself, I tug on my shaft and feel the tingle of pleasure work its way up my spine. "Just need this." Gemma produces a condom from her purse and drops her drawers as she crawls across the sectional towards me. I can't help but roll her nipples between my fingers as she rolls the condom down me. We both sigh, the mutual arousal floating in the air is obvious. Gemma mounts me; her slick wetness combining with the lubricant of the condom has her sliding easily down onto my cock. Her pussy walls squeeze me like a vise, but the way she’s sitting on my balls makes them squish between my thighs. She rises and slams down with a moan before I can fix myself. My sack sticks to my thigh and I have to move up the couch before I get ball-burn

from the friction. “Ah, hold on, sexy.” I reach behind her, pulling out my balls and then slapping her ass to let her know that it’s okay to move. It’s clear that Gemma doesn’t need any dirty words tonight to spur her orgasm. I simply watched her ride me like her favorite horse’s saddle, using my cock as her joystick and playing for the win. Her eyes were closed, screwed up tight like she was envisioning her orgasm and could get there by meditating on it. That long brown hair was pulsing through my fingertips as I held her back and ass tightly to me. My cock trembled each time she sank down onto it, the condom numbing a bit of my feeling but the tight sucking of her pussy making me race with her towards the edge. “Rub my clit.” Gemma half-demanded, halfmoaned. I did as she said, using my two fingers to rub at her furiously on every upstroke. Before long, she was clawing at my shoulders, the whole city of New York twinkling at me from the open floor-toceiling windows of my apartment. I could see her

reflection in the glass, that beautiful naked body twisting and writhing on top of me. “Fuck, yessss …” She slammed down onto me, wiggling her pelvis back and forth as her pussy gripped me like a fist that was stroking my cock into oblivion. This orgasm felt different, stronger than the first time we’d fucked and I’d done her from behind. And just as my climax ripped through me, rendering me speechless and sightless, I realized … She’d faked an orgasm. Not this time, not when she could control the movements on top. But the last time, where I’d been bucking at her doggy-style. Gemma sagged against me, her breathing coming in puffs and her back covered in a sheen of sweat. I held her neck, the hair damp at the nape. “You faked it when I was inside you last time.” I said it matter-of-factly, with no malice in my voice. She instantly shot up, maneuvering off my dick until she was back by her dress and facing away from me to put it on. “What?”

I knew she’d heard me. “We aren’t in that kind of relationship. Or one at all. I don’t care if you faked it, it doesn’t offend me. I just want to know if you did.” I was genuinely curious, and maybe she answered me because she realized that. “Okay, so what if I did?” Her posture was purely defensive, and I realized that someone, or someone’s, had really done a number on this girl over the years. She was so deep into cool-girl persona that she didn’t even realize when she was doing it. I pulled on my sweatpants, the nice person in me coming out. I didn’t want to comfort her in a boyfriend sense, but if I was doing the dirty with a hot girl, I wanted us both to enjoy it. “You didn’t have to do that. If you tell me what you like, I’m more than willing to work at it for you and make you feel good. You don’t have to lie to me, Gemma. I’m not a scumbag guy you’re trying to look easy or simple for. I know, generally, that it takes women longer. I’m not going to be pissed at you or not care if you don’t come. Just let me know

what you need.” I cringed inwardly, expecting to see that little twinkle of hope women sometimes get when you’re compassionate with them. But as Gemma turns to face me, all I see is genuine acceptance. “Wow, a guy who’s willing to work for mutually beneficial sex for once. You’re like a unicorn, Anders. Your request is noted. Be prepared for an hour of getting me off next time.” I laugh, her quirky personality surprising me at every turn. Just when I think I’m going to go and make the girl cry or confess her true feelings on how men make her feel … she completely floors me. “Well, then, until next time.” I grab my beer and take a long swig. And what does the woman do? Curtsies before she heads out my door laughing.

Chapter Ten GE M M A

o, I lied. I can’t be totally detached from the S men I see. Even if we are just fuck buddies. Like any female living in the two thousands … I Googled my cock-sure friend. I had only lasted a week before Sam had convinced me I needed to know if he was a serial killer or had fucked an old woman for his fortune or something. And then I’d broken down and gone full reconnaissance on Google, Instagram and Facebook. “Are you fucking kidding me?!” Sam squeals

beside me as she looks over my shoulder at the computer. “The guy you’re doing the horizontal mambo with is a freaking Silicon Valley genius? How did you not know this!?” Her screeching makes me shy away, our bodies crammed into the love seat in our living room. And I say living room loosely. Oliver has a living room. A freaking ballroom. Sam and I could only fit an old blue leather two-seater in the cramped room. “How was I supposed to know this? I am literally just taking a joy ride on his meat pole. We don’t talk about, I don’t know … stuff.” Sam scowls at me as she flips the channel to watch Chopped. “Well, maybe you should be talking about this ‘stuff.’ I mean, you said he’s a pretty good lay. And apparently he’s a freaking gajillionare. He made those headphones I wear in the shower, the ones that are detachable and waterproof. He fucking invented those! You need to land this bird like he’s motherfucking prey and you’re the lion.” I had to admit, Oliver’s apartment was the

thing of a twenty-something Manhattanites dreams. Located in TriBeCa, penthouse views, more square feet than I could walk … it was gorgeous. And looking at his Wikipedia page, yes he had a fucking Wikipedia page, I now knew why. He was a tech millionaire, an inventor and boy genius who had made his first seven-figure check by the time he graduated college. Oliver hung out with people like the creators of Twitter, Mark Cuban, and had even been rumored to have dated a Victoria’s Secret model. He was of another stratosphere, and yet … I don’t think of him like my knight in shining armor. Honestly, I don’t even think of him as potential boyfriend material. He’s funny, nice, sometimes sexy, Oliver. I don’t know him well, but I thought I knew him well enough. There wasn’t a need to get more intimate, and although I thought he could help me pay some of my student loans, I didn’t want to try to date him for his money. Or otherwise. “He’s just … strictly a friend with benefits. I don’t know what it is Sam, but you know when you

get that feeling that you could never possibly date a person? Like, I already know it would go wrong or would just be weird.” Sam doesn’t tear her eyes from the partridge and peanut butter combo being cooked on TV. “Yeah, I get that. But I think if the guy had a bank account that rivaled Richie Rich’s, I could reconsider.” She was incorrigible, but I loved her. And she was ridiculously meticulous about Swiffering the hardwood floors, so I let her stay. “So tell me again what we are doing today?” I was nervous about the afternoon she’d set up. She clapped her hands, giddy as all fuck for a Saturday morning. Neither of us had gone out to drink last night, a feat for a Friday for the two of us. “Double date. Music execs. Golf Bar. It’s going to be fucking awesome.” Golf? I doubted it. If someone had a radar gun that picked out the most un-athletic people in the world, I’d be on the list. “And how did you meet these guys anyway? If I

go on one more of your double dates and end up sitting in a corner while you suck face with some asshole, I’m going to drown myself in tequila.” Sam leaps off the couch. “Hey, that’s not a bad option, so remember to thank me. Now get up, get dressed, and stop stalking your fuck buddy. We are going out to land you an actual flesh and blood prince.” I didn’t really want to go, but you know what they say about practice. It makes perfect, duh. And if my track record meant anything, any day now I’d be landing a billionaire with a ten-inch dick who could make a mean Oreo milkshake and owned an island.

IT WAS OFFICIAL. Samantha’s death was being slowly plotted in my head as this bozo droned on beside me. “So then I told Jay-Z, ‘Listen, HOV, you can’t just up and cut Kanye out of this album. Watch the Throne made you buckets of moolah. You have to

put up with him and the Kartrashians to sell this next multi-platinum record.’ And Bey agreed with me. I just know how these people work. Plus, I bought Blue Ivy a custom dollhouse complete with marble countertops, so they love me.” Shoot me in the fucking face now. This asshole has not stopped namedropping since we got to the popular bar/driving range combo. On a summer Saturday in the Big Apple, this place is packed. The place is crawling with Millennials, girls in their crop tops and high-waisted shorts flirting with boys in muscle tanks sipping out of steins filled with IPAs and microbrews. We’re on our second round of golf, and only the vodka cranberry in my hand is numbing this impossibly dull date. Joshua, Sam’s date, and Kyle, my date, are music executives at a top firm in the city. And they will never, ever let you forget it. They’ve been going back and forth, telling industry stories and laughing as if anything they’re saying is funny or relevant. Kyle hasn’t asked me one question about

myself, and keeps doing this disgusting, annoying habit of scratching and massaging his balls through his striped blue shorts. Like, are you digging for clams in there? Trying to find the lost treasure of Olympus? I want to tell him that he might want to think about buying bigger boxers, or using some baby powder, but that would require me to acknowledge or talk to him and I’m trying to remain in my out of body state until I can go home. “Oh my God, I almost got a hole in one!” Sam throws her putter up in the air and throws her arms around Joshua. I keep trying to tell her that you can’t get a hole in one at a driving range, but it’s useless. She’s wasted and only wants sex now, and her and Joshua are more than on their way to getting it. Why does this keep happening to me? I wonder this as I’m sitting on the toilet of the Golf Bar bathroom. The floor kind of spins, and I realize I’m drunker than I thought I was. Why do you never notice that until you’re in the bathroom by yourself? But seriously, is there just a tattoo on my head

that says ‘Fuckboys Apply Here’? Do I just attract the scum of the male gender? My last relationship was in college, and every guy I date seems to want to talk to the lips between my thighs rather than the ones on my face. I’m so fucking tired. Before I can talk my pathetic, drunk ass out of it, I whip out my phone. Gemma: Do I have a tattoo on my head that just screams I want assholes to approach me? It takes a minute or two, but Oliver’s name dings on the screen of my smart phone. Still sitting on the toilet, or hiding from my date, I open the text. Oliver: Unless it’s in invisible ink, I don’t think I’ve seen it. And I’ve watched your face bob up and down on a very specific part of my body, so I think I’d know. Gemma: Point taken. I’m currently hiding in a bathroom because my date can’t

stop dropping names of famous celebs he works with. Save me. I didn’t really mean to say save me, but my fingers are drunk and I’m more than a little needy. Drunk texting is bad, especially to a guy who is supposed to be a fuck buddy and that’s all. Oliver: Hate tools like that. You could always fake a period. Or tell him your vagina has teeth like that one movie. I can’t help but bust out laughing at his suggestion. Someone is probably washing their hands and hears this drunk girl cackling to herself in a bathroom stall. I’m sinking to some other kind of level right now. Gemma: You know damn well my taco doesn’t bite. What’re you up to? Feel like having some Sunday pie? Oliver: Did you just refer to sex as pie?

In that case, bring the whipped cream next time. Sadly, I’m in Nashville for a conference. But I’ll take a rain check. Damn. Was it bad that my heart dropped a little when he typed that he wasn’t in the city? It was probably because I was drunk and horny, and couldn’t scratch that itch with a penis that I knew was reliable and attached to a decent guy. Gemma: Do you like country music? The question comes from … where? I don’t know. I just don’t feel like going back out there, and a text conversation with Oliver is much more interesting right now. Oliver: I’m a nerdy guy from California. What do you think? No, Nashville isn’t really my scene. But it’s a beautiful city. Have you been here? Gemma: I’m a twenty-five year old girl

from New Jersey up to my ears in college debt. I haven’t been anywhere but the Jersey Shore for some time. Plus, I’m not a millionaire. Oliver: Hmm, has someone been Googling me? Damn. Busted. But I know Oliver won’t care. Gemma: And if I have, and admit it, will you reward my honesty with a trip to Bali? I don’t mean to sound like a needy girlfriend, but again, I blame the alcohol. And the fact that my ass is now cold and I really should flush and get out of here. Oliver: Lol, as if I get that much time off. Go home, Gemma. You need to sleep this off before work tomorrow. I’ll talk to you next week.

I take that as his good-bye, and frown, because he’s right. I really should get out of here. I text Sam, who is probably in a coat closet somewhere in this place making out with what’s-his-name, that I’m going home. I don’t bother saying good-bye to Kyle. He’s probably still talking, and hasn’t even realized I’ve been sitting in the bathroom for twenty minutes.

Chapter Eleven O L IVE R

ew York City and its occupants are fast-paced, N harsh and determined. We work our asses off, dedicate way too much time to the office, party like the sun is never going to come up, and have razorsharp tongues to boot. But in the summer, for three measly months, we put aside our hectic way of life and travel to a little place where, if you’re famous, everybody knows your name. And everybody also owns a multi-million dollar beach home.

That’s right, the Hamptons. Being a California boy at heart, I personally love the hiatus. The mass amounts of workaholics flocking to the quaint beach towns, away from the hustle and bustle of the city. The collective sigh that runs through the community as everyone settles down for the long weekend, donning their floppy sun hats and lobster printed shorts. I bought my house in Montauk a year ago, a good deal at two million. It’s an older, Nantucketstyle house with its shingled siding and weathered gray exterior. The inside is made up of whites and creams, with big bay windows looking out onto the infinity pool and private beach below. It seems excessive to have this four-bedroom home; I’m a single guy who only comes out here for maybe eight weekends a year. But … it’s somewhat necessary to show my face and be a part of the summer crowd. The Hamptons is not only for relaxation. It’s also where some of the best networking and deal making is done. Which is why I’m here, dressed in all white during the first official weekend of the season, or

the second week of June as everyone knows is sacrosanct in the Hamptons. It’s the party everyone wants to come to, but only a select hundred are invited to. It’s to be seen and see others, to rub elbows. For some, they get their most interesting gossip at this party. For me, I’m on the hunt for a new partner who will help me fund my latest brainchild. “You know, I could help you start a conversation.” Brynn flashes a smile as she winds a tanned, smooth arm through mine. I turned, my gaze landing on the red headed vixen beside me. Brynn was full of sex appeal; the long fiery waves, the striking high cheek bones, flashing green eyes and hourglass figure encased in a white mini dress that looked like it had been painted on. She was one of the women I used to hook up with occasionally; she was on the scene and a regular at these parties. I hadn't seen her in a year or so, but when she'd called to ask me to dinner having heard I was in the Hamptons, I knew she'd be the perfect date to the White Party. Brynn could

flirt with anyone, even perverse old men who controlled every Angel Fund in the city. The kind of men that I needed to get in front of tonight. "Please do," I murmured in her ear, placing my hand along the swooping curve of her lower back. If tonight went well, I'd be closing two deals. Brynn sauntered up to a man I knew well. Tall with raven black hair, that everyone damn well knew he dyed, and a potbelly. Sinclair Wells. He owned one of the biggest private equity and investment funds in Manhattan, let alone the country. “Hi there, sugar. You look like you’re bored.” She pouts a crimson lip at him as he turns, and I see his beady eyes light with taboo thoughts. “But how could I possibly be bored with a beautiful woman like you talking to me?” Sinclair, who I knew was originally named Salvatore, was a sleazy Italian looking guy with hair so greasy, it could be used to fry chicken. He takes Brynn’s hand without her giving permission and kisses it. “Sinclair.” I hold out my hand and tip my head, the guy already knowing who I am.

“Anders, well hey! Nice to see you. Is this pretty lady with you?” He’s fishing to see if he can stick his dick in her. Not that she’d be into it at all. Brynn may play nice with this crowd, but she only goes for the attractive ones with money. “She is my date tonight, but we are just friends. How have you been?” I need to at least entertain his disgusting stories for a little to be able to launch into the conversation I want. Sinclair of course starts telling us about the newest ventures of his; the latest technology in dental hygiene, some kind of toothbrush that cleans so well the user doesn’t even need to invest in dental insurance. And a new line of sports equipment that all of the celebrity athletes are betatesting as we speak. He drones on about his latest trip to a Texas strip club, and the new house he just bought in Aspen. When I finally get my opening, I launch right in. “So, I wanted to talk to you about my next idea, and how you can help. I’ve got something big on my plate, and think that no one but you would be able to see the vision and how big this could get.” I

was direct in my sales approach, no pussy footing. If he was in, he’d want to hear it. At this point in my career, I didn’t need to sell my ideas; people knew how good I was. That wasn’t cocky either, it just was what it was. I executed above and beyond, and I’d made all of my early investors their money back triple fold. Sinclair holds up his hands, stopping my train of thought. “Now hold it right there, Oliver. I’m sure your idea is worth billions, but right now, I’m just too overextended. I’d love to do business with you, but right now, I just can’t. Good luck though!” The fat bastard stalks away, eyeing some other ass in a tight dress across the lawn. “Well, fuck.” I ran my hands through my dark curls and sighed, knowing this wasn’t going to be as easy as I thought. “Don’t pout, handsome. Let’s do a shot to loosen up, and we will try the next rich old guy.” Brynn pulls my hand and I follow to the bar, reluctant to start on the alcohol but also needing it. She orders us two Johnny Walker Blue shooters and winds herself around me until I can’t help but

rub against her slim body. She’s too skinny, and my mind hones in on Gemma’s curves. The way they flare in and out, how her ass and thighs and breasts move slightly when she sways, or climbs on top of my dick. Jesus, I’ve only fucked the girl twice and talked to her a couple of times. I’m just hung up on the sex, because it’s fucking good sex. And because she doesn’t ask questions or need reassurance. Brynn and I do the shot and move on to the next investor, a German guy who owns almost every building on Wall Street. He isn’t interested in my next project either, and I notice that Brynn is on her fourth gin and tonic. By the third person we talk to, she’s stumbling and super handsy. Not that anyone at the party notices, half the people here have been inebriated since noon, but its only nine o’clock and she’s basically giving me an over-the-pants hand job. “All right, Brynn … calm down there.” I halflaugh and shrug her off. But she’s not having it, and comes at me full

on, giggling in my ear and latching her nails into my ass. “Come on, Oliver, fuck me somewhere in that big house. You know you want to.” Actually, the idea of pounding away at what I know is a sweet pussy holds absolutely no appeal to me right now. I came here to close one deal, and wrapping a redhead around my hard cock wasn’t it. I need a partner in this venture, the one that will be the biggest project of my career. “Not tonight, darling. I’m just not in the mood.” I move away from her again, straightening the white button down she’s been rumpling and dripping her drink on. Brynn slurs, and her eyes are so dilated, I didn’t even realize she was this drunk. “But you’re always in the mood. Whatever, Oliver, this is why I haven’t seen you in a year. You lead me on, you lead every woman on. Use us, and then dump us because your precious business means fucking more to you than any woman ever will.” She’s spitting her words, and some eyes turn toward us. I need to extract myself from this situation. Now.

I look around, hoping no one of importance is listening to this. And my eyes land on someone who is so out of place to me in this crowd, I can’t help but blurt out her name. “Gemma?” My tan, auburn escape route whips her head around, the blond … family or something she is with all flashing me smiles. She runs over, her tits bouncing in the split open top she wears. When she reaches me, her small hands grip my forearms, her peach and vanilla scent enveloping my body. “Did I ever tell you you’re like a mirage in the desert? Thank fuck, Oliver. Get me away from these people before they wipe my brain and abduct me away to Pleasantville.”

Chapter Twelve GE M M A

Five Hours Before o matter N personal and

how incredibly ridiculous my love life can get … in my professional career, I’m a hard-working girl boss who goes above and beyond every single day. In the office, I grind. Literally, there are some days I think I cut my teeth so bad I’m bleeding from how many challenges I take on. This week alone, I offered to do the first rounds of edits of this

month’s beauty section in Femme to impress my boss. I also wrote two of the section pieces, perfected them until Medusa got off my ass, attended three launches for new beauty lines, recorded and video edited two in-office tutorials, and got started on the logistics of Femme’s Annual Fall Beauty Event. I rarely leave my desk, eat my salad with dressing on the side while sniffing new perfumes or rubbing eye shadow shades on my forearm, and am one of the last people out every night. I love my job, I’m damn good at it, and I support myself. If there is a new something that I want, I buy it. Not that I need to shout it to the rooftops, but I’m an independent woman. But … an independent woman only brings in so much. Sure, I can afford my Manhattan rent and a pair of overly priced shoes every once in a while. I go out on the weekends, eat out a lot, pay for way-too-expensive pilates classes. What I can’t afford is a house in the Hamptons. Not even to rent one with a bunch of friends for the weekends in the summer.

So when a cute guy that I had a nice first date with invites me to stay with him at his Montauk house for the first official weekend of the season, there is absolutely no way I’m saying no. “Thanks for coming down with me, it’s going to be a lot of fun. Especially now that you’re here.” Dean Frontero smiles at me, his large hand coming off the gear shift of his Mercedes coup to squeeze mine as if he was anticipating a great two days. And if I let my guard down for one minute, I could admit that I was too. I’d been on some shitty dates lately, had seen the bad side of men in the city and how love in Manhattan was buried beneath the grimiest sewer. But then I’d gone out with Dean three days ago and we had hit it off. He was everything I was looking for. Charming, good looking, self made, held a steady job. He worked for the District Attorney’s office, and when I wasn’t imagining how he’d look starring in one of my favorite crime shows, I was admiring his Kennedy-like good looks. Dean was an all-American blond with dimples to match, and

his Polo cologne couldn’t be more obvious if it tried. I liked him so far, we were having fun. Conversation was good and he really seemed to be down to earth. “Me too, I’m excited to get on the beach. My toes haven’t felt the sand in too long. So what are we doing tonight?” I flick a piece of lint off of my new blue and white striped sundress. Being that I can’t really afford a Hamptons house, I don’t go there all that often. Therefore, I don’t have a Hamptons wardrobe. So as soon as I found out I was going, I made an emergency trip to Bloomingdale’s and snatched up every preppy, striped, white item of clothing I could find on the rack. Sure, I may have maxed out my credit card, or came close to it, but the allure of the Hamptons was too great to resist. Sometimes, as a woman, I know that my bank account is stumbling. But I need the strappy Steve Madden sandals anyway. Because if a great pair of shoes can make my life better, I’m investing in them.

“Tonight, I’m taking you to The White Party. Some years it can be a bore, others it’s really fun. I hear that there is a famous DJ going, so hopefully that will make it fun? If not, we can walk down the beach back to my house. The people who host it every year are basically our neighbors.” Dean flicks on a blinker for the exit to Montauk, and my insides dance. I’ve heard about the White Party. It’s the most exclusive, infamous party in all of the Hamptons, much less New York City. I’m going to be rubbing elbows with some of the most elite people in Manhattan, or internationally. These people control the status quo of things, they have seen worlds a girl from New Jersey can only dream of. I’m not only excited to get to know Dean more, and possibly start something new and romantic, but I’m thrilled to go behind the curtain and see how the other half lives. “Does everyone really wear white? Or does like, one daring person come in in all black and wow? Like Cinderella, everyone is looking at her and then she loses her stiletto on the pool steps.” I get it, I babble when I’m nervous.

And being in a nice car with a hot guy on the way to his million dollar home equals arm pitting, knuckle cracking nervousness. Dean looks at me with a sideways smile. “You’re hilarious, you know that? But don’t think this car is turning into a pumpkin, I paid too much for it. I may be able to find you some horses somewhere in Montauk though, if you need your carriage pulled.” Sexy and could also banter with me, check. Next he was going to tell me he had to have a penis reduction surgery, and his dick was still ten inches long. He could pull my carriage right down to city hall and slap a ring on that left finger if so. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Gemma. I had to remember Oliver’s teachings and keep a cool head about me. No guy wanted Taylor Swift in her “Blank Space” music video. But I could go fucking crazy if needed … Dean pulls off the main road of what I assume is Montauk, because I’ve never been here, and onto a secluded lane that has private drives, leading to houses I can’t see. I open the window to smell the

salty scent of the ocean. Just the fragrance calms my nerves, and I realize that I just need to relax and let the weekend take me where it wants. A few minutes later, we’re pulling off the road loaded with greenery and sand, and onto a gravel drive with trees rising up around us. It’s like some mystical land where rich people who eat caviar and drink Prosecco live on the weekends. The scenery is beautiful, the air smells of the rough sea, and everything just has this … opulence about it. I kind of do feel like a fairy princess. “Home sweet home.” Dean’s deep voice falls on deaf ears. Because I’m too busy staring at probably the nicest, hugest, most freaking amazing house I’ve ever seen. It’s pure white, in that old style of siding that most beach houses have. The windows are almost floor to ceiling everywhere in the home, and flowering trees and shrubs pour over the garden beds. Trellises and cute little lawn accents dot the rolling green property, and I can see through the entire house at this time of day. Out to where a cliff drops down and the ocean

roars up beneath where the house sits. “Dean. Are you kidding me?” I can’t help but fangirl over this place he’s taken me to. “What? You don’t like it? Fine, I guess we can go back to Manhattan.” He fakes the motion of putting the car in reverse before I slap my hand over his. A laugh bubbles out of his mouth at my over the top gesture. “Don’t you dare take us back to that slimy city. I’m never leaving this place.” I don’t wait for him to tell me to get out of the car, because I set one flat-footed sandal on the gravel and stretch my body until my spine cracks. “I guess that means you’ll be spending a lot of time with me.” His dark brown eyes roam over me, and a tingle goes up my spine. Yeah, I wouldn’t mind spending an eternity with this man, in this house. The thought both shocks and excites me. I don’t know him from Adam, but from everything I’ve seen so far, I’m living in my own romance novel with this one. Maybe Oliver is wrong. Maybe there are

Prince Charming’s still out there. Dean grabs our bags from the trunk and walks to the door. After he unlocks it, he pushes inside, letting me into the charming foyer of his Hamptons house. It’s all sleek and chic beach decor, beautiful and somewhere out of a Home & Garden magazine. He gives me the tour, and the whole time we walk we steal touches. A caress here, a flirt there. I keep saying it, but everything about him, about his house and demeanor, is charming. I’m practically swooning by the time he shows me to a big luxurious bathroom and tells me I can get ready in it. “I know how women like to take their time doing their hair or makeup, or whatever it is you do in here that leaves you looking like a supermodel. Just meet me in the kitchen when you’re ready. Take your time. Relax.” He leaves me with a very fluffy looking bathrobe, and I twirl in a giddy circle as he closes the door. Full on teenage girl crush dancing, and I don’t even care. I’ve hit a jackpot, and the night

and weekend have only just started. I take an overly bubbly bath, washing my body and hair with the expensive bath products. Would it be rude to throw one in my overnight bag to bring home? After the relaxing tub session, I split my hair into sections and take the time to blow dry it into long, silky waves. Blow drying my own hair with a round brush is more of an arm workout than any celebrity trainer could give me. My makeup goes on perfectly, another good sign for tonight's date. I'm nervous, but not overly so to the point that one winged cat eye looks great, and the other looks like someone punched me in the face. Both winged eyeliner strokes are perfect, and in the world of women, that's like God basically gracing you with his presence. By the time I put on my outfit, I'm brimming with so much confidence that even Queen Bey herself would bow down. I bought the most stunning outfit for tonight, and it highlights everything I want it to highlight. And hides everything I want it to hide. I've chosen a stark

white romper with a plunging V neckline and cute fluttering lace cap sleeves. It's cute but cunning, sexy but sophisticated. It showcases my legs, which could be tanner but small victories, and I decided to go outside of the box with siren red wedge heels. As I'm smoothing myself over with a last look in the mirror and securing the gold chain necklace around my neck, I hear voices coming from downstairs. Confused, I crack the door open and listen. Odd, I thought Dean and I would be alone this weekend, and my chest fills with disappointment. I kind of wanted him all to myself during the portions of the evening that we weren't being social. The fact the he didn't give me a heads up is kind of annoying. But then another thought occurs. Maybe he invited a few friends over for some drinks before the party. And in that case, he wants them to meet me. I don't dare let my heart flutter, for I could be jumping ahead and assuming. But I can't even help the tingle of excitement that radiates through my pores, because a guy wanting to show you off is

always a good sign. I decide it's time to make my debut, and head down the stairs in the direction of the voices. Except, when I walk into the room and all heads turn toward me, I'm even more confused than I was upstairs. "Here she is." Dean smiles warmly at me, and I force a jovial expression onto my face even though I'm panicking. Because the two older people standing across the kitchen island don't look like friends. They are the perfect mixture of Dean, and I immediately know these must be parents. What in the ever loving hell? "Mom, Dad … I'd like you to meet Gemma." Dean puts his hand on my lower back and nudges me forward. Oh my God. I stick out my hand, forcing myself to remain calm. "Hi, it's … nice to meet you." His mom, a blonde with Cartier dripping from each wrist and earlobe, extends a hand. "It's so nice to meet you, honey. We were thrilled when Dean told us he'd be bringing you out to the house!"

Before I can answer, his dad, a carbon copy of his son, rounds on me. "Our son doesn't bring many girls home, and so I knew you had to be special. Treat our home like your own while you're here." I turn to Dean, alarm bells going off in my head. "This is your family home?" I try not to phrase the question in an insulting way. They all laugh, and my spine goes icy. These people are straight out of Stepford. "Of course it is," Dean says, kind of hugging me as if I'm so adorable. “My mom and dad own the house, but I’m down here almost every weekend. They just can’t get enough of me during the week, so they came down to meet you and party with us tonight.” “During the week?” My brain isn’t even computing the madness happening in the middle of this Hamptons kitchen right now. “Yeah, I live with my parents on the Upper East Side. Come on, Gem, you can’t think I can afford a place up there by myself.” They all laugh amicably again and I feel like vomiting in my mouth. I didn’t even realize that Dean was one of those guys who has never left the

nest. Maybe my radar was off, but then again it had been so off lately I should probably bench myself from the dating game for like a year. “I’m so excited for The White Party tonight, love your outfit by the way! So darling, let’s make our men some drinks and chat. I can’t wait to get to know you!” His mother, Ginny she tells me her name is, links her arm through mine and drags me to a bar cart in the dining room. I’m almost too stunned to feel anything close to anger or annoyance. The way I thought this weekend would go has completely derailed, and I’m stuck here with two parents who are clearly trying to marry their son off to the first pretty, subservient girl he finds. Dean is a complete conman. He misled me about the house, misled me in our conversations, and absolutely misled me on our first date. Here I thought he was some selfmade, responsible, attractive grown up. When really all he is is the dude who still lives in his parent’s basement. If you can call a gorgeous Manhattan apartment and luxurious Hamptons house a basement.

My body somehow goes through the motions as I have drinks with the parents of a man I’ve only been on one and a half dates with. At least I think it does, because my brain is totally tuned into its own escape plan. Do I really have to go to the party with these people? Did Ginny really just dab a napkin on her tongue and rub a smudge off of Dean’s cheek? Christ, there was no way I could sleep here tonight. Before I know it, I’m being helped out of the car by a valet at an even bigger house. I hear the beat of music coming from the backyard, and instead of a red carpet leading up the front stairs, it’s obviously white. A waiter stands near the door and hands the four of us some frothy white drink, and I down it without even asking what’s in it. Alcohol is going to be the only way I’m surviving this wacky night. “So dear, do you like this diamond? Because you know, I have one that looks just like it I can have made into an engagement ring.” Ginny giggles at me.

Oh fucking lord. I grab another drink before entering the house. What I wouldn’t pay for any kind of red liquid to throw on myself. Could I fake my own murder, or use my go-to period excuse, to get the hell away from these people?

Chapter Thirteen O L IVE R

isn't even far enough away. I need at least "This two countries and a freighter." The sand sloshes beneath our feet, the ground cool and the ocean tamer under the starry night sky. Gemma walks beside me, her fire engine red shoes in one hand. The beach stretches out in front of us, filtered laughter and music from various parties at the houses along the shoreline landing on our ears. "How did you even hitch yourself to Dean?" I

knew the guy from some similar circles, and even as a man I knew to stay away. Something about that smile put off a creepy mommy's boy vibe. Gemma shudders, her tan shoulders rising and the moon highlighting the light red in her hair. "God, please don't say hitch. It's just too soon. I thought this weekend was going to be great. Just me and a guy alone in a Hamptons house, the beach, bubble baths, breakfast. I was holding out hope for the dream." I had to hand it to her, she was tenacious. And I liked hard workers. "Well, you still have me. I'm a guy, with a Hamptons house." At this point, I don't even care what message I'm sending. I just had a shit night, made even worse by a woman who drunkenly groped me instead of helping me land a deal. And she was almost abducted by a family of genetically perfect aliens. I want to bang her brains out and then maybe have a slice of midnight pizza. It's Gemma, she won't get the wrong idea. Right? "Fine. I guess you'll do. As long as I can take a

bubble bath." Gemma tilts her head at me, and in this scenery, she looks like some kind of sea goddess in that white scrap of material she's wearing. My cock was already pulsing, and I realize that in the last week and a half, I've almost ... missed her camaraderie. I don't deal with many people during my average day who feel comfortable enough to talk back to me. I also never find a woman mature enough to handle what Gemma and I are doing. I guide her up the steps off the beach and to my house, her small fingers lacing through mine as I walk her through the dark. We don't speak, just listen to the waves as I press my finger into the touch key pad to enter the house. "I mean, come on, Anders. Could you brag more? Next you're going to tell me you have a house in Italy or Greece or some shit." We enter the house and I start flicking on lights. "The Canary Islands, but close." A heavy sigh comes from behind me as I walk to the wine fridge in the big white kitchen of my

house. "Then what are we still doing here? Let's go. You have to have a private plane somewhere." Gemma is swinging her head around, looking at everything in the black and white design of my Montauk home. I don't come here often, it's usually rented out, but I do love the modern beach house design and it's very peaceful. "So now I get why you're fucking me. The money. I knew I'd figure it out sooner or later." "Of course I am. What else are you good for?" Gemma deadpans. Drawing my attention away from the bottle of rosé I was attempting to uncork for a nightcap, I launch myself at her, needing to shut that smart little mouth up. I back her up to into the kitchen island, the butcher block counter stopping our momentum and making it possible for me to move her body exactly how I want it. I taste the smile on her lips before my head descends to capture them, our mouths sealing on a relieved sigh. I haven’t tasted her, haven’t locked my tongue with hers in a while and it feels …

Fucking amazing. Gemma’s hands move down my back and under my shirt, her fingernails scraping lightly on my skin. I want to touch her everywhere, to watch her unravel beneath me, but I can’t seem to move my palms from her jaw and neck. I feast on her mouth like a starved man, my fingers sparking along the smooth skin of her face. Just making out with her is making my cock harder than a lead pipe, and in the back of mind I realize this is the longest we’ve just kissed. Each time before, we haven’t wasted much time on foreplay or formalities. Just raw, real fucking. Mutual release of orgasms. Tonight though, tonight feels different altogether. And even though I told her it shouldn’t, even though I am her stand-in romantic weekend guy … it feels like the real thing. My heart and head should be in complete panic mode; I actually like the girl I’m about to have sex with. I respect and care about her. It’s fucked up that that sentence should be a warning, but I’m a guy and we are fucking stupid when it comes to relationships. I don’t even want a relationship. I

don’t even know what my twelve-year-old brain is trying to compute right now, so I’m going to go ahead and shut it up and give Gemma some orgasms. “That was … unexpected. But nice.” Gemma breaks off our make out session, and her eyes are drowsy with foreplay and champagne. But behind them I see that hope. She might not even know she has it, buried deep down there for me. Right now, I’m too turned on and too desperate to get away from the shit-show that was The White Party to lecture her on what we are and send her to her own room. That may make me an asshole, but tonight, I don’t care. “Maybe the Hamptons could be like Vegas. What happens here, stays here?” Am I saying it more for myself, or for her? Gemma nods slowly, her hands going to my belt. “Sure it can.” Things happen quickly from there. We claw at each other’s clothes, white material falling to the kitchen floor, moans and gasps coming closer and closer together. I work Gemma standing up, my

fingers rutting up into her as my other hand kneads each nipple tautly. Her hands fumble on my dick and balls, pulling and stroking at them. I know she’s close when she can’t continue to grip me anymore, and even though my hand is fucking cramping, I fuck her with my fingers until she’s practically bending backwards on the butcher’s block, coming gloriously. Unlike the other times we have slept together, I only say one thing to her before, during and after. “I just made you come like Moses parting the Red Sea. Now I’m going to lift you up onto this counter and fuck you until you can’t remember your name. No faking it, Gemma. Between you and I, everything is real. You understand?” My cock trembles as I roll on the condom, waiting for her to nod her head. And when she finally does, I drive all the way home.

Chapter Fourteen GE M M A

o you know what looks better than a counter D littered with full-to-the-brim Chinese food takeout boxes? A naked man sitting on the counter littered with full-to-the-brim Chinese food takeout boxes. “The shrimp lo mein is definitely the best one.” I shove a chopstick full of noodles in my face, my naked ass cold against the marble of the counter. “No! The pork skewers are incredible. Even in the city, you can’t get Chinese like this.” Oliver

ripped off a piece of meat with his teeth, and I imagined all of the things that mouth could do to me. Oliver is right, of course. It was some of the best Asian cuisine I’d ever tasted. I guess when you were rich, random people would deliver food to your secluded Montauk house at two in the morning. “You’re an anomaly.” I look up to two piercing blue eyes staring at me, greasy fingers holding an empty skewer. “You use big words.” I ignore him, completely in my post-orgasm bliss bubble and fueling it with sweet and sour chicken. “No, hear me out. I like numbers and science. So most of the girls I … see, they would never sit butt naked with me after sex eating Chinese food. Hell, they would never actually eat Chinese food. And they would always need to cover themselves up with a sheet or my shirt or some stupid excuse not to show off their sexy, amazing bodies.” I frown. “Okay, rule number one, don’t mention other ladies bodies in front of the naked girl who is

sitting just feet from you.” He bows his head and feeds me a shrimp off of his chopsticks. “Point taken, I am sorry. But you get what I’m saying. What’s with that? And why don’t you feel the need to do any of it? You’re an anomaly.” I turn to face him straight on, laughing a bit when I see his shriveled dick. It looks so much different when it’s hard and pummeling into me. “I’m only an anomaly with you.” We both freeze, realizing what I just said. A moment of awkwardness fills the air, and I try to glaze over the feeling that I really did mean to say that. And really am able to feel the most comfortable I’ve ever been with a guy … with him. I start rambling, trying to make sense of his little theory and move us away from the tension floating over the Chinese food. “I meant to say that … there is no pressure with you, because I know what’s happening. I don’t need to play coy or pretend I don’t eat junk food to make you think I’m some healthy stick figure who goes to the gym two hours a day and then eats five almonds and I’m

full. Women who are trying to impress a man, to make him something more than just a date or a fuck buddy, don’t want to give it all away. We want to remain enticing and secretive until we have you hook, line and sinker. I would never do this with a guy I was serious about.” There is an unreadable expression on Oliver’s face, and his mocha curls jut out all over his head from where I’d been grabbing onto them. “Why do you keep trying? Even after all of these horrible dates and shitty guys?” He’s scooted himself across the counter, his toned, tan body catching my eye. I could go another round after this food session refuel. He’d actually made me come, twice … a feat no other man had ever even come close to. With Oliver, I could speak my mind, tell him what I needed or wanted and instead of being offended by my direction, he got more turned on by my honesty. If anyone was an anomaly, it was him. I shrug. “I’m a romantic, I believe in love. I think that there is one perfect person out there for everyone, and I’m just trying to find mine.”

I can’t look at him after I say it, because I don’t want to see his judgment. It’s quiet for a second, nothing but the sound of the waves lapping the shore just yards from where we sit. “It’s getting late, we should get to bed.” Oliver starts to box up the contents of our pig out. Yawning, I nod. “I have nothing to sleep in. Shit! All of my stuff is at the creepy house. What am I going to do?” Admiring his fine, fine backside, the man had an ass you could bounce quarters off of, I hopped off the counter as Oliver put the food away. “I’ll drive you over tomorrow morning and we will get all of your stuff. They have a couple of screws loose; they’re not serial killers.” “Or so you think …” I mutter under my breath, but loud enough for him to hear. We put the food away together, and I’m not sure what to do next. Do I ask for a shirt to sleep in, do I get my own bedroom? This place has to have more than one bedroom, I mean the guy owns a freaking empire for God’s sake. “Do you want to, I mean … you could sleep in

my bed. If you want …” Oliver turns to me before we climb the stairs. For a man who is so in charge when it comes to the bedroom, he sure is awkward when it comes to anything beyond lustful intimacy. “I don’t mind, that works for me.” And it does. Because it would be weird if I slept in another room. Right? Oliver doesn’t take my hand, just walks a little bit in front of me up the stairs and then turns right down the hallway. Even up here, every wall is basically a window, with amazing views of the beach and ocean. He turns into a doorway with double doors that stand open. Entering behind him, I can make out the room in the dark. Done in all whites, it’s simple but elegant with a beach chic flare. That’s how the whole house is, and it’s beautiful … but also has a homeyness to it that Dean’s house didn’t have. Without words, Oliver turns a beside lamp on and then moves to the dresser, pulling out two pairs of boxers and a T-shirt. He hands me the shirt and a pair of his underwear, which I pull on

gratefully. I usually sleep naked, but right now doesn’t feel like the time to divulge that. Right now, it doesn’t feel like the time to do much talking. We slip under the white sheets and duvet, him on the left side and me on the right. Oliver turns out the lamp and rolls over on his side, facing away from me. “Good night, Gemma.” I turn so that my back is facing him. “Good night.” The tension settles over us, and for the next half hour, I can tell that he’s not sleeping either. It’s awkward but I can’t address it, don’t want to add to the weirdness. It’s the first time we’ve actually slept together. And it’s the most formal, least warm interaction we’ve had to date.

Chapter Fifteen GE M M A

you up to this weekend?" "So what're RIP. I suck in a breath and try not to scream or puke my guts out. "Um, probably hitting up that new club on seventy-second.” My voice is wobbly. RIP. Jesus fuck! It burns, which is only quadrupled when Rosie pours another strip of boiling hot wax on my snatch.

"Did you want me to pluck the tiny hairs?" Did I want her to a take a tweezer to my pelvis and stab me while she pulled pubic hair from my body? Absolutely not. But I'd put it up with it. "Yes, please." At least she was done with the worst parts. Whenever she did the inside of the lips, it felt like someone was ripping pieces of flesh from my body. Which technically, I guess it was. I got a Brazilian every four weeks, and the torture chamber I laid on a table in was both heaven and hell. I sweated bullets each time I walked back here, but loved the soft, smooth results. "You're all done. Did you want the in-grown hair serum?" "You know it." It's the reason I started getting waxed in the first place. One in-grown hair from shaving and I was running for the freaking wax center. That fucker had hurt, and I'd had to sit on a blow up donut for a week. Sam was already waiting for me when I get to the waiting room. "Those fuckers are relentless." She pats gently

at her crotch and I know the feeling. It stings, but I'm relieved it's over. "Let's go take a walk in the park." Sam skips out of the salon, her mood chipper for a Saturday morning at the end of June. But I don't bring her mood down. It's beautiful outside and Central Park is probably beautiful at this time of early afternoon. The city is practically empty, all of the residents have flocked to the Hamptons or other vacation homes. After a rough workweek, all I want to do is grab an ice cream cone and sit by the pond. Central Park isn't mobbed with people like it is in the spring, but there are a decent number of runners and intramural sports teams out at this hour. We begin to walk, falling into step together and checking our walking apps before putting our phones back in our purses. “Did you pay the rent?” The thought jumped into my brain as I watched a couple buy two hot dogs from a vendor. “Yep, and the cable bill. Dude, my fault that the bill was so high, I drunkenly bought Deadpool like

five times On Demand last month. Ryan Reynolds is just too fucking hot. I pause it on his ass for like ten minutes each time.” I shake my head at her nonsense. “It’s fine, it’s just coming out of your alcohol share for the month. You owe me a bottle of Riesling.” Sam pounds a fist to my own. “Not like you’ve been home much. The Hamptons, work, Oliver. It’s like you actually have a boyfriend. Don’t become one of those crazy girls who dumps all of her friends the moment she feels like she found the one.” My steps stutter a bit. “I haven’t been that absent, have I? And Oliver is a friend that has a penis. We are sex buds. That’s all, I’m not like shacking up or posting vomit-inducing selfies of us on Instagram.” And it was true. After the weekend in the Hamptons, he’d gone over to the wacko Dean’s house and even went in to get my stuff when I was too chicken to face him and his parents. Their group of friends would probably spread slut rumors about me in the city for going home with

another guy, but I didn’t even care. The weird vibe between Oliver and I remained throughout the car ride home, but he insisted on driving me all the way home to the West Village. We talked over the awkwardness, about his family, his life back in California. He inquired about my parents, about what it was like growing up in New Jersey. We talked about things that we never normally talked about, mundane details and get to know you stuff. It wasn’t boring, but it wasn’t our usual banter. We both knew that we’d crossed some sort of line by having a sleep over, by staying in the same bed. I wouldn’t say that my feelings towards him had changed, but maybe we were both trying to ignore the fact that we’d broken the arrangement. We both probably felt the same way about things, but were too scared to voice it for fear of making the situation even worse. If we said something, it made the tension real. After about five days, he’d texted me asking if I wanted to come over around 10:30 p.m. I wanted to go, to see him and to have sex, and so … I did.

The whole cab ride there, my stomach had been in knots. But when I finally got to his mansion of an apartment, and saw him, and talked to him … I realized that maybe I’d been imagining it all in my head. Oliver was the same Oliver. We bantered for a few minutes and then got right down to it, this time in his actual bed strictly missionary style. I came once with a bit of finicking and him letting me basically rub myself on his pelvis from below using my feet to dig into his ass. All was right again, and for that I was glad. Sam listens to me as she scrolls through her phone. Only after I’ve walked a few feet forward do I realize she’s not next to me anymore. “Sam, what—” “No. Fucking. Way.” She’s staring at her phone as if it contains the magic secret to losing weight without diet or exercise. “What?” I stroll back to her, my flip-flops clacking on the black pavement. Instead of answering, my roommate just thrusts her phone in my face, an Instagram picture lighting up the screen. I get closer, squinting my eyes at the

photo of someone’s hand. And a very large rock sitting on a certain left finger. It’s pear-shaped with little halo diamonds running along the outside edges, and it’s freaking huge. “Nice rock,” I comment. I have seven just like it saved on my wedding Pinterest board. “No, look who’s it is!” Sam jumps up and down like a rabid dog. Staring at the screen once more, I check the upper left hand corner for the user who posted it. What the fuck? “Why is Myra posting a picture of an engagement ring?” I’m thoroughly confused. “Because Jase freaking asked her to marry him! Are you kidding me?! What is this world that we’re living in?” She throws her hands up and looks to the sky as if God will giver her an answer to this lunacy. Me? I’m just gobsmacked. Anger and jealousy rage through my veins, filling me up and turning my organs green with poison. Myra is engaged? She’s only known the guy for a couple of months. And she doesn’t even believe in marriage!

“How … how did this happen?” I stutter because I just don’t believe what I’m seeing with my own two eyes. Sam laughs as if this is the slightest bit funny. “You know her, she was always bound to do this. Either that or marry someone and tell us about it three months later. Who knows if it will even make it to the wedding?” I can’t hear her over the numbness in my ears. I date, all the time. I search and I search and I search and always end up finding the worst kind of men, the rejects or the assholes or the totally and completely undateable. And Myra … freaking MYRA, ends up engaged and walking towards the alter before me?! This is the girl who had a lesbian phase for a whole year. This is the girl who went on drunken rants to us at every bar we went to. Rants about how monogamy and marriage were overrated, how men were the keepers of all evil and she’d never be shackled to one like some “female slave of the system.” I couldn’t fucking believe it. I should be happy for my friend, should be overjoyed that she found

her soul mate and is getting married. But the jealous part of me, the voice inside me that keeps telling me I’ll end up alone, is taking over. The big green monster is making everything inside of me completely toxic. “I think I’m going to go for a walk. Alone if that’s okay.” My vision is hazy. Sam peers over at me, finally catching onto the horrible panic attack that’s seizing me. “Hey, Gem, this doesn’t mean a thing. We are still twenty-five, younger than the average person getting married these days. You haven’t even lived yet, you don’t need a man to tie you down.” But she was wrong. I wanted one, more than I could say. Sure, I loved my career, was happy with my apartment and friends. But I felt it in my heart, there was something missing. I’d been single for a long time, and had always dreamed of finding someone young and spending all of the good years and the bad ones together until we were old and gray. That may sound stupid or romanticized, but it was my wish and it was how I wanted my life to be.

“I know all of that. I just … need some time.” I was too wrapped up in the panic and jealousy seizing my heart. “All right, let me know if I can help with anything. Just text me if you want to go for a drink later or something. I love you.” Sam hugged me, but she knew I needed space. She was a good friend. Unlike me right now. After she walked off in the other direction, I aimlessly walked through the park. Sunlight filtered through the trees, and children laughed or ran from their doting parents. A couple with two golden retrievers lay in the grass while they took turns flinging a Frisbee for the dogs to catch. Life went on, even as my heart was aching. I thought about the other side of the park. Central Park at night, when creeps and drug dealers invaded. My mother would send me articles through email every week about the most recent bust or rape in the park, warning me never to come here after dusk. My mother was a walking ball of worry; constantly posting on Facebook about things that caused cancer or how women

over thirty could no longer conceive due to the atmosphere. It was because of her that I was having an anxiety breakdown on this gorgeous summer day. I loved the woman, and all she’d done for me, but I was a nutcase when it came to things I couldn’t control. And I blamed her. Wouldn’t it just be easier if you were handed a slip of paper in grade school that listed the person’s name and physical attributes of who you were supposed to be with. Why did life make it so hard to find him? If we were supposed to pair off and procreate, shouldn’t God or whoever was up there past the Empire State Building and the clouds just clue us in on who that was supposed to be? I’d take a sign any day now.

Chapter Sixteen O L IVE R

aving been to both coasts for prolonged H periods of time, I can attest that they are vastly different. The East Coast is all drive and reserved power. People show wealth and happiness by buttoning up, raising their noses, and commanding respect. They talk fast, work loud, and live by their job titles. The West Coast is the total opposite. It’s a slower pace of life out here, the warm weather and

ocean breezes suffuse into the skin and make people more mellow. They have careers, but don’t live and die by them. The food is more organic, fresher and less heavy. If you want to take off in the middle of a workday to surf because the swell is good, that’s just what you do. Clothing is optional out here, and the people are just a little less judgmental. “You need to move back out here, man.” Ian Hickens, one of the most successful restauranteurs in California, hands me a bottle of beer after he hikes his surfboard into the sand. “Yeah, don’t you miss that view?” Archie Nole, an old friend from my college days, points to a group of blondes with long legs and even perkier asses. I sigh, leaning my head back and inhaling that salty air. The Hamptons is nice, but it’s no San Francisco. I miss the vibe out here, my friends, my family. I flew back a couple of days ago and have been making the rounds. It’s really a two week trip to see how my small California branch of Graphite was running, with a few days of personal pleasure

in between. Whenever I came out, I stayed with Ian. He was barely home due to his successful three restaurants, and I loved my mom and dad but couldn’t stand the thought of my every movement being catalogued when staying in their house. I really needed to buy a home, or a loft or something, out here but hadn’t gotten around to it. “I do, I do miss it out here. But New York is … I hate being there. But I also hate leaving it. It’s so strange, really, the relationship the residents have with their city. There are days I can’t stand it, and days I want to put a ring on it and marry it. The streets, the buildings, even the air is just humming with something else. Like it’s alive.” “Listen to him talk about a place like it’s a woman. If I didn’t know better, Anders, I’d say you were fucking the Big Apple.” Archie laughs and throws a handful of Doritos in his mouth. Archie was destined to be the eternal teenager. He was a brilliant coder and hacker, but would rather spend his time and money at the beach or in a strip club. He still smoked weed almost daily, and took jobs that paid big bucks about once a

month just to pay the bills and keep his alcohol tab stocked. At one point, the NSA had begged him to come work for them, but he’d declined. “How is Johanna? I haven’t seen her since I got here.” I turn my attention toward the ocean, the huge waves rising and crashing, as I question Ian. I don’t have to look at him to know his eyes are lighting up. “She’s great, man. I think I finally convinced her to move in with me, so maybe she’s a little dumb. What a woman like her is doing with a guy like me, I have no clue.” Ian had met Johanna, his girlfriend, a year ago when she came in for a drink one night at his Italian vegan restaurant, Toflorence. She was a first grade teacher, totally opposite of his bignatured, booming personality, and he was completely smitten from night one. “Good for you guys. Guess I’ll have to find another place to stay when I start coming out here.” “You’re really going to move in with her? The last time I let a chick stay with me, I ended up with a bathroom full of perfume and hair irons, and my kitchen was stocked with 100-calorie snack packs

and gluten free pizza.” Archie shakes his head and keeps his eyes glued to the ass of a blonde running down the beach. “I don’t mind it, plus Johanna is not the type. She’s considerate and always asks before she does something.” I snickered, because he had no idea what was in store. I liked his girlfriend, a lot, but he was deluding himself. “It’s different when you live together. All the time, man, no escaping or going home.” “Says the eternal bachelor. Tell me, how’s the rotation of women?” Ian shrugs his arms out of his wetsuit and takes a long chug of his beer. I pause, not sure what I want to say. Because to be honest, there hadn’t been a lineup recently. It had only been Gemma. “Uh, it’s good.” My voice didn’t betray my inner feelings. Or at least, I didn’t think it did. “What’s that mean? You always tell us so matter of factly which girls you’re banging at the moment.” Archie eyes me. “You make me sound like an asshole.”

Ian shakes his head. “Not an asshole. You’re too nerdy for that. The Clark Kent thing makes women see you as an honest bachelor and not a sleazy hookup whore. I don’t know how you manage it, dude, but I’ve always been pretty jealous.” Was I really an asshole? I mean, yeah … I hooked up with a lot of women. I had sex with plenty of sexy females. I didn’t date, and I didn’t lead them on to think we ever would. But I was just being honest. Right? “Well, right now I’m super busy with the new project, and I haven’t had much time. There is this one girl, Gemma, but it’s just a casual thing. We hang out a bit, we have sex. She’s younger, a beauty editor at some fashion magazine. She’s hot.” What I don’t want to tell the guys is that Gemma is fun, a better companion than I’ve had in years. Yeah, the sex is great, but she’s funny. And goofy. She isn’t afraid to speak her mind, and when she does, it’s always something intuitive or intelligent. What I don’t want to tell them is that I genuinely like her as a person.

“Sounds fun.” Archie goes to get another beer in the cooler. “You’re thirty, man. When are you going to stop messing around and find a nice girl?” Ian is only saying this because he is in a good relationship and guys in good relationships want their other buddies chained up too. “What are you, my Jewish grandmother giving me guilt? I’m perfectly happy just as I am. I don’t need two point five kids and a white picket fence.” Something tugs in my chest when I say that. I’ve never thought about marriage or kids in a realistic way. It was always something way off in the future, something I’d do after I was good and ready, and done building my empire. But recently … I don’t know what it was. Seeing friends like Ian have a meaningful connection with someone, or hearing my employees talk about becoming parents and going home to someone every night. It sounded kind of … nice. Damn, I must have gotten pummeled harder by the waves out there than I thought. “Just saying, brother to brother, you’re going to

screw a chick one of these days and before you know it, you’ll have fucked it up with your rules and fuck buddy lines. She’ll be the one, dude, and you won’t even know it until she gets away.” Ian nods solemnly. Archie snorts. “The relationship guru over here, ladies and gents. Fuck what he says, Olly, do what you want. I support your dick and it’s sampling.” He raises a beer to my dick, and hell, I raise my bottle too. I support his antics as well.

WHEN YOU OWN your own business, sleep becomes a rare commodity. I really mean to lay my head on the pillow and drift off into a REM dream, but it never fucking happens. Instead of sheep, all I see as I stare at the ceiling is spreadsheets, projections, models, graphics, and everything in between. In New York, I can usually lull myself to sleep listening to the sounds of the city outside the window.

But here, it’s too quiet. Even the calming sound of the ocean doesn’t do it for me. My heart is turned, I’m an East Coaster now. Work hard, play hard. Lying in bed gives me all too much time to start rethinking and reshaping each and every project happening at Graphite right now. Sighing and sitting up, I turn on the flat screen mounted to the wall in Ian’s guest room. Some sports network fills the screen, and I zone out watching a basketball game that is entirely too onesided. I sit with one hand down my boxers, the most comfortable position for me. Women that I’ve had sleep over have asked why men always do that, stick a hand down their boxers while they relax. I honestly don’t know. It’s an inherent thing, it feels natural. Just like it feels natural for women to constantly play with their hair, I constantly need to keep one hand protecting my Johnson. He must know I’m thinking about him, because at that exact moment, my cock jumps. There are times when I’m in the mood to beat off, to watch some unrealistic, totally fantastic porn where a woman with fake tits gets rammed by some guy

whose cock looks like it was surgically transplanted from a freaking horse. The release is quick and shallow, and I’m always left wanting something else. Porn is great for what it is, but I’ve always been the type to want an actual flesh and blood woman. I could call up a number of them here, one in particular who texted me when she saw a photo I posted of the guys and I at Ian’s taco joint. She knows I’m in town, would totally be willing to come over. But then I’d have to play catch up, pretend to want to hear what their mother’s best friend’s cousin’s daughter is up to. I don’t want to have to put on a show, brush my teeth, go through the appropriate amount of foreplay. Picking up my phone, I hit her number before I even have a chance to convince myself it’s not a good idea. “Hello?” Her voice sounds tired, but still has that sweet, nasally lilt that I like. She has a slight accent, I never noticed it until now, and she accentuates her A’s and O’s like a true Jersey girl. “Hey, Gemma.” I settle back into my pillows,

feeling instantly relieved just at having her on the phone. My hand goes back on my balls, but I don’t move it. “How unexpected, Mr. Anders. What, you think just because you’re on West Coast time you can call a girl at one in the morning?” Shit, I’d forgotten it was so late there. And on a Tuesday. Gemma wouldn’t have been out, maybe. But it definitely didn’t sound like it now. “Sorry if I woke you. You can go back to bed.” I didn’t really want her to. I wanted to proposition her. Rustling and yawning sounds came from the other end of the line. “Nah, that’s okay. I was working … it’s been a busy week and it’s not even Hump Day yet. What’s up? How’s Cali? Hey, is IN-N-OUT just as good as Shake Shack?” I laugh, her questions always making me smile. “You have no clue. I’ll bring you a burger home. You’ll never eat at the crappy shack again. Why is work busy?” If I’m not mistaken, I hear the creak of

bedsprings as Gemma lays down. Or at least I imagine her laying down on her bed. In nothing but an old T-shirt and underwear that is riding up her ass cheeks. And maybe some knee high socks. The schoolgirl fantasy I’m having has my balls tingling and the head of my cock pulsing to life. “We have this mid-summer beauty awards article that we do. Fifty pages of nothing but the best product in each category. It’s so timeconsuming that we have brackets, March Madness style. Everyone takes home fifteen products a night, tries them, writes up a summary, and decides which out of those are their top three favs. And then we do it all again the next day. There are so many products, I can’t even keep track of what I’m schlepping on my face or combing through my hair.” She sounds tired, and a foreign feeling invades my body. I wish I could be lying next to her, smelling her scent and touching her skin. I arch my back, the feeling of need coursing so strongly down my spine. It’s then that I realize … I miss her. No, I can’t miss her. We barely speak during

the weeks, and only when we see each other, or she comes over do we really talk. Or not talk. But … Gemma has been the one constant in my life over the past month. We might not see each other every day, but I know that she’s there. Waiting for me to ask her over, or to call and tell me to clear my schedule because she needs an orgasm. I wasn’t lying when I told the guys I thought she was fun. I wasn’t making it up when I told myself that I genuinely liked her. And all of this should freak me out more. But right now, I had insomnia in a city that was far too quiet and she was on the other end of the phone. “Sounds daunting. So hey, I can’t sleep over here and I can’t seem to figure out how to fall into la la land. So I thought I’d call you. Because … well, if I was in New York I’d ask you to come over. And because I have my hand down my pants right now, but you’re thousands of miles away.” A hitched, muffled breath comes through the receiver on my cell, and Gemma doesn’t say anything for a minute. At first, I think she’s going to ask what we’re doing, because this would be the

point where any other woman would try to define what we are. Demand a title or an explanation for whatever this was. But, per usual, Gemma is one step ahead of surprising me. “Oliver, are you asking me for phone sex? Because if so, yes. A thousand times yes. I am in. Oh, I’ve always wanted to do this!” I think I actually hear her clapping her hands over there. The laugh that starts in my chest can’t be held in, and I have to chuckle at her giddiness. “Well gee, I never knew someone so excited for a little bit of masturbation over the phone.” “Do you even know me, Oliver? I’ve never had phone sex before, but have always wanted to try it. Okay, so what do I do? Do you go first, do I go first? Do I go all porn-star voice and heavy breathing to get you to jack it to me on the phone?” She’s hysterical. My ego puffs a little knowing this will be her first time. “Slow down, cowgirl. First, get comfortable and put your hands wherever you put them when you’re touching yourself. Then, tell me what you’re

wearing.” There is some rustling before Gemma answers. “Okay, so I was going to lie and tell you I had some sexy negligee on, but like what normal woman lays around in silk teddies or garters? I’m wearing an old T-shirt and … that pair of boxers you gave me in the Hamptons. It’s not like weird or obsessive or anything, I just like them because they’re more comfortable than girl underwear.” My cock jumps at the image of her snaking her hand down my boxers that rest on her hips. I imagine those pouty, cotton candy pink lips forming a perfect O as she circles her clit for the first time. “Mmm, that’s sexy. Sexier than any silk piece of cloth. Tell me how you’re touching yourself.” I have to exhale as I pull up on my shaft, the weight of my balls making my head spin. “I’m using two fingers to circle around my clit, and then move down to gather my wetness and circle some more.” Gemma lets out a small moan, and my heart pounds against my chest. She sounds perfect, and I wish I was kneeling between her curvy thighs rather than stroking myself in San

Francisco. “God, I can just imagine you. Legs spread wide, head arched back in the pillow. Hand down my pair of boxers, because you’re too dirty to take them off and rub freely. They’re constricting right now, but it feels good, right? Like I’m there with you.” Gemma groans, and her breathing and the way she’s softly mewling is all I need now. “I’ve got my hand wrapped around my dick. I’m pretending it’s your hot, sweet mouth. You suck me so good, Gemma. Those beautiful hazel eyes looking up at me while your tongue is lapping at my cock? It’s the fucking hottest thing I’ve ever seen.” I meant to ease us into this, to foreplay and stall and drag it out. Phone sex wasn’t supposed to be a hot, clothes half-on fuck. But I couldn’t seem to stop. I could practically feel the way Gemma’s skin lit up under mine, how her pussy gripped me tighter as I rubbed her clit between us. “Oh my God, Oliver …” I loved how she said my name. Like a curse

and a prayer. “How fast are you moving those fingers, Gemma? Rubbing yourself so good, as if you can feel my cock jamming up into you. You’re probably dripping wet, that sweet slit is probably glistening just for me.” I felt the ball of my release start in my neck, sliding down my spine and gripping my balls like Gemma’s small, skilled hands. “Come for me now, Gemma. Let me hear how fucking good you make yourself come.” I was right there myself, but it was her breathing and muttered curses that hurled me over the edge of the cliff. My balls drew tight and the head of my cock pulsed just once. And then wet, hot ropes of come splattered onto my hand and bare chest. I screwed my eyes shut, images of Gemma’s naked breasts bouncing as she rode me from above filling my mind. I lost my breath, dropping the phone in my lust-filled haze. After I was done, squeezing the last drops of come from my shaft, I paused for a minute to control myself before I picked the phone back up.

“Hi,” I said, my lungs still aching. “Holy shit.” Gemma laughed. “Phone sex rocks.” I couldn’t think of anything wittier to say in that moment. Her voice sounded so good across the other end of the line, and I was alone. So even after I’d gotten off, and when Gemma would typically leave or I would grab a cab, we stayed on the phone. Gemma’s voice didn’t leave me until I nodded off to sleep.

Chapter Seventeen GE M M A

omething was happening. Something that I S couldn't explain. And I could usually explain everything in my life. See, outside of the whole men thing, I was an organized control freak. Nothing happened in my life without me having a hand in it. I was the friend who made the plans, the employee in the department everyone came to when they had an issue. I was the one in the family who organized the birthday or anniversary parties. I kept on top of

Sam about the dishes and laundry, or whether we were going to renew our lease. It was just how I was. Oliver had started, and was supposed to stay, as a friend with benefits. He wasn't my type; too smart and witty for his own good, almost cocky but not in an overly showy way. He was a brunette, when my only long-term relationships had always ever been with blonds. He most certainly didn't commit, and I hated guys with rules and games. But as we spent more time together, my foolish head and heart were straying further and further away from that OCD side of me. It started in the Hamptons, when the thought of him beside me in bed was oddly comforting. It continued when we got back to New York, seeing each other four times in the week and a half before he left for Silicon Valley. And we crossed the line somewhere in the hours we spent on the phone, including the mind bending phone sex. I'd had one of the sweatiest, blood-vessel popping orgasms I'd ever had in my life, and I had been freaking masturbating. I had a crush on my fuck buddy. He wasn't

romantic or a gentleman; he was sexy in a nerdy way and had an honest, factual way of looking at the world. I had no idea if he felt the stirrings of something between us or if I was imagining it, but he was the one who had called me while he was away. Oliver could have slept with any number of women out there, of that I'm sure. But instead, he had called me. Almost as if he'd missed me. Oliver must know something is different, or else why would he invite me to his company's annual kickball tournament in Central Park? Guys didn't invite you somewhere they knew you'd be seen by friends or people in their life unless it meant something. He was going to introduce me to his coworkers, and I'm sure they'd ask how we knew each other. I, or he, would have to set the tone for what we were telling people. I assessed my outfit once more in the mirror. I'd chosen a pair of high waisted jean shorts with rips. They weren't that short, as I didn't want to come off as desperate. I was going for sporty casual, and with the white tank top and summer scarf I'd paired with little white canvas slip ons, I knew I was

achieving just that. I looked like I could sub in and play, but I could also stand by the snack table and chat over lemonade. Sam was gone, she texted that she was sleeping over somewhere last night, and I knew she'd be in a sleep coma all of Sunday at some strangers place. I grabbed a small cross body bag and headed for the stairs. It was a beautiful Sunday, one of those rare days in New York in July when it wasn't sticky or humid. The sun was shining, but there was a light breeze and it didn't stink from the underground fumes of the subway as I walked towards the park. Twenty minutes later and I was there, heading for the sports fields. It was actually pretty nice that Oliver put this on for his Graphite employees. The most Femme ever did was give us a Christmas party in a posh club that was so stuffy, you couldn't order a drink under thirty dollars. And considering each Femme employee only got two drink tickets, we all smuggled airplane bottles of alcohol in our purses. "Hey, Gemma!" Oliver walks over, breaking

off from a group of people. Fuck, he looks good. He's tan, really tan. That California sun did him well. And his hair is shorter, no more long bouncy curls but instead a more cropped look with the dark brown ends curling up slightly. His blue eyes shine in the early afternoon sun, and his entire lean, athletic frame is encased in black sports gear. "Hey, stranger. I'm ready to kick some balls." His lips tip up. "I hope not mine. Thanks for coming out, I know it's probably early for you millennials." He hugs me, and his piney, minty scent hugs me too. The embrace is friendly and doesn't linger, and I'm left trying to decipher what it means. "You are a millennial, albeit an old one. Don't break a hip out there." He busts my chops some more before walking me to a big group of men and women with Graphite shirts on. He introduces me as a friend, and a minute later, walks away to go chat with someone else. Okayyyy. I came solo to this thing because I

wanted to be respectful, it wasn't an open invitation to bring friends. But, now I have to stand here and talk to people I don't know. I'm sure they're nice, but I'm not a small talker. Myra or Sam always save me when it comes to group talking; they always know the exact right subject to bring up. Me? I usually stand there nodding my head and smiling like I'm actually listening. Like right now. "So Gemma, where do you work?" A tall blonde with turtle framed glasses asks me. The group turns to me, and before I even give them my job title, I know they're going to judge me. "I'm a beauty editor at Femme." Most of the girls manage to hold their eye rolls, while the men instantly turn to talk to one another. Nothing like the mention of feminine products and fashion to completely bore them. "That's ... cool." The tall blonde regards me with a different stare. It would be the same if I said I was a stay at home. Some chicks in STEM just completely looked down on those who were into makeup, or

something like romance novels. They deemed it girly; I even once had a woman say to me that my job didn't use five percent of the brain or knowledge capacity I was capable of. It didn't matter that I was happy, that I loved my work. Because it didn't come with a flashy, smart description and didn't cure cancer, it wasn't good enough. It was okay though. I was around catty women enough to know how to handle them. So that's what I did. For the next two hours I schmoozed and listened, tried to stay involved in the group that knew each other all too well. And I watched Oliver laugh and pal around with everyone but me. Okay, so he'd just invited me out of courtesy, but it still stung a bit. I'd done exactly what I always did, assumed and dreamed. Oliver was my friend, one who'd seen me naked, but nonetheless a friend. It would do me well to set my stupid heart straight right now. "You're probably tired of all the tech talk." I turn from where I sit on the bench by the trays of catered food towards the deep, lightly accented

voice that calls out to me. The whole office has practically left the food tables and gone to play and heckle each other in kickball. So I'm surprised when a tall, athletic blond drink of water sits down across from me. "Are you calling this beauty editor dumb?" I pointed at myself. His green eyes lit up, and he leaned in. He was interested and not hiding it. Refreshing. "All these tech guys are total assholes, ignore them." I laughed and stuck my hand out. "They are pretty lame. I'm Gemma." Hot, Ryan Phillipe-lookalike takes my hand, his fingers warm but firm. "Cody Jenkins, head of IT at Graphite." My hand froze, and my embarrassment choked me in my throat. "Well, I just stuck my foot in that one, didn't I?" I tried to recover even though my hand was shaking as I pulled it away. "Don't worry about it, it’s my passion and I

hate it half the time. I find it nice to talk to someone who isn't in this field." I probably should have left by now, I don't fit in and no one has talked to me in an hour. Well, except for this guy. I know that I look stupid sitting here, like I'm waiting for Oliver. But now there is something else, or someone else, holding my attention. "So how long have you been with the company, Cody?" He folds his big hands together and looks at me like I'm some sort of puzzle to be figured out. I watch the muscles flex and bulge in his arms, and he definitely has my body's attention. "About two years, it's been a challenge and a pleasure. You know Oliver, right?" He's trying to see if we are together. "Yep, just casual friends. I had nothing to do this Sunday, so I thought I'd get some free food and a walk in the park." Cody nods, his cropped blond hair catching the rays of the sun. "You, not having anything to do? I don't buy that bullshit. You must have men nipping

at your heels." I roll my eyes. "Flattery as a pick up line, how lame. If you want to ask if I have a boyfriend, just ask." I'm feeling his vibe, and I know this kind of wit will work. Cody eats it up. "You're right, I do want to know. But I won't ask because you just gave me the answer. Other girls would gush about how willing their boyfriend was to let them hang out alone. And since you didn't mention Harry or Tom or whoever, I know you don't have one. So let me have your number, and I'm going to take you out." He's confident. Really confident. I like it. "Sure. But it better be a good one. Or at this point, I'm becoming a lesbian." He hands me his phone and I plug my number in. There is laughter in his eyes as he regards me. "Only if I can watch." I thought today was going to be a total wash, but the big man in the sky must have heard my Hail Mary the other day when I aimlessly strolled this park after Myra's engagement. Maybe my one just

strolled into my life in a cheesy kickball shirt. After Cody and I talk for a few more minutes, I figure I should be demure and leave him wanting more. So I say good-bye and pick my bag up off of the bench. I don't bother turning to see if Oliver watches me leave.

Chapter Eighteen GE M M A

n general, I don’t like or understand sports. One Iteam of egotistical men play around near a team of another team of egotistical men’s private parts, usually, and the ones with the most points win. It’s first grade all over again, and it boggles my mind that it’s one of the biggest money making industries in our country, let alone the world. Most of the time, I find sports boring. Hours long of the same thing over and over, and most of the time teams fail more than they succeed. I’d

much rather watch an interesting or funny show, but men love watching other men run around chasing balls, so as a rule, I have gone on some sportsrelated dates. I’m not bummed whatsoever, though, when Cody asks me to the Yankee game with him on Thursday night. Baseball is the one sport I do like. There is enough time to get steadily buzzed and check out hot men, because you can actually make them out on the field. And, he prefaces the date by saying that he has a corporate suite. Which means no standing in long gate lines, sitting on uncomfortable seats, walking the concourse to find the food you want, or having to share space with disgusting, rude fans. Oddly, I’m a little nervous. Cody is hot, and I mean makes-your-nipples-hard-on-the-first-look hot. He has that innate sexiness that some men just have; he exudes it, it can’t be learned. I’m also still a little peeved about Oliver, who I haven’t heard from since the kickball tournament on Sunday. He barely spoke to me there, leaving me on my own to mingle. He hadn’t seemed to even notice Cody

talking to me, and hadn’t texted a thank you for sparing my entire Sunday to come out to his work event. Whatever, at least I knew that fuck buddy just meant exactly that going forward. Cody was more intimidating to me than Oliver though. Oliver was Oliver; I didn’t know how to explain why it felt easy to be around him. With Cody, I was a bundle of nerves getting ready. Were my curls falling just right, why couldn’t both sets of eyelashes look the same and be fuller? Was my outfit, a navy blue sun dress and jean jacket, casual but also date appropriate? Cody was successful, very much so. And he was whip smart as the director of IT. He knew he was good-looking, I could tell that much from talking to him. But I had a very good sense of people, or at least I thought I had before I’d started dating this summer. If my intuition was right, he was just the right amount of cocky to be confident. Just the right amount that kept women coming back for more. When he’d called on Monday, just the day after

we’d met which was a good and polite sign, and asked me to the game, I had something to look forward to all week. Especially after Dani came in gushing on Tuesday morning about how she was moving in with her latest boy toy after just two months of dating. That big, ugly green monster of jealously that I’d tamed after Myra’s engagement came roaring back. I’d actually cried in the bathroom for five minutes after she’d told me. Dani, the gossip queen of the office, had found someone who liked her so much that he was going to cohabitate with her. What the hell was so wrong with me? Shaking it off, I waited outside of my building. Cody was picking me up in an Uber, another good sign. He didn’t want me to have to travel into the Bronx by myself, and had offered to come pick me up. That was not only gentlemanly, but it showed protectiveness. I knew nothing terrible happened around Yankee stadium, but there were some shadier parts of the Bronx, as there were in any part of the city. Cody was thinking about that, and wanted to see that I was safe. My heart jumped at

the notion. The wind was blowing nicely, and the night was cool with low humidity. Thank God, my hair was throwing up the praise hands emoji. A black town car pulled up, and I almost overlooked it. The Ubers I usually took were older model Camry’s or big black SUVs. The cars of people who were part time drivers, who used their own vehicles. The window rolled down and out popped a beautiful blond head. “Hi, beautiful. Get in.” The door opened and revealed Cody, sitting in the backseat with a Yankees jersey and khaki shorts on. His blond hair, longer on the top and shorter on the sides, was swooped back in a style that made me want to run my hands through it. I walked to the car, conscious of him scanning my form with appreciation. Heat swamped between my legs, and I knew I’d be jittery all night. He was too good-looking for his own good. “Hi there. Nice jersey, are you going to go down onto the field and play?” He had the ass and thighs for some yummy baseball pants.

He leaned across the seat to plant a kiss on my cheek, and it was so unexpected that I sucked in a breath. His lips were warm and confident, and the longer amount of stubble he sported scratched my cheek and the sensation flew right down between my thighs. Cody smelled like clean soap and spearmint, and I leaned into his embrace. After his lips lingered on my cheek, he moved back across the seat. “God, I wish. That was my childhood dream, but unfortunately where I’m skilled in the smarts department, God left out the ability to catch or kick a ball.” He was mocking himself, another good sign. I liked a good amount of self-deprecation in a person. “Do you go to the games a lot?” I was trying to make good conversation. The less awkward silence, the better the date. Cody doesn’t break eye contact. “I try to get to a couple a month. We have the corporate suite, which is a bonus. There will be other people there tonight, I hope that’s okay.” I figured that, but didn’t let it faze me. “That’s

fine, as long as you pay attention to me. And buy me a soft pretzel.” “Your wish is my command. I wouldn’t think of talking to anyone else but you.” I’m glad he got my joke. I might be a little more high maintenance than some other women, but I knew it. I could be selfdeprecating too. “So how was your workday? Your job must be ever-changing.” Guys usually never wanted to talk about my job, and even if he was asking out of courtesy, I still liked to gloat a little. I’d worked hard to get where I was, and Femme was one of the best in the industry for what it was. “It definitely is, and I just put a huge project to bed so it feels good. We have our slow months and our fucking crazy ones, just like anyone else. I’m trying to write this article now about the culture of date rape at colleges. So it’s not all eyeliner and fragrant lotions; we have investigative pieces that I petition for once in a while.” My voice definitely got defensive at the end. He nodded, his eyes nothing but serious. “I get it, I do. I know that there is a huge market for your

magazine, and decidedly so. Things are important to people whether or not they change the nature of the world. I enjoy craft beers and collecting them, does that mean my interests are stupid because they don’t help third world orphans? No, it just is what it is. Don’t feel bad about it for one second.” His words filled me with a sense of pride. I was always trying to express that, or rationalize it to myself. Cody hadn’t judged me like some other people, and he’d made me feel validated. I couldn’t help the sly smile that formed on my lips. The ride to the stadium was traffic-filled, and we pulled into the suite drop off section about ten minutes before the first pitch. I’d been to my share of baseball games living in New York the past three years, and had even watched a couple innings. The front of the stadium was mobbed, the white marble-like structure rising up into the sky, the lights shining on it making it look like God’s kingdom itself. It was a pretty cool experience to feel the pride and buzzing anticipation of the crowds filling the gates. Kids ran around their parents, tiny Yankee jerseys sticking to them in the

summer heat. Vendors screamed about two-dollar waters and cheap “authentic” hats. Scalpers waved their hands for ticketless fans. Inside, the stadium roared like a tide, and music filtered into the night air. “You’re getting the VIP treatment tonight.” Cody held the door open to a back staircase, and I rolled my eyes at him. “You say this to all the girls you take here, don’t you?” I wasn’t naïve. He let me walk up the stairs first and chuckled. “You’re a little snarky, huh?” “I figure I should be completely up front about who I am. I’m going to bust your chops, and I like a little banter. Can you handle that?” I’m so tired of being coy with my dates that I’m going full frontal on this one. Well, about my personality that is. We walk some more stairs and Cody speaks from behind me. “I think I’m going to like you, Gemma Morgan.” I can’t help but blush. Good thing he doesn’t see. Two more flights and we’re at a hallway of

doors. “Here we are.” Cody extends one arm and grabs the handle, the other moves to the small of my back to usher me inside. A thrill pools in my stomach having his hand on me. Once we step through the door, laughter, music and talk hits my ears. There are probably eight other people in here, six men and two women. I don’t know most of them, but I do recognize one of the guys from the kickball tournament. The Yankees are standing on the baseline, Cody whispers to me, and the room falls silent as we cross it and the National Anthem starts to play. I put my hand over my heart and feel Cody close beside me, the heat and his scent pulsing through my own body. “Let’s play ball!” One of the guys in the suite yells and we all clap, me following everyone else’s suit. Cody introduces me to everyone in the suite; three of the guys work for Graphite, three are just friends or guests, and two of the men brought their girlfriends. They’re all friendly enough, but I’m glad and also impressed when he finds a table in

the corner of the suite, with a window that allows us to watch the game in relative separateness. He goes to get himself a beer and me a glass of wine, and to ask the attendant in the suite if a soft pretzel can be brought in. “Cheers.” He hands me my drink and clinks our plastic cups. “And thank you for agreeing to come out with me.” We sip and hold eye contact. I always do, because of the bad sex for seven years myth. Which only gets me thinking about sex with Cody. What would it be like? God, I could climb that muscled mountain of a body for days. The first inning goes by and he talks to me about some of the players while interspersing some get to know you questions in between. He makes it fun, this whole dating thing. I feel relaxed but always on the edge of my seat, and I’m eating up any kernel of information he gives about himself. Like a real person, this was a conversation and he was asking questions and actually listening to my answers. How refreshing yet idiotic at the same time. I never truly noticed how many people I deal

with a day that don’t actually listen to the things I say. “Heck yeah, home run!” I nearly shouted, pressing my face to the glass as the ball soared over the stadium on the other side. “We’ll make a Yankee fan out of you yet, Morgan.” Cody stands and puts a hand around my shoulder, and the move is both testing and affectionate. I lean in, liking how tall he is as he engulfs my frame. “Damn it, I missed the first home run!” A familiar voice sounds from the back of the room, and to my horror, when I turn around, Oliver Anders stands there. His brown curls are windblown, and he’s wearing work slacks and shoes with a navy polo that has a Yankees logo emblazoned over the right pec. What the fuck was he doing here? Annoyance filled my chest, and I knew a frown marred my face. Oh shit, that was right. He was the one who probably paid the hefty check on this lovely suite. God damn, rich boy.

Oliver’s eyes scanned the suite, nodding and saying hi to everyone. Since Cody and I were in the corner of the room, his gaze made it to us last. And when it did, and those cerulean eyes locked on mine, a flicker of surprise and something I couldn’t read passed between us. Why yes, hotshot, I can date other people. That cool blue gaze zones in on Cody’s arm around my shoulders, and suddenly I feel itchy and out of place. Fuck, and this date had been going so well. Now there was a prickle to the room that hadn’t been there before. And he was making his way over to us. “Hey, man, good to see you here. How’re the Pinstripes looking?” He fist bumps Cody, but I can tell the friendly vibe doesn’t reach his eyes. Cody must be oblivious to it. “They’re looking good, just got a run and our fielders are holding strong against that hot left-handed batter they have, so we’ll see.” Only after he nods at Cody does he turn to me. The last person he speaks to in the room. “Hey Gemma, good to see you. How’ve you been?”

He acts as if we’re complete strangers, and I have to physically hold my head straight to not kink my neck in annoyance. That’s what he’s being. Annoying. “Good, good, having a great time with Cody here so far. How about you?” You could call me Splenda, I was being so fake sweet. “That’s good to hear. Well, you two enjoy the game.” He leaves, barely glancing at me when he does. I hate that my heart sinks just a tiny bit. Prick. For the next three innings, I feel him everywhere. The awareness of his position to mine is maddening, and I can’t concentrate on what Cody is saying. I want to stand up and hurl my wine glass at Oliver’s head for distracting me from this date. After I ask Cody to repeat himself for the third time, he laughs. “You’ve got to be hungry or something. They haven’t brought your pretzel yet, let me go run out onto the concourse and get you one.” God, he was so nice. I was such an idiot for

letting this get to me when my sexy, funny date was trying to show me a good time. Cody squeezed my hand before leaving the table and slipping out of the room. And just as quickly, someone strolled over to take his seat.

Chapter Nineteen O L IVE R

the last person I expected to see here.” “Y ou’reAnnoyance. I guess that best described what I felt right now. I didn’t want to admit the word jealousy to myself, but the big green monster was clawing at my heartstrings. “Cody is great, and we’re having a good time.” Gemma shrugs and turns her attention back to the game. But she isn’t fooling me. I know she hates sports, a fact she told me when I put the Yankees

game on the radio during our drive back from the Hamptons. I move my chair around the table so she has no choice but to look at me. “You could have told me you were going on a date with one of my employees.” I know I sound crazy right now. She doesn’t have to do anything, much less tell me shit. But walking in here and seeing her standing with Cody’s arm around her … it kind of set me off. I like Cody, I do … he’s a nice guy. But … it’s Gemma. I might not be dating her, but it doesn’t mean I really want to see her date. Much less someone I know and respect. “I didn’t realize I had to. We met at the kickball game, he asked me out, and I said yes.” She still isn’t looking at me. I lay my hand on her bare knee because I can’t help myself. “If you knew you were coming to this suite, you should have told me.” Jealousy rings through my tone and we both hear it. She looks pretty, casual but done up at the same time. She did this for him, to impress him. It

sets my teeth on edge in a way I didn’t know was possible. I hadn’t been with another woman in a month, not since the second time we’d slept together. After I’d gotten home from California, I’d wanted to see her, but thought it would be weird considering what went down with our phone sex. “I don’t report to you.” Gemma whips her head around, and her steely voice and hazel eyes cut me. I gaze into them, and not only do I see rage, but I see … hurt. “What’s wrong?” Why is she upset with me? Gemma purses her lips, which are today the color of deep, rich cranberry sauce, and regards me for a moment. I think she’s going to answer me, but then she just turns toward the field again and shrugs as she mumbles, “nothing.” My hand is still on her skin, the warm, smooth part of her body driving me mad in a certain part of my brain. “Come on, Gemma, we don’t lie to each other. What’s up?” I’ve never put up with women who do this cold shoulder thing. But something inside of me won’t rest until I know what’s bothering her.

“It’s nothing, Oliver. Go enjoy your game.” She brushes my hand off her lap and stands, moving across the room towards the little corridor that holds the single stall men and women’s restrooms. Slowly, I follow, trying not to draw the notice of the others in the suite. As I round the corner, she’s just about to disappear inside the bathroom, when I grip the door and push in with her. “What the fuck, Oliver?!” Her voice is a yelling whisper. “You’re not being honest with me, sweetheart. And you just show up here with Cody and think I won’t find out?” A shit-eating grin paints her gorgeous face. “You’re jealous.” I stall, not wanting to answer her statement. “What’s upsetting you? Why are you being short?” She fires back, leaning into my space. “Why do you want to know? What’s got your panties all in a twist? You didn’t care that I was talking to him at kickball. You didn’t even seem to notice.” On her last sentence, she crosses her arms and a lightbulb goes off in my head about why she’s so

pissed. “This is about the kickball game?” I’d invited her to my company’s work party without really thinking about it. I didn’t consider how I’d have to explain who she was, or why she was there. I’d missed her when I was in California, and wanted her to have some fun on a Sunday with me. Except when she arrived, I kind of panicked. And instead of just owning it, I just decided to ignore her for the rest of the day. No wonder she was angrier than a poked bear. “I apologize if you got the wrong idea about the kickball game.” Fuck, I just couldn’t give myself a hand, could I? Gemma scoffs and tries to move around me. “I’ll pee later, thanks. Have a nice fucking game, Oliver.” My heart lurched in its almost-forgotten cavity, the sensation so new to me that I shot a hand out and grabbed Gemma’s arm. And before I knew what I was doing, I turned her towards me, smashing her to my body, and covered her lips with my own. She made a noise, something between a squeak

and a groan, but her body betrayed her. She melted to me, her body molding to mine like it had numerous times before. I was a savage, biting and crushing her mouth with mine as I backed her into the bathroom wall. It was seedy, mauling her in the bathroom like this, but the fact that Cody could be just on the other side of the wall made my dick hard instantly. I knew her. I’d undressed her, body and mind. I’d laughed with her, and seen every goofy, perfect side of her. Why I couldn’t convey that to her using words or logic, I didn’t know. Each time I tried to show her that it had moved past a casual fling for me, I ended up putting my foot in my mouth. Or using my dick to do the talking. My hands grabbed at the material of her dress until I was dragging it upward. She kept resisting ever so slightly, like her head was screaming at her body to stop. I kept going, needing to feel her and possess her. The jealous animal inside of me was feeding on the energy coming off Gemma’s skin in waves, and my head was spinning with every type of emotion.

I was grasping her inner thigh with my hand, kneading the skin there, when she finally pushed me off. “Stop. Stop it.” Her breathing matched my own ragged puffs, and if she looked that devastated, I could only imagine what my face showed. “I’m sorry … I, I don’t know. I … can’t think.” And I couldn’t. The flurry of feelings and jumble of words forming in my brain couldn’t be expressed. This is why I didn’t go deep with people. I hated feeling vulnerable or helpless or whatever the fucking fuck it was that I was feeling right now. “Come over tonight. Please?” Gemma straightened her dress and jacket, a small, sad smile playing at her lips. “No. I’m on a date. That’s not fair to Cody. But we should talk, maybe this week.” She looked completely collected, while I felt like my insides were burning and she was literally flaying my skin off. She was going to go back out there and act like nothing happened? The bathroom was silent after she left, and I

splashed some cold water on my face. Luckily no one saw us both leave the same women’s room, and I walked to the back of the suite as the seventh inning started. I could only stomach two minutes of watching her and Cody share a soft pretzel before I turned and left.

Chapter Twenty GE M M A

my life, it always poured when it rained. I n When every girl started getting her period, I wished I could become a woman. Three weeks later, Aunt Flow came for the first time and stayed for a week. I wanted to punch myself for ever wishing such a thing. When I’d cried that I didn’t get accepted into Villanova, the next week letters from Columbia and NYU had come in, and I had to decide between two of the best programs in the country.

When Sam and I had gone apartment hunting for the first time, we lost the initial place we liked, only to put two offers in on simultaneous listings and had not been able to choose. And so, I guess, it was the same when it came to men. For a year and a half, I hadn’t had a single great date. Nothing that had gone past date three, and no worthy contenders. Now, I had two and didn’t know what the hell to do with them. I’d wanted one, uncomplicated, fun, sexy relationship. Just one measly man who would make me happy and I could spend time with. Maybe even build a life with. Instead, I got sullen Oliver thrown into my path to fuck things up. Seriously, at this point I think life is trying to fuck with me. That spiteful bitch. My date with Cody had gone well. Really well. He’d walked me to my door and kissed me properly, lingering but with no tongue. I’d been breathless when he broke away and said he’d text me tomorrow. And he had texted me. And hadn’t really stopped. For three days, we’ve kept a constant flow of conversation through messages,

and he wanted to take me out again. Cody was charming, funny, attentive, and didn’t have any hidden racist thoughts or Stepford parents lurking about. He was exactly the guy I’d been combing the bottom of the Manhattan single barrel for. But then Oliver had gone and kissed me and tried to articulate his feelings in a fucking bathroom at Yankee stadium and my heart had gone to goddamn mush. Piece of sappy shit. I hated him. But at the same time, couldn’t resist it. I’d become accustomed to him, trusted him, was attracted to him. He had the emotional maturity of a six-yearold, and I wasn’t up for changing him. Changing a man never worked; I and friends of mine had been burned way too many times to think any of that shaping a man bullshit worked. My stupid heart sure did want to try though. But I wasn’t willing, and because of that, our agreement had to end. It had worked well for a month and a half, but it had run its course. Feelings were starting to catch, emotions were coming into play, and we couldn’t sustain the carefree fun of it anymore.

I wanted to find love, Oliver wanted to fuck and I wasn’t sure what else. We were on two separate paths, and our mutual interests didn’t intersect anymore. We could be grown ups about this. I still liked him very much as a person. I sipped my cold brew through the straw, and the sweetness of it coated the inside of my mouth. I’d asked Oliver to meet me at a local coffee shop to avoid being at each other’s places. I needed neutral ground, and no awkwardness of leaving after I said what I had to. He rounded the corner and I saw him coming. My traitorous heart did a nosedive when I took in his gray power suit paired with a blood red tie. Jesus, the man looked sharp in anything. He might look unassuming sometimes, but he really was as sneaky as a shark. I could see how he got to where he was in the business world. He’d pull the carpet out from under your feet before you even entered the room. Oliver enters the coffee shop and it feels like some of the air goes out of the store. My skin prickles and I never believed in that shit in the first

place, but over the course of knowing Oliver, I have seen a lot of things I didn’t think were possible. “Hey.” Oliver pushes a hand through his hair and pulls on his tie, and I follow his fingers as they brush down his shirt. “It’s hot out there.” “Yeah, I know.” I can’t seem to think of something funnier to say. This is how I know it needs to end. Our friendship used to be quirky and sarcastic, and sitting here in front of him, I can’t even find a pithy comeback. I’m too distracted by him and whatever the fuck is going on. He can’t handle it; that was clear enough from the stunt at the Yankee game. “Couldn’t get me a coffee, huh? Well now I know this isn’t a date.” He smiles wryly and motions for one of the café workers to come over. While he orders an extra-large hot coffee, I try to calm my frayed nerves. I have to breath out like I’m about to overcome a bout of stage fright. “Oliver, I don’t think we should see each other anymore. At least, not in the way we have been.”

I didn’t even let him get caffeine in him before I pounced, but I didn’t want to sit here with him for any longer than I had to. Per usual, my girly emotions were all out of whack and if he said or did one thing, I could either slap him or kiss him. My body, my heart, and especially my mind looked like the room after a sample sale; disheveled and barren with no clue as to which way was up. Those black-lash rimmed shiny blues blink slowly. “I … um thought we were doing what we were doing so we wouldn’t ever have to have this conversation?” Did the motherfucker have amnesia? “Oliver, you know what went down at the game went way past the normal scope of what we do in our ‘friendship’.” I actually used quote fingers. The worker plopped his coffee down on the table and Oliver took a long sip. “I … know that.” “Okay?” I couldn’t help leaning in and giving him the “what the fuck?” face. “Can we not get so deep here? Maybe … we just, see where it goes.” Typical noncommittal answer. Oliver wasn’t

made for this, trying to be anything more than friends or fuck buddies. I couldn’t see him jumping to attention if I needed something, or was just feeling lonely and wanted him to drop whatever he was doing. He didn’t seem the type to care much for going out with my girlfriends, or for leaving a toothbrush and a pair of boxers at my place. He was independent and liked living that way. And that was fine. But as long as we both felt something blossoming, we couldn’t continue to fuck. I shake my head sadly. Even though the sun is shining and New York is bustling around us, it feels like rainclouds are gathering over our heads. “The thing is, we can’t. This was supposed to be fun and easy, and it’s not anymore. You don’t want a girlfriend, a ball and chain. You don’t want romance. Not the way I do. I want a partner. Someone I can build a life with and share a home with and do everything in between. I want someone who won’t spook at the thought of me sleeping over. Or someone who invites me somewhere and doesn’t let go of my hand, not for one second. Who is proud to be with me and show anyone who asks,

but who also lets me shine as an independent.” My voice gets stronger with each syllable, and as I become more confident in my decision, Oliver looks ashen. “I think you’re a wonderful person, Oliver. You’re hilarious and sexy and we click. But I think we can both admit that you aren’t going to be the person to give that to me. You don’t want to, and that’s seriously okay.” Oliver regards his coffee cup rather than looking at me. “I was an asshole, wasn’t I? At the kickball game. And then in the suite.” I can’t look away when our eyes connect. “Yeah, but we both knew at some point it would run its course. It’s so fucking lame, but we can still be friends.” “Are you using cheesy break up lines on me, Gemma?” Oliver smirks, but I can feel the tiny slivers cracking throughout my heart. And I almost hear the ones coursing through his. “I wouldn’t think of ending our fuck fest any other way.” I squeeze his hand as I stand and throw down a few bucks for my coffee. “You have my

number. If you ever need a wing woman, or advice with makeup, you know who to call.” He doesn’t rise to hug me or make any motion to touch me. The upset is clear in his eyes, even though he is nodding warmly at me. It’s not easy for either of us, but we both have to know it’s better like this. “And if you ever need a designated driver, or someone to save you from an awful date, I’m your guy.” If only an emotional Simple Plan song started playing now, evoking all of the sentiments from teenage years. That’s what this moment feels like. The end of a movie where the guy doesn’t get the girl, like that heartbreaking Julia Roberts chick flick where she ends up with the gay best friend instead. Isn’t that just my luck?

Chapter Twenty-One O L IVE R

September wasn’t even from New York, much less this Icoast, but there was a dense fog of mourning that fell over the city on this day. The air seemed bitter, the streets clogged with unspoken words and ghosts of years past. The people who normally buzzed with the energy of a million coffee beans, moved slower. Looked around more. Greeted each other. Nodded in understanding.

We, and I was talking as an adopted Manhattanite, didn’t try to downplay these feelings. We left them out there, translated for all to see. We sat in our grief, didn’t try to soothe it and tell it everything was going to be okay. We could dedicate this one day to the lost. And then each day after it, strive on to avenge their memories. “Thank you all for coming to this year’s 9/11 Memorial Service. Do something kind for a stranger today. Take a minute to remember the strength of this city and its people. God bless you all.” The Chief of Police saluted the crowd, and slowly everyone standing beneath the shadow of the Freedom Tower dispersed. "God, I hate today." Jin, the Chief Financial Officer at Graphite, falls into step beside me as he pulls at his tie. "Me too," I grumble, focused on getting through the crowd and across the street to our building. I'd like to stay out here all day and listen to the stories of the massive crowd gathered around the memorial. But unfortunately, I nabbed funding for my smart home system project and we are taking

off full force. With a December launch date, I've been working fourteen hour days, and basically sleeping in my office. The product specs are in to our manufacturers, and my designers are still tweaking the look and feel. The coders are still writing the software, and my team comes up with a new, brilliant idea to add every day. I have to give a demo to the major tech and news publications in a little over a month, and my communications and marketing team have been briefing me for hours each week. What my speech will be like, how the stage will be set, what graphics and features we will divulge. I feel like Steve Jobs with no turtleneck. For two months, I've ate, slept and breathed my business. And good fucking thing, because my personal life was basically non-existent. I worked myself into the ground so I wouldn't have to think about what it would be like if I hadn't been such a coward with Gemma. Jesus, she was a woman, not a preying mantis. I'd totally wussed out, and when it came down to the pivotal moment,

I'd chosen to fly faster than a Lear jet than fight for whatever feelings had been there. I exhausted myself to the point that when I passed out, I could barely see the outline of her face in my memory. Karma was a bitch, and not the good kind that dug her nails into your back when you fucked her. I'd dedicated my life to being the eternal bachelor, to never be tied down. And then the right girl got away and I'd become the laughing stock of my own destiny. You only want something when you don't have it. I was the moron who never paid attention to that lesson in grade school. It didn't help that I still heard about her. From fucking Cody. They'd been casually and exclusively dating for about a month now, and any time her name was whispered or mentioned around a corner, the knife in my gut turned sharply. I should be happy she was happy. Gemma was a great girl, the perfect one. But fuck me, I was a jealous bastard. At least I knew enough to leave her alone, like she'd asked. Well, technically she'd said we could still be friends, but we hadn't started

that way and I knew she hadn't meant it. In a city full of people, that sometimes felt smaller than that annoying singing ride at Disney, it had been a miracle I hadn't bumped into her yet. "Let's get drunk tonight." Jin stood with his back to the mirrored wall of the elevator as we rode it up to the twenty-third floor. I digested the idea, knowing I could work late into the night as well. But … I needed a break. And today already kind of sucked. "Yeah, happy hour it is. I need about five Johnny Walker's right about now."

THE DANK SMELL of weed filled the air and I inhaled it, liking the way the fumes gave me a little high on top of my massive alcohol buzz. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been this drunk. Jin sits somewhere across the room, a blonde draped in his lap as he talks to her about his investments and how he's cashed in on millions.

He might be a nerd like me, but the guy was a smooth fucking talker. He could charm Megan Fox out of her panties. “Let’s do another pickle back!” The girl next to me squealed and clapped, probably because I’d been putting her drinks on my tab all night. It was a Monday and I was shitfaced, sitting in some dingy bar modeled after a Prohibition speakeasy, mesmerized by this chick’s hair. It was every kind of pastel color melting into one another. She looked like a unicorn or a kaleidoscope. Her nose ring, a small silver hoop, flared whenever she laughed. She was pretty in a non-conventional way, and I kept referring to her as she because I’d forgotten her name for the fourth time. “Fuck yeah, another round!” Jin appeared out of nowhere and waved his hand in the air. I’m sure the bartender took that as one round on the house, and I was too drunk to let him know otherwise. Actually, right at this moment, I wanted out. There was that point when drinking, or partying, where you crossed from one side to the

other. For a while, I’d been on the fun, wild, letsdo-anything, we-can-live-forever train. I was tugging along, full speed with dancing, talking and flirting. Slinging back shots and gulping down poisonous liquor. But it always came on in one instant; the bone tired feeling when you’d simply had enough, and wanted nothing more than to leave the noise and chatter behind. It was the same when you ate an entire bag of chips, or binged one too many episodes of The West Wing. “I’m going home.” I put a hand on Jin’s shoulder. “What?” Jin screams over the music and chatter. “I’m going home!” I raise my voice. “No! What, man? We’re having fun. There are beautiful women.” He grabs the closest body and drags her to his side, where she stays curling into him like a smitten feline. “The drinks are flowing. You can’t go home, man!” I wave a hand at him as if to say, “Don’t argue with me, I’m going home. Have a good night.” And

then I make my way to the stairs, seeking the air from outside and to escape this dingy basement bar. My foot hits the last step, unsteadily, and I struggle to push open the door. Once I do, I’m spit out into an alley off of a main street in TriBeCa. The warm summer night air invades my lungs, along with the scent of trash and sweat. Nonetheless, it’s better than breathing in the toxic fumes downstairs. Staggering out onto the regular sidewalk, the streets are empty at one in the morning on a Monday. I should feel unsafe, but my alcohol blanket is giving me a false sense of invincibility, and I don’t call for an Uber. I’ll walk to my apartment building, it’s not far. My feet feel heavy and all I want to do is fall into my bed. And then I get this lightbulb that flashes on in my head. I should text Gemma. “What? No.” Oh Jesus, now I’m talking to myself. But the idea won’t go away. I haven’t spoken to

her since she kicked me to the curb, or onto a dirty coffee shop floor. There have been so many times I wanted to reach out. When I stayed by myself in the Hamptons and watched Breaking Bad for two days straight. Or the time that I saw this lady in the park with two squirrels sitting on her shoulders, I’d wanted to take a picture to send it to her right there. Or when I’d finally gotten funding for the Graphite Home project, and had sat in my apartment drinking champagne alone. Fuck, is this what it felt like to really fall for someone? I was fucking doomed. But … I couldn’t call her. I’d been an idiot, an asshole. I’d become everything she said I would, everything I promised I wouldn’t be when we’d started the whole no strings thing. My stupid pointer finger is hovering over her number, just willing me to text her. “Oh, fuck it.” Now I’m talking to myself in the middle of the street. In New York City, that could get you arrested. Not wasting another minute debating with myself, I go to the App Store. Searching for exactly

what I need, I download it when I find it, and instantly put her number in the application. What app is that? 1-800-Don’tTextHer. I’ve heard about the male version before from some of my employees; it basically prevents you from drunk dialing your ex. Whenever you try to, the app bings first, questioning if you really want to do this or not. You can even customize it to pop up with messages like, “Remember when he forgot your birthday?” or “He refused to meet your parents.” And now Gemma’s number is in the app on my phone, and I’m not taking her out. Maybe I should program a message for it that reminds me how shitty of a person I am. Because right now, that’s all I feel.

Chapter Twenty-Two GE M M A

ody shuddered, exhaling and saying “baby” as C if it was a curse. His body spasmed and then slammed down onto me, cutting the air from my diaphragm and squeezing my whole body as if he was trying to wring me dry just like he was doing with his cock. I gritted my teeth and allowed it, the crushing sensation of him growing more uncomfortable by the second. My pussy cried for relief, the throbbing and burning of a barely-there orgasm at the

forefront of my brain. And my clit. After a few seconds, Cody pressed a kiss to my temple and rolled over, inspecting the condom for how much he just came. It was a weird and notsexy-at-all habit, like he was trying to see if this was a good amount of sperm or a superb amount. Kind of like when you pop a big pimple and compare each pop after it to that substantial time. “That was insane, babe.” He smiles, flashing those pearly whites at me. I collect my disappointment and stow it away in the back of my brain. “I know, you’re so sexy. It felt so good.” Cool girl is back, and I fucking hate her. This is how it goes every time we have sex. I try to moan louder when Cody hits a spot that could get me off if he went at it for longer. I try to ride him and make myself come, but he gets impatient and flips me over. I try to tell him how I like it when he fingers me, but he insists he knows how. After awhile, I just stopped trying. I let him fuck me and while it feels good, I never come. He screams as he gets his rocks off, and then I pat him

on the back for a fake job well done. I’m back to my people pleasing, man catcher old ways and I want to cry as I fall asleep in bed with my boyfriend at night. Don’t get me wrong, Cody is absolutely amazing. He’s kind and funny, takes me out on nice dates, is respectful when we hang out with my girlfriends, lets me keep clothes and a toothbrush at his apartment. He isn’t a commitment phobe and always wants to know how my day was or go do something adventurous. Our newly fledgling relationship is probably flawless on paper. But inside, I need so much more. I’m not satisfied, but he’s the first nice guy I’ve dated and gotten serious with in a while, and I don’t want to lose it. It’s like … do I settle for him because he’s statistically perfect? Or do I cast him aside and see what other frogs there are out in the toxic pond of Manhattan? Cody comes back from discarding the condom, and snuggles under his sheets while pulling me close. His body is muscular and firm, and his skin is warm and a little damp from the energy of our sex.

“I feel like I’m having sushi burps.” He laughs, commenting on our dinner. He took me to this hole in the wall Japanese place, but it was the best raw fish I’ve ever eaten. “Me too, I can taste that tuna.” I flip over and laugh, our combined breath probably smelling absolutely disgusting. See, then there are times like these. Cody is genuinely funny and I’m comfortable being goofy or gross with him. On our third date, I’d gotten food poisoning and thrown up in his bathroom before we were about to have sex for the first time. He’d held my hair back and even gone to the store to get eggs so he could make my favorite sick meal. Scrambled eggs with cheese. “What time are you getting up in the morning?” He pushes the hair out of my face and looks into my eyes. I trail my fingers down his naked thigh and he shies away from my slow tickling. “Probably like eight thirty.” He rolls his eyes. “On a Saturday? I don’t even know what that time looks like on a weekend. You

are perfect, you don’t need to go work out.” I bat my eyelashes like his compliment means a thing to me. Like if I were fifty pounds heavier, he’d actually be sleeping with me. “Myra and Sam want me to go to the cycling class with them, and I haven’t had girl time recently. I’ve barely been home. I have to go.” He snuggles me closer, and I feel a sense of relief. After Cody asked me to be official, or exclusive, with him … I felt a weight off my chest. I was no longer in the single category. I had begun to drop the word boyfriend to coworkers and complete strangers. When we had a group outing, I was no longer the only girl without a companion. It felt nice to be looked after and consulted with. And if it wasn’t with someone I could be one hundred percent myself with also, then that was okay. For now.

THE INSTRUCTOR, whose ass looks like it was sculpted from frigid bitch ice, yells at the crowd.

“Let’s get it going, ladies! Burn off those nasty carbs and love handles. And sprint pedal in three, two, one!” I wanted to fucking murder this woman and I couldn’t even remember her name. With her barely sweaty hairline and Carrie Underwood legs, she was the picture of perfection. Me and my friends? Holy shit. We looked like hell warmed over and then burnt again. My spandex pants were so soaked with sweat that by the time I got off this bike seat, there would be a puddle under my machine. My sports bra was making indents the size of potholes in my back, and my hair was plastered to my neck and temples. How did celebrities look so fucking chic coming out of the gym, and I looked like Chewbacca? “I want to throw a dart through that woman’s eye,” Myra breathed heavy and then spat, all humanity lost amongst our group as we ground it out to the finish. “Fucking blame Sam. Why we agreed to this torture was beyond me. Next weekend, sign me up for waterboarding instead of this.” My muscles

sang out in agony. “Come on, you pussies. We’re seriously almost done.” The trainer has us going all out for the last two minutes, and I can hardly breathe, let alone talk. Finally, fucking finally, it’s over. The groans and laughter ring out around the room, the space divided into two camps. Those who feel elated, carefree and humbled by the experience. And those like me. Women who are so tired and sore that all I want to do is lie on my couch and eat a cheeseburger. In that order. “We’re going to get milkshakes. Now.” Myra read my mind. We hosed off a bit in the locker room showers, not fit to wander out in public. After rolling on a fresh coat of deodorant and twisting my soaked hair into a French braid, I was ready to stuff my face and gain back the calories I just lost. Twenty minutes later, we were seated at 5 Napkin Burger, salivating over the red meatpacked menu. “Didn’t we just kill ourselves for an hour to

lose weight?” Sam eyed us distrustfully. I didn’t even pry my eyes off of the milkshakes being served to the table next to us. “No. We worked out like beasts so we can come here and eat like pigs.” Myra giggled, her engagement ring flashing in the sunlight streaming through the open front of the restaurant. I’ve gotten less jealous over the last two months, but my gut still roils each time she dangles it in front of me. It’s flawless, and she won’t stop saying the word fiancé. Like she’s some French model who uses the word in everyday conversation. I’ll most likely be the same way when some guy gets down on one knee for me. “Now that I have a boyfriend, I need to eat junk by myself or with my girlfriends. Why do I have to pretend I eat salad for every meal?” I pout. Myra blinks at me. “The other night, I ate an entire pint of ice cream for dinner and Jase just laughed at me. He thought it was cute. Fuck the whole cool girl, salad-eating days. You need to be over that.”

The big green monster reared his ugly head again. She was completely comfortable in her relationship, and I was seething with annoyance. “Well, I just stay single. That way I can eat McDonald’s on my couch and masturbate all I want. No one telling me to wear sexy underwear or eat three balanced meals a day.” Was it bad that I was jealous of Sam too? For so long, I’d wanted to be coupled. And now that I was, single looked better than ever. Or better yet, be absolutely comfortable with who I was coupled with. I couldn’t fucking help that right at that second, Oliver popped into my head. Over the last two months, I’d dared not to think about him. But like a typical woman, I fantasized about the one I couldn’t have. It didn’t matter that our relationship hadn’t even been a relationship, that we hadn’t even dated. My head and heart couldn’t comprehend that while we’d been on, he hadn’t wanted to commit. That he’d ignored me for weeks at a time, and only called me late at night to hook up. I understand that those were our rules, but

if Oliver had actually wanted me, he would have pursued me until I was his. But for some reason, I couldn’t remember these things when I daydreamed about what we could have been. About the hours we spent in bed, fucking and talking. About how he’d grabbed my face and kissed me at the Yankees game. About the way his face fell when I’d told him I was ending it in the café. “Did you see that Instagram post Lana Mayer put up? God, her life seems freaking perfect!” Myra scrolled through her newsfeed while she popped a fry in her mouth, interrupting my thoughts. “Instagram is such a lie though. People only let you see what they want you to believe is their life.” Sam cut through all the bullshit. I nod my head, happy to talk about something else. “Yeah, don’t you know that Instagram celebrities like that have social media curators? People who are paid to make them look cool online.” Myra points her fork at me. “I wish I could

have one of those people. Whenever I take a selfie, my eyes are always crooked. Or like if I’m trying to show off my room, there is always a pile of laundry in the background that I didn’t notice until I post it and someone comments like, ‘you need to do your laundry’.” I crack up around the bite full of burger in my mouth. “Or if you are stalking a hot guy, drooling over his abs or work out pictures, and you accidentally like something from five months ago. I’d like someone who could help me erase that mistake!” Sam gapes at me. “Stalking hot guys? Yeah right! I stalk girls on Instagram. Those hair videos, or the makeup tutorials where the girl’s skin looks like pizza and by the end she looks exactly like Kim Kardashian. I want to know how to do that.” With a smile on my face, I continue my gossipy brunch with the girls. I may not have it all figured out when it comes to love and marriage, but I have some great friends. And as long as I have them, I can give my mind the day off from worrying and searching for

answers.

Chapter Twenty-Three GE M M A

seen about thirty-two naked chicks today. That Iwas’d thirty-two hairless vaginas more than I’d ever wanted to see in my lifetime. Whenever I went to fashion shows, and with my job that was quite a lot, I thought about how much prep work went into being a model. They basically looked like hairless cats; and that either took a lot of painful waxing, or more likely laser treatments. How was their hair so shiny? Did they pump it full of chemicals to get it to look like that?

How were they so skinny? Although, I guess if looking good was my only job and I had someone to tailor my workouts and cook my food, I could look like that too. “Gemma! Do you have those interview questions yet?!” Medusa hisses at me, and I jump to attention, smoothing down the cape-coated dress I had decided on for today. Why she needed to double check my work was beyond me. I’d done a hundred of these runway show interviews with designers or makeup artists. I was a great editor and she knew it, but she just loved to micro-manage. At least I could laugh that one of her fake eyelashes was coming unglued and she looked like she had a lazy eye. And no, I wasn’t going to tell her. “Yep, they are right here. I thought I could ask her questions that highlighted the makeup she used to go along with the designers concept.” Medusa gave me the stink eye and then looked down at the pink Kate Spade notebook I’d handed her. Even with the technology of tablets and recorders, I couldn’t let go of writing down my

interview questions and recording answers. She rubs her pointy, pale chin. “These are decent. Just make sure you ask about the butterfly concept of the show. And ask about the products she used. Oh! And how each model’s skin type differs.” I hold back the urge to roll my eyes. Why did bosses or people of higher authority always have to talk to you like you had the brain cell count of a carrot? I knew how to do my job. Once I realized she was no longer sniffing in my general direction, I slunk away and took my seat in the third row. Third row, because the first was reserved for grade A celebrities, and the second was for less famous people. But still people more famous than a lowly press member. “Crabber & Fong really went all out for this, huh?” Whitney took her seat beside me and pulled out her camera. She’d been tasked with photographing the event, so here she was. “The new line is called Chrysalis. It’s supposed to be evolutions of the clothing, they’re all very adaptable and detachable. We’ll see if

they actually work, or have any style.” I’d already been backstage, snooping around on the beauty prep. The models’ hairstyles were all glued back in tight chignons, which were supposed to mock a cocoon. And their makeup was all pastels, violets and blues. Exactly the way I used to draw butterflies when I was six. The concept was kind of cheesy, if you asked me, but I was going to give it a chance. The lights dimmed, and the whole place tittered with excitement. I caught sight of the girl from Glee, and a beautiful musician whose record was being played all over the radio. And next to her was the actor who was dating the famous model closing out the show. It was all so glamorous, but I’d been on the fringes of this world to know better. It was all an act. These people had the same problems and insecurities we all did, they just had managers and agents who hid it for them. The first models began to strut the walkway, and the clothes are … just meh. But runway shows never fail to excite me. The ambiance is amazing, and I’m thoroughly enjoying myself.

Until, that is, my eyes scan the room and lock on someone. Or, more than that, they lock on the eyes I’ve been avoiding for nearly two months. Sitting front row center next to this month’s latest TV drama queen is none other than Oliver Anders. “Fuck, shit.” I think I mutter this under my breath, but by the turns from the people in front of me and Whitney staring my way, I know it was too loud. “Are you okay?” she whispers. “Yep, just excited about the clothes.” I pretend to scribble something, but I know she’s looking at me like I have two heads. Double fucking fuck. I pick my head up, pretending to look at the runway, but I feel those baby blues stuck on me like heat-seeking missiles. Oliver has spotted me, maybe even before I knew he was sitting just feet away across that runway. At this point, I can’t even fake that I haven’t seen him, because my eyes keep pulling back to the spot where he sits, his arm draped behind the chair of that leggy blonde.

“Is that Gianna Produr?” I nudge Whitney, even though I should be paying attention to the show. “Shhh. And yes. Looks like she’s got some new man candy too. He’s hot, in an Adam Brody kind of way.” She’s annoyed with me, and continues to click away. So he is with her. I try not to let the jealousy pour off my skin and strangle the crowd members around me. God, my reaction is so pathetic. I can’t even commit to not committing to Oliver, or rather, him not committing to me. I’m weak and stupid, but I dare to chance a glance back over at him. And when I do, it’s like I’m burning inside the hottest tanning booth made to man. Full thirddegree burns, he’s smoking me out with his expression. His back is ramrod straight in his chair, and he’s locked on me like a hunter about to shoot it’s prey. I’m sweating, my hands becoming damp on my notebook and an errant bead rolling down the back of my neck. Oliver looks stunned but thrilled, and his lips form into a mega-watt smiling greeting. He mouths “hi” from across the room, and it seriously feels as

if the rest of the crowd evaporates. He’s in a navy blue seersucker suit that fits him in all the right ways, and his hair is much longer than the last time I saw him. Those brown curls tuck behind his ears and fall onto his forehead. He’s sporting some serious stubble in a sexy way. I’m clinging to the edge of my seat for his next move, and then it slams into me by way of Whitney elbowing my rib cage. “You need to take notes on the outfits! What the hell is wrong with you?” Shit. I haven’t looked at the show for the last five minutes, and I have no idea what came down the runway. I’ll have to use her photos as backup for my online write-up. And I’m pissed at myself that instead of doing my job, that I just complained Medusa was unnecessarily hassling me over, I was fantasizing about a dickhead guy. For the rest of the show, I glue my eyes to the runway stage, no matter how painful it is not to look at Oliver and what he’s doing. The clothes whoosh by as I try to focus my brain on the show and the show only. Fuck all this girly crap and stupid love shit. I’m a strong career woman, and I

need to remember that. When it’s done, I go over my questions before heading backstage to get some interviews. “Amazing show, what was the inspiration?” “The makeup was flawless and fit the concept, how did you come up with the looks?” “Will consumers be able to buy the pieces in all of their stages?” I pose question after question, putting my brain on a one-track highway of interviewing and working. No room for a tech millionaire and his leggy blonde date. I’m just finishing my last interview with Vadim Crabber himself, and as I thank him and turn, a hand darts out and grabs my arm. I don’t need to look to know whose rough hand is pulling my elbow. His scent envelops me, and I feel like I might be suffocating. Is this how people who sit in saunas feel? I’ve never done it, but all of the dry heat clogging my throat right now is bound to kill me. Turning, I’m face-to-face with the man who has plagued my dreams for the past couple of months.

The one whose name I try not to think about when my boyfriend is having sex with me. I’m so fucked, it’s not even funny.

Chapter Twenty-Four O L IVE R

eeing someone who used to mean a lot to you, S after a certain amount of time, is always awkward. Gemma stands in front of me like I’m a spider and I’ve caught her in my web. And I dance around going up to her. People mill about, doing interviews or simply gathering their things to get out of there. I don’t know what to do with my hands. Do I keep them hanging by my sides, put them in my pockets? Do I shake her hand? No, that would

make everything even more awkward. I could just be a normal person and go up and say hi. But we are former lovers, even though that word makes me cringe, and it’s like society dictates that we have to do this tense mating dance before we can greet each other. Finally, I’ve had enough. “Hey, Gemma.” She turns as if she hadn’t been staring at me from across the room the entire fashion show. “Oh my gosh, Oliver, how are you?” Her smile is faker than half of the women’s tits in here, and I almost grind off the sealants on my molars gnashing my teeth together. I’d rather dip my hand in a deep fryer than have this weird interaction. “You saw me. I was sitting right across from you.” My words are so deadpan that Gemma actually laughs before covering her mouth. “I guess I did. I never was a good liar. Well, I haven’t heard from you in a while. How have you been?” I can tell that her statement is a slight. She is pointing out that I didn’t contact her. And if we’re being honest, which I always

tried to be with her, I’m not up for the pretending and politeness. I’ve been on the single scene for too long, have dealt with too much of the reserved flirting and half-truths. I’m so exhausted from it, that I’m not willing to do it anymore. “I’ve been okay. And you didn’t want to hear from me. Don’t pretend you still wanted to be friends.” I’m wasting no time with small talk bullshit. Gemma scoffs. “Whatever, Oliver. Don’t pretend you wanted me to be your girlfriend.” We both sound childish and people leaving the runway show are staring. But I don’t care. I haven’t been able to talk to her, to stand in front of her, in two months. I’m not wasting this time on political correctness and trying to keep quiet. “Actually, I’m pretty sure I told you how I felt and you turned it down. Let’s remember things the way they actually happened. There was no precursor to the way that you stopped what we were doing.” I can’t help but stare at her, even when I’m arguing with her. She’s radiant, absolutely flawless

with her skin still tan and the body that I’m itching to get my hands on encased in a black leather minidress. “It was only supposed to be sex!” she yelled at me. “Well, obviously it turned into more. Can’t you feel it?!” I pulled her hand to my chest, hoping she could feel the way my heart was beating double time. It was a stupid move, something a hero would do in some romantic comedy, and I felt cheesy. But it was sincere, she could feel my heart wheezing for her. “That’s because we were fucking stupid, Oliver! Men and women can’t just have sex. The definition of sex is the connection of two people using their most intimate body parts. Body parts that they keep hidden to the public beneath clothes, but show someone that they trust enough to share this crazy, sexual act with them! I don’t even know why I agreed to do that with you. It never ends well. Men and women can never just be friends with benefits. You can’t just smother feelings with orgasms and dirty talk.”

Gemma looks away from me, her slim shoulders shrugging like she hasn’t even convinced herself there is still nothing here. The whiff of vanilla that touches my nose from when she flips that long wavy chocolate hair. “So then let’s not make it about sex. Take all of the physical off the table. I’ll show you that I haven’t stopped thinking about you since that day in the coffee shop.” I dig my phone out of my pocket and click in the Don’t Text Her application. Holding up the only phone number in the app, I pass it to Gemma. She takes my phone, her beautiful hazel eyes lighting up with the shine of the screen. I know it takes her a few minutes to comprehend what she’s looking at. But I see it when the understanding sets in. “You … you blocked my number? How twentysomething of you.” A small smile tilts up the left side of her mouth. “A guy has to do what a guy has to do, even if he is an old man. But yes, I blocked you. I almost slipped … once. A lot of tequila was involved.” I

step towards her, craving to be in her space. “Tequila usually is where there are slips involved.” She isn’t shying away, but she’s also not giving me more right now. “I’m taking you out. It’s not a question. So tell me what day and time, and I’ll be there.” Turning on a black suede dress shoe, I walk out of the runway dressing room and out into the New York streets before she can tell me no.

Chapter Twenty-Five GE M M A

Plop. Plop. P lop. What is it about being in a body of water that makes your mind wander? Whether it was a pool, a hot tub, the fucking ocean, a bath … there was something ethereal and thought-provoking about immersing yourself. Or maybe it was because your pores shrunk up and fingers got so pruney that it made you think about what your life would be like when your skin actually wrinkled for good. Who knows?

Oliver fucking Anders. Gemma fucking Morgan. I’m not sure who I want to scream at more. Why did he have to be at that stupid runway show, whose clothes completely tanked on all of the fashion magazine’s radars. Why did he have to follow me? Say those things? And why do I, the girl who has a boyfriend who finally treats her right, keep going around and around in my head about the things he said? This bathtub is way too small for the universe of thoughts running through my mind, and I nurse a glass of wine like it will cure all of the ache inside of me. A knock on the door sounds. “Will you please tell me what happened?” I may have freaked Sam out when I stormed into the apartment this afternoon and didn’t even say hi. I’d grabbed a bottle of merlot and locked myself in the bathroom two hours ago. She probably thought I was slitting my wrists or something. “I’m fine, Sammy. I just need some time to think.” I wasn’t fine at all. We women just loved to

use that phrase to alert people that we weren’t fine. A very distinct head-hitting-wood sound came from the other side. “Okay, but don’t go all Meredith Grey and try to drown yourself in the bathtub. I don’t have hair nearly as good as Patrick Dempsey.” That was her way of trying to get me to laugh and also telling me she was here for me, using a Grey’s Anatomy reference. “Love you,” I whispered as I took another huge gulp of wine. Exhaling, I surveyed the tiny, tiny bathroom. My body and the tub were the two largest objects in the bathroom, and for once, I kind of despised Manhattan. I lived in a shoebox, surrounded by millions of other people. It was loud and obnoxious; I worked grueling hours for pay that was too low. And yet, I’d never give it up for any other place in the world. Kind of like Oliver. He wasn’t sexy or handsome in the traditional, knock your socks off way. He was too cocky and detached, he had too much money for his own good. Commitment and

adoration were things he’d never bothered with, and I had no idea if he could actually make something between us last and work. Yet, when it came all the way down to it, I wanted no one else but him. God, wasn’t that just so cliché? Picking up my phone, and carefully holding it out of the tub since I’d dunked and fried a previous phone the exact same way, I opened a text message. Gemma: You’re such a prick. It doesn’t take him even a second to respond, like he was a 1950s teenage girl sitting by the phone waiting for my call. Oliver: I know I am. The prickiest of all pricks. You can punish me anyway you see fit. No sex? I’m in. You want new Louboutins, tell me what color. How many? That fucker. He knew expensive shoes were my

goddamn kryptonite. They were like peanut butter to a kid who needs an EpiPen. I’d risk it just to get that buttery taste in my mouth. Gemma: I have a boyfriend. One who is really good for me. One who is a trusted friend of yours. Oliver: You said good for me. Not good to you. Or that you loved him, or even liked him. I set the phone down on the toilet seat and bumped my head against the tile of the shower as I looked up at the ceiling. He was right of course, and had to come at it with that Oliver Anders token honesty. Gemma: That’s low. Oliver: That’s winning. And I didn’t get where I was today without stepping on a few toes. I’m serious about you, Gemma. I’m serious about us.

I wanted to cry, because of course he was saying all the right things. Deep down, women didn’t want the good guy. They wanted the bad boy that would finally change for them. They wanted to hear that someone would go to the ends of the earth. Slay the dragon. Fight the monster. Because really, love hadn’t evolved at all from the fairytales we’d heard as little girls. I wanted the impossible happily ever after. To have the prince place the glass slipper on my foot. For all of my hopes and dreams to line up and equal the exact person that I could have and not have all at the same time. Gemma: What am I supposed to do? Cody is a good person. I said it genuinely, because I was so confused that even my boobs sagged with questions. They ached on the sides. But that could also be because I was getting my period. Oliver: But I’m the right person. For you.

Let me take you out. One night. Gemma: Not until I make a decision. I won’t do that, won’t lead someone along. Oliver: So make a decision. And then call me. Setting down my phone again, I swirl some of the bubbles around, weighing my decisions. Cody is the safe bet, the guy who will date me for a year or two and then take my best friend to pick out rings at an above average jewelry store. He’ll open doors and take me to his family reunions. We’ll get married, pop out two or three kids, settle into a comfortable existence with separate TV rooms and weight gain. Cody is the known option, the one that will never surprise me. And of course, I’ll go with the risky choice. Because my heart and mind are already with Oliver. With his caustic tongue, his shrewd mind. The way he handles me in bed. I’m a walking after school special and yet I won’t stop what’s coming.

THE WIND CUTS through my cable knit sweater, leaving goose bumps across my skin. I warm back up with the pumpkin latte in my hands, October humming through my veins. In my beige ensemble, clunky brown boots, and olive green fedora, I am the definition of a basic bitch. And I couldn’t be happier. Loving the pumpkin craze may make me a total commoner, but I can’t help it. “Hey, beautiful.” Cody swoops in from the side, joining me on the bench in the middle of Bryant Park. I offer up my cheek and focus on a student walking out of the New York Public Library to distract myself from the nauseous lurch in my chest. Her bag is full of books, and I see a laptop sticking out of the top. Glancing to him, he’s the picture of fall gorgeousness. He looks like one of those AllAmerican Ralph Lauren models. He could be riding a chestnut-colored horse in the middle of this park, the wind whipping through his blond

flow, and no one would think twice about it. “Hi.” I smile, and take another sip of coffee. No matter how awful breaking things off with Oliver was a few months ago, this feels worse. Cody cares about me, and I’ve come to care about him. I may have not been truthful throughout our time together, but he’s a nice person. He deserves better than this. “Great idea to come here today, before it gets too cold. Then again, I love the winter village here around Christmas time. We should come ice skating.” He was making plans, and I was trying to dump him faster than a self-tanner that just turned my body orange. “Cody …” I was too cowardly to even form a good jumping off point. The guy who probably never hears no for an answer crumples beside me in a big sigh. “You’re breaking up with me, aren’t you?” Shame and guilt surge through me. I’m about to use the worst fucking breakup line in the history of forever and I can’t even help it.

“You’re perfect, Cody. Seriously, you have everything going for you. It’s just … I’m not perfect for you.” His mouth falls open, and I want to sink into this park bench. “Did you just hit me with the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ line? That’s fucking lame, Gemma.” He turns away, angling his body and his feelings from me. It’s self-preservation time for him. “I’m sorry, I really am. I mean it though, you’re such a great guy, and I’m a damn fool. I had such a good time with you, and I … I feel like a jerk right now.” I hold my hands out, trying to convey how much of a piece of shit I feel like. I realize, in that moment, that I’m just as bad as all the men who have ever led me on. Cody was my replacement for someone I wanted but was too scared to be with. A heavy sigh sounds from his perfect chest. “I knew it though. Dammit, I thought if I just gave it enough time … if I won you over enough. But you

were never here, not fully. It’s someone else, isn’t it?” This was like ripping off a Band-Aid that never ended. “I … yes. It is.” I could only be honest now. I wasn’t going to get into it, but Cody deserved the truth. “I never meant to hurt you, and that sounds so cliché, I know that, Cody. I understand how stupid and … there is nothing to make this better. I tried, I wanted it to work, I did. But, there is someone else, and I don’t want it to be him, but it is.” Cody nods his head furiously, like he’s trying to reason with the voice asking him whether he should yell at me or try to smooth it over and part gracefully. “This guy … it’s Oliver, isn’t it?” It’s almost like he smacks me in the face. Literally, I double back and spill a little pumpkin spice latte on my jeans. “Wha … what?” “I saw you that day at the Yankee game. And, I’m not an idiot, Gemma. It was a little bit obvious about why you were at our work picnic when we first met.”

I bite down on my lip, hard. “I don’t want it to be.” Cody laughed, but it was hard and annoyed. “But it is. Just … don’t let him break your heart, okay?” Like I hadn’t already tried that. Like I hadn’t broken it off to save myself the trouble. When I look back to try and say something else, Cody is already walking across the park, his hands in his coat pockets and his shoulders slumped forward. Even as I broke up with him, he was looking out for me. Why did I do that? I needed a vat of buffalo chicken dip and some Kleenex. I was about to do something so stupid and risky, that if I called my mother she would use my middle name in the sentence to scold me.

Chapter Twenty-Six O L IVE R

ow the fuck tech geniuses before me got up in H front of all these people and didn’t vomit all over the stage is beyond me. I’m so fucking nervous. I wipe the rancid smell from my mouth as I splash cold water in my face in the bathroom of the huge conference hall we booked in the middle of downtown Manhattan. There are journalists, entrepreneurs, celebrities, other captains of the tech industry … all sitting in that crowd waiting

for me to get up and speak about my latest product. About the project, the vision, that has filled my mind for the last two years. The sweat and blood I’ve poured into this, slaving away for the last year on conception and design, marketing and working out all of the kinks. And here we are. At the product launch. In just hours, my new smart home system will be on every tech front page and website in the country, not to mention the world. The bathroom door swings open as I’m contemplating how to get up on that stage without fainting, and in walks Cody. Fuck. This is going to be awkward. The past week, I’ve felt like a seventeen-year-old girl trying to avoid the guy that broke up with her via text. Cody is my employee, and he’s a great one, but I know I’m the wedge that separated he and Gemma. I made a play for her, and for whatever reason she decided on, maybe what was in her heart, she used it to dump Cody. I know I told her to make a decision, and I was hoping she’d choose me. No one who ever truly wants the person they’re

pursuing to pick the option that will make them happy. I’ve learned a lot in business, and being selfish is one of the best tools in your arsenal. So when I told Gemma I wanted her for myself, and for her to make a decision about Cody, I wasn’t secretly hoping that she ended up happy either way. Fuck no. I half-love the girl, I’m not telling her that, and I’d be a masochist to want her to be with someone else. “Typical.” I hear Cody mutter under his breath before he heads past me. “What did you say?” I whirl around, on edge enough with the speech I have to give and annoyed that he’s sucking up the air in here. I fucking hate that Gemma has been with him. Jealousy, that’s a new fucking feeling. I guess I get it now when men say they’d rip out another guy’s throat if they touched their girl. I feel like a goddamn caveman. “I just get it now. You’re too much of a pussy to just claim the things you want, but you get ’em anyway, don’t you, Anders?” Cody wasn’t talking about the show. “You

really want to go there right now? I’m your boss, man. I thought we had an understanding.” We didn’t really, but I can’t deal with this right now, and he was one of my best developers. “Dealt with it? Yeah right, you’ve been avoiding me like the plague since you stole my fucking girlfriend. If you wanted her, you should have put your claim on it before I stepped in when you couldn’t man up.” I roll my eyes. “Claim her? She’s not a table at a garage sale. She’s a woman. Our relationship was, is, complicated. If she broke up with you, it was her own doing. God knows no one can make Gemma Morgan do something she doesn’t want to do.” Cody sizes me up, and then moves closer, his chest puffing out. I’m a guy, and such a sucker for one. I get right in there too. “You’re a prick, Olly.” He uses that stupid nickname. “You didn’t want her when it wasn’t complicated. But because she was with someone, you needed to swoop in like a knight in fucking shit-stinking armor. You’re a thirty-year-old man

acting like a three-year-old dog, pissing on the thing that you want.” I can’t help it, I pull rank. “Watch it, Cody. You’re talking to your boss right now.” I see his hands clench into fists at his side. “I have no qualms about throwing you through that fucking mirror right now.” The tension in the air is so palpable, you could cut it like moldy cheese. We stare at each other, and I feel like I’m going to pop a blood vessel. This is so dumb and macho, but I’ve finally wised up about what I want with Gemma and I’m not going to let this blond Ken doll take it. “Whatever, man. You’re not worth it. Go out there and try not to fuck this up, because I still have to work for this fucking company. But if you don’t take care of Gemma, if you don’t treat her right, I’ll come to that TriBeCa mansion of yours and personally shove your balls down your throat.” My balls seize up and into my body, protecting themselves, just thinking about Cody doing that. “Got it.”

He exits the bathroom in a flurry of adrenaline and emotion, and I’m left thinking about what he said. I was going to do my best not to hurt Gemma, if she’d even give me a chance. Hell, I might flay off my own balls if I acted as stupid as I did the first time things had started to get deeper. Taking a lungful of air, and then another, I headed to the stage. The room was buzzing with hushed whispers and industry schmoozing. I knew so many faces out there in the crowd, and was scared to death of embarrassing myself in front of them. What if the slides weren’t timed right? What if I hadn’t practiced enough? Shit, I hated public speaking. I wish I could get a body double to do stuff like this. Actually, I would love a body double for all sorts of things. Meetings with my accountant, going for Sunday dinner at my aunt’s house in Connecticut, even working out with my trainer. I’d love a body double to get screamed at by Brad so I wouldn’t have to. My thoughts must wander for a little, because one of my event planners is furiously tapping me

on the shoulder, telling me it’s time to go in in just minutes. Think of all the people in the crowd in their underwear. The stupid elementary school trick comes back to me and makes me snort, because fucking gross. I don’t want to think about Cann Jacobson, the tech journalist from Tech Today, naked. With his protruding stomach and yellow rotting teeth … Jesus it just wasn’t sanitary. The auditorium went dark, the screen lit up. One image. One stark image, my child that I’d reared for the last two years, presented for all to see. I only stumbled once through the speech, and six hours later, everyone from top ten journalism outlets to bloggers was heralding Graphite Home as the next big thing.

Chapter Twenty-Seven GE M M A

why I never noticed it before, but Ionce’m Inotfellsure for him, I really couldn’t escape Oliver Anders. As in, I couldn’t escape his hundred foot face plastered all over every billboard in the city. It was in Times Square, all over Broadway, down by my building and overlooking Central Park. Even in the park, I couldn't escape. I came here when I was happy, when I was sad. When I was bored, or when I needed to contemplate something.

The park was my place, and right now I felt like my life was falling apart and I needed the wisdom of the man made lakes and trees to get me through. I'd taken a torch and thrown it on my love life, complete blaze of all of the things I'd thought I'd wanted. Cody was a good man, a stable, handsome, smart person ... and I'd thrown it away. For what? Oliver was unpredictable. Immature and selfish. He was disconnected at times, and didn't know what commitment was even if it came up and started sucking his cock in the middle of Times Square. What was even worse was that I'd gone and done the one thing I thought I'd broken myself out of. As if the universe were sending me a big neon sign of how truly, incredibly dumb I was, my past came back to haunt me. In the form of one Eric Wyle. He'd been my first city fling after I'd moved to the bustling metropolis, and I'd been half-blind in love with him. We'd fallen into bed on the first

night, and over the course of seven months, fought and broke up and gotten back together almost six times. The relationship was maddening; I fit the mold to every stereotypical emotionally abused girlfriend. He cheated, I was neurotic, it ended in an atom-bomb explosion of a TV being thrown out an apartment window. And there he was. Eric freaking Wyle, my love-to-hate-to-love past just standing on the other side of the walkway in Central Park. He doesn't see me, and I thank God for that. Luckily, we haven't bumped into each other in the two years since the last epic breakup. He still looks just as good; tall, dark and handsome with an air of asshole and mischief surround him. He was always too smug for his own good. Right now, he's rising from where he just did twenty push-ups on the ground … and he looked like such a typical athletic douchebag. When I was with Eric, I thought so much less of myself. I had no self-esteem, thought I deserved all of the shit he piled on me. I subjected myself to belittlement and cried my eyes out every other

night. He made me feel unworthy, and I came to regard myself with such little worth that it took almost a year to dig myself out of the hole. I’d made sure that no man since him could make me feel that way, mostly because I was older and wiser, but also because my self-esteem was like a protective armor I wrapped around myself. And … much to my surprise, I didn’t feel it slipping now. In my head, I knew that I’d made the right decision, even if my heart was fighting me tooth and nail. Cody wasn’t the guy for me, and while he was great, I would be a complete asshole if I kept stringing him along like I had. I’d be as bad as Eric Wyle. When I was with Oliver, I didn’t feel inferior. In fact, he’d always made me feel smart … a part of his little genius rich boy club. He spoke to me like a respected friend rather than a convenient sid piece. And now he was making the effort to come and beg for forgiveness, which my fickle heart kind of admired. I wasn’t the same weepy girl anymore; the one who’d followed the asshole across Central Park

around like a lovesick puppy. I watched as he checked out a stroller-toting mom’s ass, and then winked at another female runner before taking off down the path. As he got farther and farther away from me, I felt strength and surety flood my chest. We all had choices in life. Stick it out at your thankless job or find a new one. Walk home for exercise or hail a cab. Eat the donut or, hell, there was no other choice but to eat the donut. And we all had the choice to step off the ledge and give love a chance, knowing that there was no big balloon set up by firemen waiting on the ground to catch you. Digging my phone out from my purse, I punched in the one person’s number who would always give me the honest truth. On the third ring, the call connected. “Hi sweetheart, you’re on speaker!” My mom yelled into the receiver and I had to pull my cell away from my ear. “Hi, Mom. What’re you up to?” I hear something fall in the background, it sounds like pots or pans. “Oh you know, just in the

kitchen baking this new recipe I found from Giada. It’s called Slow Cooker Cioppino, it’s basically a stew with all kinds of shellfish and seafood. Your father will just love it!” Mom loves to cook. Unfortunately, she’s just not good at it. I pray for Dad’s stomach tonight. He’s such a good sport and eats anything she puts in front of him, but he usually gets food poisoning once or twice a year. I want to find that kind of love, where my husband doesn’t have the heart to tell me that I’m poisoning him. “That sounds delicious. Hey Mom, do you have a minute?” My throat clogs a little with emotion. No matter how old we are, we always need our mommies. She may have her quirks, and her misguided fear of the city, but she’s always here for me when I need her. She’s always willing to help solve a problem or just listen to the drama of my life. “Sure, baby. What’s wrong?” That tone of worry marks her voice. “It’s nothing bad, I promise. I’m not pregnant or shooting needles up my arms. It’s about a boy.”

A relieved breath whooshes through the phone. “Okay, now that you’ve taken the worst of my fears off the table, tell me about this boy.” I roll my eyes because I knew she was picturing me knocked up in some trailer. “To be honest, I’m confused. I was dating this guy for a couple months and I just broke up with him because of this other guy. Who I had something with but it wasn’t really a relationship, and now he’s coming back around and I don’t know if I want to let him in again and I can’t decide if it’s the right thing to do—” “Gemma Bean! Hold on, take a breath. You’re talking in circles, my girl.” she shouts into my ear. I stop walking and take a seat on a secluded bench. I realize I’m sweating a bit, even though it’s October. Leave it to Mom to totally shrink me and make me freak out without even saying a thing. “Now start from the beginning, sweetheart. What’s the boy’s name?” Exhaling, I begin. I tell her about it all, with some choice cuts in the sex and friends with benefits departments. I explain how I met Oliver,

and how our non-relationship came to be. How I got out before I could get hurt because I’d felt myself falling, rolling in there my relationship and eventual breakup with Cody. I told her about my fears and how I wasn’t sure if things would work out with Oliver if I even tried again. I was one step away from sticking my thumb in my mouth and needing her to rub my back. “You know how I met your father, right?” Mom’s soothing voice calmed my nerves just the tiniest bit. I nod my head even though she can’t see me. “In the aisle of a grocery store.” “I was fresh off a breakup from my high school sweetheart, and couldn’t have wanted to date someone less. But your father, he was wearing that store apron and smiling at me, telling me to try the new cereal because it was his favorite. I was in sweatpants looking for ice cream, and he swept me off my feet.” I’d always loved that real love story of how my parents had met. My mother went on. “Love waits for no

woman, no matter how ill-timed it is. It will come in and sweep you off of your feet, or punch you square in the nose. It doesn’t matter what your head wants, or the logical thing to do. Sometimes you just have to trust fate, honey, and it sounds like this Oliver is your grocery store clerk.” Thinking about Oliver working in a grocery store makes me literally laugh out loud. In the middle of the park, which is weird because those two women walking along over there are definitely looking at me. “Thanks, Mom. I knew talking to you would make me feel better.” And it had. She’d all but made my decision for me, but that’s what parents were for. Doing the hard stuff when you couldn’t. “So go out with the boy, at least. I have a feeling about this one. It’s been a while since I’ve heard you talk about a person of the opposite sex like this. When can I meet him?” Getting up to walk and calm my now antsy nerves, because they knew they were going on a date with Oliver, I smirked. “You can meet him when I’m good and ready.”

“Gemma Bean, you’re not going to deprive me of my right to a wedding and grandchildren.” And we were back to crazy. Just like that, it was zero to a hundred. “Bye, Mom. I love you. Don’t make Dad keel over from that seafood stew.” Hanging up before she could argue more, I turned to walk out of the park. And there was that billboard, sitting there smiling at me. Only this time, it stirred an entirely different emotion in my stomach.

Chapter Twenty-Eight GE M M A

a goddamn idiot?” My skirt swished at “A mmyIknees as I turned to ask Jillian and Sam. I’d been putting on a fashion show for them since five o’clock, and two hours later, had finally landed on an outfit that I could actually get behind. For my date tonight. My first date with Oliver Anders. “Isn’t it romantic that this is the first time he’s ever taking you on a date? Like a second chance at romance and love.” Jillian’s eyes are dreamy and

all I can do is roll mine. “You could look at it that way. Or … I’m the masochistic chick who constantly gets back together with the guy who treats her like shit. Oh God, am I that girl? Is that what I’ve become?” Panic stole over my body and I was three seconds away from calling the whole thing off. I hated those girls. The one’s who went back after he cheated, or forgot their birthday, or worse, abused them. I could never get behind those stories, and as a woman I know it was stupid to victim blame. Was I the victim of Oliver’s aloofness? Was I setting myself up again? “Calm down, diva. You’re not an idiot. You aren’t one of those women, because you guys had no strings before and that was clearly laid out in the rules. This is a date between two people who had a fling and then wanted it to become more. A few months may have passed in between, but you’re fine now. You look beautiful, the thigh-high boots were a good choice. Classy but a touch slutty. He’s going to swallow his tongue when he sees you.”

Leave it to my roommate and surrogate mother to talk me off the ledge. “Thank you.” I fanned my armpits and breathed in through my nose. I’d agreed to this, made my bed, and now I was going to lie in it. Not lie in Oliver’s though. No, this pretty box was off limits until he did some serious sucking up. And the shoes he’d mentioned weren’t far from my brain. The buzzer by our front door rang. “I’ll get it! Let me grill the bastard before he takes my girl out.” Sam runs to the front door, buzzing Oliver up and waiting there. “I think she has a bat in her hands.” Jillian giggles and fixes an errant strand of hair. “You’ll be fine, Gem. There is nothing to be nervous about. If anyone should be nervous, it’s him.” Schoolgirls didn’t get this worked up about shit. I threw lipstick, my phone, a credit card and some gum into my small clutch and waited until I heard that unmistakable deep voice. “Jesus!” The voice sounded from the hall, and I heard a thwack.

“If you fuck with Gemma, next time that bat won’t land on the floor, but right between your frank and beans. Got it, muchacho?” “Enough, Sam.” I lead her away by the shoulder and give Oliver some room where she had him pinned to the front door. “Hi.” I face him and my heart feels like it’s being shocked by a defibrillator. Not that I’d know what that feels like, but it always looks so severe in those hospital shows. His hair is long again, longer than when we met, and I just want to curl the dark tendrils around my fingers. He’s casual in blue khakis and a long sleeve button-down, a light coat showing the definition of his muscles underneath. Those honest blue eyes are trained on me, betraying nothing and everything at the same time. “You look beautiful.” Oliver hands me a small bouquet of roses, ones I recognize from the fruit market below our building. And Mr. Anders is on the board with his first points of the night. “Compliments and flowers, exemplary first date skills.” I lean in to let him hug me. “I’ve been reading

some Cosmo articles, picking up some new tips.” “The old Cosmo trick, huh? Fine, reading my competition I see…Femme could have told you the same things.” I smile as we pull back, and the same old flirty energy is coursing between us. “I’d be biased. I know this woman who works for Femme, her articles are stellar. I’d be attracted to those and only those, disregarding everything else in the magazine.” “Now you’re just sucking up.” Sam’s voice sounds from the background, and suddenly I’m ready to get out of here and have Oliver to myself. “Shall we go?” He extends a hand, which I take, and lace our fingers together. The electricity between us, the banter … it feels like nothing ever changed. Maybe Jillian was right, this was a second chance.

DINNER HAD BEEN AWFUL. “I’m so sorry your steak was basically raw. I shouldn’t have taken you there, it’s a new place,

the staff was terrible.” Oliver shook his head, and I could see how anxious he was about the meal and service being pretty bad. I stroked a hand down his arm as we walked the streets of SoHo. “Seriously, Oliver, don’t worry about it. I had a good time.” And I wasn’t lying, I had had a really good time. The meal and service might have been awful, but I don’t think either of us noticed until it got pretty shitty. We’d sipped on a bottle of red wine for the first hour, the liquid putting us at ease. He’d talked about work, and I found it seriously sexy the way his face lit up when he talked about how Graphite Home was taking off after its launch. Oliver had opened up about his childhood, the silly things about him and stuff that wasn’t even important. The things he had never let me see the first time around. I told him about my job and my friends; let him in on the ridiculous phone calls with my mother when she told me how to avoid being raped in the city. We laughed over the most recent Instagram snafu by a celebrity, and talked about our plans for

the coming weeks. We had normal, stupid conversation … and it felt, lovely. It hadn’t mattered that our appetizers were burnt or that the entrées were cold. I wasn’t there for the food anyway. I’d come because I needed to prove to myself, one way or another, what Oliver had been and what he was now to me and my heart. “Well, I promise that it will be better next time. If you give me a next time.” His bashful smile set my heart sprinting. “How about tomorrow?” I didn’t know a better night for a date than a Friday night. “Eager, are we, Miss Morgan? You’d think you’d play a little more hard to get.” He was busting my chops. “I don’t do games anymore. A wise man once told me to be honest.” I leaned in closer as we walked side by side, our hands hanging onto each others. I’d gotten my answer loud and clear. We walked the many blocks back to my apartment, him insisting on taking me to my front door. The night was cool but beautiful, early fall making me huddle

into my coat, and Oliver, for warmth. Once we got to my stoop, I stopped, unsure of how to part. “I’m a patient man, but if you invite me up, I’m not saying no.” He raised his dark eyebrow in question. A sly smile filled my face. “I can’t. That time of the month and all, you know.” His mouth formed a surprised O. “Ah, an homage to our first encounter. So are you saying that because Aunt Flow is really in town, or because this date was really as awful as the one with the dickhead the first time I met you?” I laughed, not being able to help thinking about the hilarity in how fate brought us together. “I’m saying it because it’s full on PMS over here, and you don’t want your dick anywhere near it.” Oliver blew out a long exhale and wrapped his arms around my waist, bringing me into him. “Like I said, I’m a patient man. I meant it when I said there didn’t have to be anything physical between us yet.” Looking up at him, the street lamp falling over

our joined figures, my heart sped up. I was in a genuine New York City fairytale. “That … takes a bit of the pressure off. I’m not sure I’m ready to get naked with you just yet. Well … again.” But I do lean in, resting my head just under his chin as he holds me on the cold street where I live. His voice tickles my ear. “Nothing that we want so badly ever comes easy.” Are we supposed to hurt for love? Is it supposed to be a tooth-and-nail fight? I think that maybe something that precious, something that sought after, requires it. Sure, we know the exact moment that it happens. But isn’t there a proverb or bible verse or some other wise piece of literature that says the things we truly want are those we must suffer most to get? “Did you read that in a children’s book?” I whisper as he holds me. “Maybe. But I think it’s true. This also isn’t the end of the suffering.” He backs away and my stomach drops. It must show in my face. “I don’t mean that I’m going to hurt you intentionally, Gem.

I mean that I have never done this. I’m a thirtyyear-old man, and this will be my first time trying to have a relationship with a woman. An incredible woman, even if she does like crunchy peanut butter over smooth. But nonetheless, I’m going to fuck up. There are going to be times when I’m an oblivious dude, and if you need something you have to tell me. None of that shit where you say you’re fine but you’re really not. And no cold shoulders, God I hate that shit. Just be up front with me.” For the first time since we’d met, I think we were finally being extremely clear with each other. We’d talked about honest and no game playing, but we hadn’t truly exercised it until right now. “I’ll try, as long as you promise never to intentionally hurt me. No more phobia of commitment, you can’t run away from your feelings and act like I’m about to chop off your bachelor balls. I want to spend time with you, not bait you and hang you on my wall like a talking fish. Okay?” Oliver’s lips tip up, and his finger traces the

outline of my jaw. “I love that we’re not perfect.” And then, he kisses me. They might be some of the least romantic words in the history of first dates and first date kisses, but they’re true. The kiss is slow and purposeful, it has its own heartbeat and oxygen. The way Oliver assaults my senses and steals every pint of blood flowing through me is almost criminal. It’s the gentlest way anyone has ever slayed me, and when he finally lets me breathe, I know I’ll never be the same. It wasn’t like any moment we’d ever shared, because I could feel his emotions behind it. I was still standing dumbstruck on the sidewalk as he whispered good night, and stayed rooted there even when he turned the corner at the end of the block.

Chapter Twenty-Nine O L IVE R

a patient man whose cock was going to fall Ioffwas from neglect. Thanking my good graces that Gemma had agreed to date me again, I had sworn up and down that we could take it slow. And we had. A couple heavy makeout sessions on the street. Some petting in a cab home the night we’d gone to happy hour. But my balls ached, and if I looked at them up close, I could see the blue of subdued come squeezing them like a noose. My right hand was

growing calluses, and each morning I woke up with rigid morning wood that I poked into the bed so hard, I’d almost made holes in the mattress. God was testing me. He was seeing how virtuous I could be, pop quizzing the shit out of my word that I promised Gemma. Three weeks, fourteen dates, and still my cock had not been inside her sweet, sweet pussy. I’d watched every brunette on every porn channel trying to take the edge off and disallow myself from being a horny fool around my girlfriend. I’d called her my girlfriend on our second date, and she’d blushed and stammered before I kissed her because she looked so darn cute. I wasn’t kidding, I was jumping without a harness, diving without a parachute. This was all in for me. “So is tonight the night, buddy?” Archie’s voice came from the speaker on my phone. “What are you, my love shrink? I don’t know … and it’s weird to talk about. We aren’t chicks.” I picked an olive sweater with a high zip up collar out of my closet. “Dude, it’s healthy to talk about sex with your

male friends. It’s not a competition, and we can always share tips. Girls do it religiously, why wouldn’t we?” He lounged on his couch in San Francisco. I loved my friend, but sometimes he was just fucking weird. “Arch, why are we even Facetiming? This is super weird. Like you’re prepping me for a date with my girlfriend.” I shake my head, laughing at the situation as he watches me run around and put on cologne. “We’re Facetiming because I miss ya, and I need to know how you’re going to approach it. Are you going to do smooth and romantic? Or maybe straight up porno-style boink? There is always the savage animal fuck too, because you haven’t had each other in a while.” Oh my God. “Bye Arch, love you brother, thanks for the talk.” I clicked the red end call button before he could go on talking about how I was going to put the moves on Gemma. Glancing at the clock, I saw I was fucking late. Twenty minutes later, Gemma was complaining

in our Uber. “We’re going to miss the previews.” Her lip pouted out, and all I wanted to do was capture it between my teeth. “I’ll get you a huge popcorn and some Sour Patch Kids.” “But the previews are the best part.” She pouts still, but there is a smile on her face. I was surprised when my makeup loving, chic, princess of a girlfriend had told me she wanted to see the latest superhero blockbuster. “I love everything Marvel and DC. Girls can love comics too, asshole.” That’s what she’d said to me when I’d teased her, and then she’d punched me in the shoulder. I came to find out that Black Widow is her favorite, with Iron Man coming in a cool second. And I also came to find out that it was fucking sexy my girlfriend was a comic nerd. “Don’t worry, we will be there right on time.” The Uber dropped us off just minutes later at the huge movie theater downtown near Brookfield Place. We speed-walked in, Gemma dragging me by the hand as we stopped off for tickets and popcorn.

“I don’t really like the movies,” I grumbled under my breath as we pushed past coughing strangers to our seats. “Who doesn’t like the movies?” Gemma whisper yelled just as the lights went down. We were wedged in between a family who had three children that were definitely under the age of ten. Just from the trailer I could tell this movie wasn’t kid-appropriate, but whatever, they weren’t my minions. To Gemma’s right was a couple; an average looking guy and girl that I hoped would be polite. Oh how wrong I was. Before the movie even started, the girl was laughing at things that weren’t funny at full volume. “What the hell?” I shot them a dirty look, acting every second of my thirty crotchety years. Gemma touched my arm and quietly laughed. “Babe, they’re high as kites.” The intro music to the movie boomed through the speakers as I studied them more closely. Eyes the size of saucers, grabbing at any snack they can find in front of them, giggling into each other’s

shoulders when there isn’t even an actor on the screen. Yep … high as fuck. “Great. Do you think I can ask them for whatever they’re on? Because without it, this movie experience is going to be annoying as fuck.” Gemma shh’s me, and tucks into her popcorn as the superhero squad fights the latest bad guy up on the screen. But I can’t relax. The high couple next to us starts making out, heavily, almost right on top of my girlfriend. And is if that isn’t bad enough, the person in back of me just decided to use the space next to my head as their own personal footrest. The kids next to us are asking questions about the movie, at full volume, indicating to me and their parents that a lot of it is going over their head. I’m so wound up and tense, my balls physically shrivel up from sitting next to the gorgeous comic nerd and not being able to take her in the bathroom at this fucking movie theater. I roll my neck and grip the armrest, trying to focus on the story playing out on the screen. “Are you okay?” Gemma whispers at me five

minutes later. “Fine.” I force a tight smile. “Your foot hasn’t stopped jiggling, and you’re gripping that armrest like we’re on the most turbulent plane in history.” She places a warm hand over mine and squeezes. I know she’s trying to help me feel better, but her touch only makes me go more insane. I stare into her eyes, conveying everything I’m feeling and I hope she picks up on my message. I move her hand, first off the armrest, then between us, and then to my lap. Those big hazel eyes only get bigger when she feels the enormous bulge in my jeans. I hear the audible gulp in her throat. The rest of the theater watches the blockbuster, but we have our own little scene playing out right here in the chairs between us. I lean forward, never taking my eyes from hers. “I want to get out of here.” Gemma must be a in a trance, because she’s staring at my lips. “We just paid forty dollars for tickets and food.”

“I’m rich, I can take the hit.” I don’t give her another second to respond. Taking her hand and setting our popcorn on the floor, or more likely leaving it for the marijuana twins over there, I usher her out of the theater. “Should we call an Uber?” Her hands are under my shirt the minute we hit the hallway. “Shit.” I hiss, because it’s been so long since her hands have been anywhere near my needy dick. “I don’t know if I’m going to make it twenty blocks, much less in a cab.” I move her until her back hits the wall of the hallway, no one in sight, but anyone could come out and see. I pepper her jaw and neck with kisses. “Mmm, Oliver … I’m not doing it here. Not the first time. I want to be alone with you,” she whispers deep into my ear. “I want to be able to scream as loud as I want when you drive inside of me.” Her dirty sentence sends my world tilting on its axis so hard that I have to catch my breath and brace myself because my knees go weak. “This had better be the fastest fucking cab

driver in all of Manhattan. Or I might die of erection, like they say in one of those Viagra ads.”

Chapter Thirty GE M M A

here was already a broken lamp on the floor. T Six steps in and we’d knocked into a floor light as Oliver had slammed me up against the wall, and the lightbulb smash was drowned out by my screaming groan as he bit at my neck. “Fuck, I’ve missed you so much. I’ve missed this so much.” Oliver pulled at my clothes, planting kisses on any bare inch of skin his lips can find. My scalp burns where he’s shoving me against the hard drywall, but I couldn’t care less. My clit

is yelling at me, throbbing for release already, the weeks I’ve gone without Oliver inside me making me ache with horny need. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed your dick.” I grab his face where it’s attacking my neck, and probably leaving hickeys, and pull it up to my mouth. Our tongues collide, probing heatedly but sloppily. There is nothing graceful about how we’re coming together right now. “We are going to break through this drywall,” I breathe as he pulls my sweater over my head and tries to shove the bulge in his jeans between my legging-clad thighs. “I’ll get those brothers from that fix-it show to come repair it. I don’t fucking care. I just need to be inside of you.” He hiked my leg up, my leggings still firmly on, and hooked it around his waist. He ground against me, and I couldn’t accommodate any space to back up. My ass was trapped against the wall, and Oliver’s huge, pulsing cock was trying to rip through the collective materials of our pants.

I was feasting on him just as much as he was feasting on me. None of my sexual experiences had ever been like they were with Oliver, and I realized that now. We had passion, but we also had understanding. He was tending to my needs, and I was tending to his. And while neither of us was focused on our own pleasure, it made our final crest into the stratosphere of orgasm that much better. “These things make your ass look so damn good, but they’re impossible to take off.” Oliver struggles to get my leggings down my thighs. “Maybe you could take them off, strut around all sexy. Do a little dance.” He bites gently on my earlobe and I see stars. “In your dreams. Just because you can’t get my clothes off doesn’t mean you get a lap dance.” I push his shirt off of his shoulders, having already undone all of his buttons. His slacks are next, and I had those off in a timely and elegant fashion. “I’m winning.” “We’ll see who comes first.” A challenge flashes in his eyes as he finally gets me naked from

the waist down. I’m about to smile, but it’s wiped clean off when Oliver plunges two thick, warm fingers inside of me. With the first two pulses of his fingers, he pushes all of the air out of my lungs. With the second two, he has me screaming for the high heavens. “Oh my fucking God, Oliver …” I’d forgotten. He knew exactly where to push me, how to get me there. Since we’d been fuck buddies before friends, and now a couple, we’d been training each other to fuck. Working out our sexual muscles, studying each other’s playbooks. I’d schooled him on how to find my clit and G-spot, the exact rhythm I liked, how I wanted it just before I was about to shatter into a million pieces. And I knew that he liked when my nails raked over his ass when he was inside of me. That he liked if I reached back and massaged his balls as I rode him. That when he came, he liked my tongue in his mouth so he could take me in multiple places.

“I want my girlfriend to come around my fingers. Come for me, baby.” It’s ridiculous that I’m this close to an orgasm already, but I haven’t had sex in weeks and no one besides my left hand has made me truly come in months. Everything is overwhelming; Oliver’s eyes boring into mine, his sexy, crisp scent, the rough of the wall behind me, his dirty whispered words. I bite down on my lip, wanting the release but fighting it all at the same time. It always seems like my body’s natural chemistry is to fight my climax for as long as possible, so that when I do fall over that cliff, it’s a free fall into oblivion. When the first tinglings hit the back of my neck, my legs give out. “I’ve got you.” Oliver catches me, holding me to him and keeping his fingers slowly pumping as my orgasm pierces through me. As the fever dissipated, he scooped me up and carried me to what I only hoped was the bedroom. “Talk about sweeping a girl off her feet. That was some Cinderella shit.” I leaned my head into his chest, his heart beating double time. All the

blood in his body was probably pumping to his dick. “Nonsense. Prince Charming would have never finger-fucked the princess up against the wall barely inside his apartment. They’d stick to straight traditional missionary.” Oliver set me down at the foot of his bed, and I’d missed being here. His bedroom was such a reflection of him, clean wood lines and neat decorations. Nothing too fancy, but everything purposefully put in here. I sat on the edge of the massive king bed and slid my sweater up over my head, leaving me completely nude. “That’s a sight I’ve dreamed about for months now.” Oliver slipped out of his shoes and did away with his pants, his nudity matching my own. Sauntering towards me so that I have to crawl backwards on the bed, he plants his hands on either side of my body. And slowly as I move, he moves over me, backing us up until my head is lying on the pillows and we’re skin-to-skin. “Let’s slow this down. I’ve waited a while for it, but I don’t want to rush through it. I’ve missed

you so much. And I don’t just mean this. Being close to you, looking at you. I’ve missed it all.” His words are a little cliché, but I’m a fool for him, and I absolutely melt as his eyes explore my own. Those three little words come creeping up my throat, but I know I can’t say them. We just got naked again, we’re going to make sweet monkey love. I can’t complicate it just yet with those four letters. He might bolt. I don’t let myself have a chance. I cup the back of his neck and bring him down, fusing our mouths in a slow and drugging kiss. With each lap of his tongue on mine, I feel myself get wetter. Which shouldn’t even be possible, because I’m already flushed and sticky from my first orgasm. Oliver breaks the kiss and pushes a hand between us. I don’t realize what he’s doing until he grips himself and drags the tip up and down, from the top of my swollen clit to my dripping opening. Up and down he goes, driving me insane with need. “You’re the only woman I will ever be inside again.” These are the most precious words he

could say in this moment. They’re a commitment, a promise. They’re a plan for the future. And then he slips into me, slowly stretching me open. It burns a little, I’ve gone a few weeks without sex and he’s bigger than I remember. I place a hand on his chest, silently telling him to give me a minute to adjust. And after a second, the tightness turns to pleasure, his tip and shaft rubbing all of the erogenous zones inside me. “It feels so good,” I breathe. “I need to think about anything but your pussy right now.” His cock pulses as he mumbles this into my neck. “It’s been too long.” “So look at me.” I use my hand to bring his chin up. “I want you to look at me the whole time.” I never really believed in making love. Sex was sex, even with people I’d been dating it had just been fucking, the physical act of coming together. But tonight, this first time Oliver and I had been together as an official couple, was the closest I’d ever come to physically making the emotion of love.

Each slow stroke of him inside of me set off another round of chills and moans. Each kiss or nibble on each other’s skin was a brand. I’d never believed sex could be like this, not even with Oliver. It had never been like this with him before. All of our walls and defenses were down. If I’d thought we’d trusted each before, had been open and honest about what we liked and needed, this was a whole new level of understanding. “You’re incredible.” Oliver is looking at me like I just birthed the baby Jesus, and I feel myself preening a bit. To have a man look at you like that is all I’ve ever wanted. It’s just a plus that that man is also one who gets me in every possible way. “I’m going to come again. I’m so close.” He knows, remembers, that this is my tell. Reaching between us, Oliver rubs my clit, with firm pressure in small circles, as he pumps faster. I feel it in my legs this time, little electrical pulses that are causing me to overheat. “Yes …” I groan as the climax explodes inside of me, slow and low at first and then bright and

burning. “Gemma …” My name is a prayer or a plea as Oliver smashes his mouth to mine, and I know from the guttural growl into my throat that he’s coming. I lose myself in his kiss as he loses himself in me.

Chapter Thirty-One O L IVE R

hen we’re young, Halloween is for seeing W who can fill their pillowcase with the most amount of candy and eating it until you were so physically sick, you couldn’t get up. “We’re too old for this,” I whined as Gemma put a large colorful bowtie around my neck. “You’re too old, old man, and it’s a work function, so suck it up.” She pulls up her strapless orange dress and adjusts her red squishy nose. I’m a little annoyed that she’s dragging me to

Femme’s Annual Costume Ball, but also kind of thrilled that I get to go on the arm of my smoking hot girlfriend. Her curvy frame is encased in the tight dress, and every time she moves, so do both of her juicy, pert ass cheeks. So if I have to dress up like a sophisticated clown in my black tux and polka-dot oversized bowtie, I’ll do it. Because I want to make her happy and because couple’s do things like this together. “My boss is a total bitch, so avoid her. And don’t get too in-depth with my coworkers, they’ll take anything you say and use it against me. And don’t drink too much or you’ll have to bid on a stupid auction item like Drinks at the Harvard Club or tickets to Aladdin on Broadway.” Those weren’t stupid. “I bid on stuff like that at all of the charity events I go to. It’s nice for the fundraiser.” She sighs and puts on another coat of lipstick in the mirror of her bathroom. “Yes, you’re Mother Freaking Teresa. But I don’t need my coworkers talking about my rich boyfriend … it will give me

a target on my back.” Gemma seems antsy and nervous, and it’s really fucking cute. I wrap my arms around her waist and press my nose into her lavendersmelling hair. “You have a target on your back. It sits right below your waist and drives me fucking insane.” I see her roll her eyes in the mirror. “You’re a dog. I already need a glass of champagne.” Twenty-five minutes later, Gemma is holding my hand as I let her walk through the door to the rooftop first. She’s added a purple fur shawl to her outfit, but with the heaters on the giant terrace overlooking the island, it is warm and intimate in late October. And everyone in here is dressed to the circus themed nines. Men with tuxes and full on lion’s manes, women carrying around whips and stools. At one end of the room, a woman in a floor-length black gown is walking a miniature pony around with her. A couple has a tightrope tied between them, and one woman is in a full on trapeze costumes. When Gemma had said people at her

work got into the Halloween ball, she wasn’t kidding. “Well, at least it’s not each girl in a sexy something costume in some basement bar in Chelsea.” I lace my fingers through my hot date’s as she weaves us through the crowd. “Don’t worry, people will get drunk and sloppy just soon enough.” She looks back at me, her hair blowing in the light breeze. Fuck, I’m going to be hard this entire night. The way I can basically see the outline of her ass in that dress is not helping my case. “Gemma! Oh my God, thank God you’re here. I was beginning to think our entire department left me!” A stick-thin girl wearing giraffe ears and a brown suede dress crushes Gemma to her body. I can see Gemma struggle, wanting out of whatever this bear hug is. It makes me chuckle as I look over at the guy crushing hug girl is with. He looks panicked and out of place in his gorilla suit. I don’t think he got the memo about black tie costumes. “Oliver, this is Dani, she works with me in the

beauty department.” Gemma squeezes my hand as she introduces me. I’m not sure what that means. “Oh my gosh, I didn’t know you were seeing someone new. And how handsome, who knew Gemma could pull that off!” The bitch actually laughs at her own backhanded compliment as she kisses me European style on both cheeks. “Who knew she had such pretty coworkers. She never mentions you.” I throw my own little barb wrapped in chocolate-covered kindness right back at her. “Hey, you’re Oliver Anders, aren’t you?” The boy toy standing off to the side lights up as he realizes who I am. And Dani deflates, not having guessed at it first. “Martin, don’t be rude. This is my boyfriend Martin, by the way.” The way she said boyfriend made it sound like a curse word. I pretended to fix Gemma’s hair as I bent down to her ear and whispered, “Trouble in paradise?” “Yeah, man … you just launched that whole Graphite Home project. Fuck, you’re like the new

Steve Jobs!” I smile, because it’s awkward when people say things like that and I don’t know how to respond. I usually just stand there and listen to them gloat over me, because when you do what you love for a living, you don’t actually think of it as profound. I have so much fun with what I do, I rarely think about the fandom or whatever you want to call it. “Thank you. Hey, give Gemma your number through Dani and I’ll send you the new system if you’d like.” “Are you serious?! That would be awesome.” He looks more excited about my new tech product than he’s probably ever looked to get inside his girlfriend’s pants. Dani, meanwhile, is sulking at his side. “Well, Gemma, I didn’t realize that you were dating a celebrity.” I don’t think I’ve ever seen my girlfriend preen as much as she did in that moment. “What can I say, my life is super glamorous right now.” “Oh shit, Medusa is coming this way. Fuck!” Dani turned and walked the three feet to the closest

bartending station, leaving us to face what I assumed to be a woman with snakes for hair. “Medusa is my boss, be nice. Please!” Gemma whispered under her breath. Turning, a redhead in a fire-engine red dress and a Dalmatian printed choker around her neck was purposefully stalking towards us. I had no idea what Dalmatians had to do with the circus, but I wasn’t going to ask this woman. She looked like she had a stick shoved so far up her ass it might come out of her nose if she sneezed. “Lauren, it’s so good to see you. Thank you for inviting us.” Gemma put on her sweetest voice, and I almost elbowed her. She’d never talked that nicely to me in our whole existence of knowing each other. “Gemma. Dani.” She nodded at them but kept her eyes on me the whole time. “And who is this?” I was probably closer in age to her boss than I was to Gemma, and this woman sensed it. There was something about certain women over thirty who saw a single, or in this case not married, man and their radar peaked. She was clearly checking

me out, even lingering on the crotch area of my pants. I shifted, feeling extremely awkward. “Oliver Anders, thank you for having us. It’s a nice theme.” She shakes my hand, but Lauren might as well be cupping my balls and weighing them in her hands with how invasive her grip is. I wrench away at the first chance. “So, Oliver, take a walk with me. We can talk about what you do.” She’s completely ignoring that my girlfriend is standing right next to her. Not to mention, that she’s her employee. “Oh, you know Gemma and I would love to go see the fire-breather over there. Why don’t you come with us?” Medusa shoots Gemma a look that could murder kittens. “I would love that, as long as you’ll let me borrow your arm. This dress is so tight, I might fall.” Gemma rolls her eyes but gives me her blessing, and I kind of wish my girlfriend grabbed me by the dick in that moment and showed her boss who was the real boss.

After an hour of trying to suction myself to Gemma’s side and escape Lauren McCraig’s clutches, she finally gets the hint. She excuses herself after thinking she saw Beyoncé, she definitely didn’t, but we emphatically agree with her as she waddles away. “Oh my God, I thought she was going to start sucking you off in plain sight.” Gemma dissolves into a fit of laughter after she is out of earshot. “Thanks for saving me. And here I thought you were jealous.” I hug her tight. “I am fiercely jealous … except when I know a woman is scaring you so much that you finally understand the squeezing hand thing.” Yeah, I picked up that when Gemma didn’t like what someone did or said, she’d point it out to me by squeezing my hand. “Can we please go home?” I was tired. “I thought you’d never ask. Let’s get Taco Bell on the way home and then get naked.” That sounded better than every three-ring nut job in this place.

THREE HOURS LATER, I lay in my bed with a naked Gemma pressed up against my tired, but happy, cock. “Why did you never call me after July?” She looks up at me, her makeup-free face so beautiful in the dark. We hadn’t talked about the little break we’d taken yet, although I knew I should have expected it would come up at some point. “There were so many times I wanted to, I really did. But I knew what you wanted, and I wasn’t ready to give you that yet. Plus, I had some help.” Confusion steals over her features. “What do you mean?” Embarrassment courses through me, because it seems so childish now to have done it. “I downloaded one of those apps that … that wouldn’t let me contact you. Remember?” “Oh my god, I completely forgot about that. You blocked my phone number! Oh my God, you

actually tried to drunk text me and had to freaking block me to stop yourself.” She cracks up, kicking her legs into the mattress. Her amusement makes me chuckle, and taking her hand in mine, I take a deep breath. “It’s because I love you. Even then, I was in love with you.” For some reason, I’ve always thought those words would make me weak, would leave me vulnerable for any person to cut me down. Maybe it’s why I’ve never said them to any woman before Gemma. Maybe I knew they wouldn’t be real until I found the right woman, which in all cases was Gemma. After all, my brain was purely scientific, working on logic and cause and effect. But I was surprised to find that after all the worrying and immature bullshit I’d pushed upon the female gender over the year, I felt something completely opposite than I’d anticipated. It was as if I was a thousand feet tall, puffing out my chest for everyone to see. The world was tinged rosecolored, and that might sound corny but it was completely true. Being in love with Gemma only

enhanced my life and how I saw things; it added an element of importance to everything I did. She blinked, her long lashes sweeping slowly. “You … what?” “I love you,” I said it confidently. Gemma looked like she was having a hard time breathing, as if I’d stolen it right out of her lungs. “Are you okay?” She sat up like she was going to hyperventilate, and I scrambled up, holding her waist and rubbing her back. After a minute, she turned to me with the goofiest grin on her face. “I’m … shocked.” “I can see that.” “For some reason, I thought I was going to have to be the first one to say it. Thought you’d be too much of a pussy to do it, or it would be too much of a commitment. I thought I’d wait a few months, drop some hints, and if you didn’t say it I would and then force it out of you.” My jump-to-assumptions woman, she made me double over with laughter. “So you’re about to have a panic attack because I beat you to the

punch?” I wrestled her to the bed as I kissed her face. “I love you, I love you, I love you …” I stopped, pushing her hair out of her face as she looked up at me in wonder. “I love you, too.” I never really believed in a moment stopping time. A perfect beat of a second capturing the most religious of experiences. But right then, well damn, the hands on every clock in my apartment ceased when Gemma Morgan said those three little words. “You can’t take that back, you know. It’s like a dozen donuts, or a double orgasm. I’m going to keep wanting it again, and again, and again.” I nuzzled into her neck. Gemma pushes me over, and then straddles my lap. “I’ll take an ‘I love you’ with a side of double orgasm then. And an onion ring. I love onion rings.”

Chapter Thirty-Two GE M M A

one time, I saw a porno where this guy "This was fucking a chick while she held a pull up bar. It's been a fantasy of mine." Oliver held my hand on the cushion between us, and I sank down into the comfortable material. "Well, a fantasy of mine is being fucked by two men at once. But I'm always afraid it will be too much cock, you know? Sometimes in the porno's, they make it seem like the girl is so overwhelmed. I don't like to be overwhelmed."

His aqua sea-stone eyes widen with disbelief. "You watch porn? Threesome porn?" My boyfriend tilts his head back like he's trying to picture exactly how I touch myself. I smack his chest lightly. "Don't be that guy. You know, the one who pretends that women don't watch porn just as much as men. I flick my bean happily. Unless, of course, you’re flicking it, because that feels so much better.” Oliver paused for a second, and then lunged at me, tackling me so that he was lying on top of me. “I’ll push the button on your O remote anytime you want to watch, sweetheart.” I pushed at his chest, secretly loving the weight of him on me. “You’re so corny. Go make me a sandwich or something. I’m hungry.” “I’ve got a Bologna sandwich right here for you, baby.” He humped like a jackrabbit on top of me. Giggles, fast and loud, came pouring out of my throat. This is what it had been like for weeks now. It wasn’t hard, there was no struggle to connect or talk or work things out. Once we’d stopped trying

so hard to make our lives the exact way we wanted them, they fell right into place. Once I’d stopped trying so hard to find the perfect man, he’d fallen right into my lap. Or well, I’d fallen into his. “Do you really want to have a threesome? That’s your fantasy?” We’d gotten onto the fantasy talk after our second round of sex last night, fallen asleep middiscussion, and picked it back up as the sun rose. Oliver had started it, asking me what I would do sexually if I could do anything. I wasn’t into whips and chains, I was too high maintenance and stubborn for all that. I’d done the regular foreplay stuff; sixty-nine, blowjobs, even a little ass play. Okay fine, I’d done more than a little ass play. I’d been blindfolded, used some sex toys intermixed with dick. Oliver hadn’t seemed surprised at any of this, I mean hell he was older and more experienced. But I’d always gotten heavily turned on by the idea of a threesome. It was my go-to spank bank scene whenever I wanted to get off in a jiffy,

although I’d never truly thought about acting on it and seeking one out. “I mean, it gets me really turned on. Thinking about it, about what they would say to me, call me. Mostly the dirty talk is the thing that makes me sweat.” It didn’t feel awkward or strange talking about this with Oliver. I wasn’t trying to impress him or hiding my true feelings because I wanted to make him feel like a macho man. No, he genuinely wanted to know what got me off, what interested me, and how he could help me get there. Sex wasn’t everything in a relationship, but honest sex was supremely important. I don’t know how I’d ever missed that lesson in Dating 101. “How about you? We could buy a pull-up bar.” I raise my eyebrows at him. His eyes spark, and his lips curve up in a devilish smile. “Or we could go downstairs to the building’s gym and pray no one catches us. In public and on gym equipment, I’d call that two birds with one stone.” Rolling my eyes, I was done talking about sex

until he fed me some bacon. “I’m hungry.” “Fine.” Oliver got up, walking barefoot through his gigantic apartment. “What do you want? I can have bagels delivered.” I smoothed down my bedhead and looked out on the cold November landscape of the city. “Bagels … delivered? Ah, what it must be like to be a rich prince.” A wet kiss landed on my cheek. “Get used to it, babe. I’m going to be spending all of this money on you.” I smiled giddily. “I like the sound of that. Hmm, I’d like bacon, egg, and cheese on a whole wheat everything bagel with ketchup, please. You fucked all the calories out of me, I need to replenish.” “Coming right up, princess.” Oliver wanders into the other room and does whatever voodoo magic he has to to get bagels delivered here on a Sunday morning. While he’s gone, I traipse to the window, pressing my hands and nose to the glass. Leaning into it so that I can see the whole city laid out, I look past it over the river. Sometimes I

think about myself as a little girl, and then a teenager, in New Jersey. I never felt worthy enough, of what I wasn’t sure though. I never felt the same as my peers, never thought I’d end up having the normal life where everything went right on track. And in some ways, I don’t. Who does really? I have a bunch of friends who belong in a dive bar singing Hootie and the Blowfish throwbacks and doing tequila shots, rather than a sophisticated lounge with martinis. My job is a hybrid between being thrown to the wolves and having fairy dust sprinkled over my head twentyfour seven. And my boyfriend, who is a leading tech millionaire, is not at all who I pictured I’d end up with and has such different tastes than I, it’s a miracle we have anything to talk about. If there is anything I’ve learned in my short twenty-five years, it’s that nothing ever goes the way you think it will. Plans fail, happiness peaks out of every corner, surprises lurk just around the corner. Yada-yada, all that bullshit. I’m just learning to take the lemons and suck

hard on them until they turn sweet. Or just slam them after a tequila shot. Wait, that’s limes. Well, whatever. Told you I belonged in a dive bar.

Chapter Thirty-Three GE M M A

s opposed to the last time I met someone’s A mother, this was one introduction that I was prepared for and happy to be making. But I was so nervous that I’d pooped twice this morning already and had to use some of my perfume to cover it up. Nothing like a nervous stomach in your boyfriend’s apartment right before you were about to meet his entire family. “Tell me again about your family. Just run down the names for me. Can you give me flash

cards or something? Jesus, isn’t that what good boyfriends do?” I was pacing around the palatial apartment that Oliver called home, where I’d been staying religiously for the last three weeks. We ate, we fucked, we laughed, we bickered, we watched sports and the occasional Netflix drama. He took conference calls from China while I slept, and my makeup products littered the counter in his bathroom. And now we were doing the meet the parents thing. Would they like me? Would I like them? From his accounts, they were laid back Californians. His mother taught yoga and his brother handled some of Graphite’s business out in Los Angeles. His father had retired from teaching and now owned a health food and smoothie shop. I’d been reading up on yoga poses and healthy herbs for two weeks now. What would they think of a high-maintenance New Yorker who drew on her eyebrows everyday and couldn’t last without BB cream and a blow dryer. “They’re going to love you, because I love

you.” He kisses my temple and checks his phone, probably to see the progress of their Uber he’d ordered them from the airport. “Oh shut it. That’s just shit good boyfriends say when they’re unsure of how their parents will react to their East Coast girlfriend. And we’ll all sit cordially, but tonight your mom will text you saying she doesn’t approve and to maybe find someone who doesn’t require a two inch heel, at least, on all of her shoes.” I throw my hands up and keep pacing. Why the fuck am I so nervous? I’m great with parents, have always been great with adults. I can read people well, and have the ability to morph into any character I need to be in that moment. The buzzer to Oliver’s apartment sends a shockwave down my spine. “Oh my God, they’re here.” Oliver looks at me like I’m nuts before walking to me. “What are you going to do, hide under the bed? Everything is going to be fine. I love you. Breathe.” I smooth down my hunter green sweater dress

and adjust the camel-colored scarf I paired with it. I hope I look respectable and not too flashy. I tried so hard with the outfit that the rest of my closet is in piles on my bedroom floor back in the West Village. The front door opens and it’s on. “Olly!” “Hi, son!” “I never get over this place.” Three people invade the foyer of the apartment, but by the sounds of them, you’d think it was twenty. Oliver had quizzed me about his mom, dad and younger brother for a few days. He’d told me a little about each of them, and I was wracking my brain to remember all of the facts I’d jammed into my head. Not that I hadn’t Facebook stalked too. I needed all of the information I could get. “Lara, Alex, Teagan … it is so nice to meet you all!” I entered the room and began the flurry of handshakes and hugs. I plastered my most friendly smile on my face, offered to take bags to rooms, asked if they would like drinks or a snack.

“It’s so nice to finally be here, I don’t do well on plane rides.” Lara sat in a chair around the large kitchen table and rubbed her back. “Can I get you anything? Maybe a drink, some Advil?” Playing the role of attentive girlfriend was going to be exhausting tonight. “You don’t need to do a thing, dear. Just come sit down, I’m not a fussy person.” And I was literally the exact opposite. “Gemma, right? It’s good to finally meet the girl who made my big brother settle down.” Teagan smiled at me and made me feel a little bit better about the whole situation. “I’m the lucky one … your brother is great.” God, I made myself want to vomit with all the sincere shit. Oliver snorts. “Don’t let her kid you. She knows she’s the lucky one. If you weren’t all brand new and shiny, she’d be sarcastically reaming me out in front of you.” I hit him on a reflex. “Oliver!” “Oh, and she keeps you in line too. I like her.” His father, Alex, goes to the fridge to get a beer. So

apparently you can drink beer and run a health store. Good to know. The room gets quiet as it often does when complete strangers are trying to find things to talk about for the first time. “Should we get this meal on the road, then?” Lara got up and tied her long blond hair back. She didn’t really look like her son, but then again he was all his father. I guess he had her build, long and lean, but solid and strong. I decided instantly that I liked her. She seemed no nonsense but kind. “I’ve never made a turkey, and I’m a terrible cook admittedly, but I’m always willing to learn.” I pushed up my sleeves and took my place beside her at the counter. Over the next hour, the boys chopped vegetables and peeled potatoes at the table while Lara taught me how to brine and truss a turkey. She asked a lot of questions about my job, and Teagan laughed at some of the stories I had about my colleagues and interview subjects. They’d come in a few days before

Thanksgiving because apparently Lara did a yoga retreat every year on the holiday, so we were celebrating tonight. Secretly, I kind of loved it because it meant Oliver could come to New Jersey with me on the actual day and meet my family. He was so screwed. My mother was basically going to hook him up to a lie detector. And wait until she found out he was thirty. “Dad, why don’t you say something?” Oliver nodded to his dad when we all sat down at the formal dining room table. “Well, okay. Um … hi, family. And to our newest member, Gemma, we are very lucky to have met you. May your stomach be full, may your hearts be light, and may you be thankful for every day you get to live in this life.” More perfect words could never have been said. I don’t know what I’d been so nervous for. I guess things with Oliver were just going so well, I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. But it had already dropped, months ago. And he’d picked it up and slid it back onto my foot, Prince Charming and all. Although, it couldn’t

have been glass. I was way too tough on my heels for a glass slipper.

“ISN’T it crazy how we ended up here?” I’m lying on my stomach in Oliver’s bed as he faces me on his side, scratching my back. It feels so good, it’s almost close to an orgasm. But … not that good. “Where? In my bed in TriBeCa? Because I can tell you, I worked very hard to get here.” I made an annoyed sound but smiled at him. “No, like you and me here. It started off so … strangely and here we are. At one point, we didn’t even like each other. Who would have thought we’d end up together, in love and all of that other mushy stuff.” Oliver’s curls flop over his forehead. “Maybe people don’t fall for each other at first sight. Or, at least, not every person.” “What do you mean?” Oliver flips me and holds my back to his front and strokes a hand

lightly up and down my stomach. It doesn’t matter that I sleep with this man almost every night. I’ll never get enough of him, his smooth skin over hard muscle, the way we fit perfectly together. He was like a comfort object, a blanket I needed beside me to sleep. I thought about it. “The first time I met you, well I guess saw you, out on that street where you kept me from smashing my face into the pavement, I looked at you. But I didn’t really register you. I thought, ‘Well, he’s good looking.’ But I didn’t really give you any other thought, not until we ran into each other at the awful brunch spot. Let’s agree never to get breakfast that isn’t really breakfast ever again?” Oliver nods and kisses the crown of my head. “Deal. Eggs and pancakes it is forever.” I wiggle backwards. “Anyway, even when we started sleeping together … the first couple of times I didn’t really have feelings for you. Sure, I liked you as a person and thought you were good in the sack, but I never considered the possibility of more. But over time, you grew on me. I started to

regard you as the closest person to me in my life, the person I wanted to tell about my day and everything that happened in between. I fell slowly for you, but once I was down for the count, there was no hope of getting up again.” “That’s because love and relationships aren’t a fairytale. They don’t go completely written to plan, like we see in the movies or read in books. They’re messy. They cause such an upheaval in our lives. You’re making room for a second human being in your singular life, of course it’s not going to go smoothly.” I turn to face him in the dark. “I’m glad you uprooted my life.” “And I’m glad you made a fucking mess of mine.”

Epilogue GE M M A

Six Months Later real life, there is no happily ever after. I n Sure, we get the guy, slay the dragon, nab the fairytale ending we have all been searching for. But then you move in together. Share spaces. Share bathrooms. Fight over who cooks dinner and what TV show you binge on. He wants sports, you want Bravo. The other day, Oliver and I had the following

conversation while I was in the shower. Oliver stood over the sink, brushing his teeth. "Do you use the soap bar in there?" "Of course, what else would I use? Are you calling me dirty?" I squirt conditioner into my hand. "No, babe. But like, when I use it, I put the soap in my hands first and then wash my body. You do the same, right?" Taking the razor from the wall, I start on my armpits. "Um, no. I just rub the bar all over my body." "In your butt? That's gross." He looks at me from the mirror as I stick my head out of the glass door. "Honey, we put each other's private parts in our mouths. I think your point is pretty much moot." And that is the discussion almost daily. We bicker, laugh, and at the end of the day, get into bed in

nothing but our underwear and eat ice cream sandwiches. We still fuck like animals, but there is another layer there. An added compassion, friendship or understanding. It means more because we know that once the sex is over, we are still going to be the couple who is together even when we get food poisoning from a Japanese restaurant that keeps us in the bathroom half the night. And yes, I did say I peeked out of a glass shower door. It's the fanciest fucking shower I've ever lived in, and is probably half the size of my old West Village bedroom. But most notably, that shower is not in Oliver's apartment. No, part of the deal of moving in together after a couple of months dating, was that we find a new place. Obviously mine would not work, nor would I want to include Sam as the third wheel in my relationship. And I wasn’t moving in to his mansion, which I couldn’t begin to pay for, plus it was far too far from my work. That had started another conversation about money. Oliver was insistent that he could just pay for wherever we lived, that he had enough money

to cover everything and I shouldn’t worry about it. I told him where he could shove it. I wasn’t so independent or girl power that I didn’t want my man to treat me like a princess. Sure, I wanted doors opened, surprise flowers, breakfast in bed, a nice gift that I wasn’t expecting now and then. But I also respected myself, and planned to keep the independence I’d built when I moved to New York City by myself. I had a good job that I worked hard at, I paid my bills and was responsible enough to save a little at the end of the month. I wasn’t going to allow the prince I’d found to sweep me off my feet and take care of everything. I was too stubborn to let someone control my whole kingdom. So we’d gone apartment hunting, seeing five places before we settled on one that was just flashy enough but also inside my price range. We split rent seventy-thirty, and I picked up the grocery bill. And seeing as Oliver hadn’t really cooked food for himself in three years, I was schooling

him on some things in life. “Do we really need five packs of chicken?” He steers the cart, looking warily at every shelf in Whole Foods. “Yes, because unlike some people, us peasants cook our meals after we defrost them from freezer Siberia.” I smack his ass and love the feeling of the firmness through his sweatpants. “But we could just order takeout … I didn’t even have a microwave in my old apartment.” He eyes a package of kale I put in the cart. Shaking my head as I select containers of yogurt, I laugh. “I know you didn’t, but I’m domesticating you, this is my job. I’m not telling you you have to cook anything. God knows I don’t want our building burning down.” “Is this a similar argument to the clothes chair?” Oliver leans over and plants a kiss on my cheek. “The clothes chair is an essential piece of furniture in which clothes that you may wear tomorrow, for example sweatpants, can stay out of the closet to remind you to wear them again.”

I didn’t understand what he didn’t understand about the all-important chair you place in your bedroom to put non-dirty, possible outfit items for the week. Every woman had one, be it a piece of workout equipment, a chair, or whatever else you could hang clothes on. “Sure, babe.” “Midnight Train to Georgia” comes on over the loudspeakers, and Oliver starts shimmying down the aisles. I laugh at his two-step while he pushes the cart, and I realize, with two packages of english muffins in my hands, that I’m a damn lucky person. For a long time, I was desperately searching for the one perfect man that would make my world complete. I had this picture in my head of what he’d be like, what he would say, how he would act. And like most things in life, I planned and the universe laughed. What fate brought me instead was Oliver, the frog friend with benefits who was never supposed to be my prince. He wasn’t perfect; he could be too cocky, he wasn’t Mr. All American, he was goofy

at times that he should be serious. There were moments I could see him panic about living with me and being so serious with a woman, and others that I literally saw his heart melt with how much he loves me. Oliver Anders was my prince, no matter how imperfect he was. He still had some bullfrog tendencies, but over the last year, I’d learned that people aren’t always what they seem. Sometimes the universe had other plans, ones you didn’t even see coming. Our happily ever after was peppered with bickering and makeup sex on a daily basis, and on this island kingdom of Manhattan, I wouldn’t want it any other way.

About the Author

Author of romance novels such as Red Card and On Thin Ice, Carrie Aarons writes sexy, swoony and sarcastic characters who won't get out of her head until she puts them down on a page. Carrie has wanted to be an author since the first time she opened a book, and can’t imagine a better or more maddening profession. When she isn't in a writing coma, Carrie is chasing her Great Dane/Lab puppy through the dog parks of New Jersey, or trying to make her husband binge watch the latest Netflix craze. For more information:

@authorcarriea Author Carrie Aarons www.carrieaarons.com [email protected]

Also by Carrie Aarons On Thin Ice Nathan Rush is a small town man who has never dreamed of a bigger life. Until, that is, the only surviving heiress of America's richest family lands on his doorstep. Nathan is the groundskeeper at Hollis House, the Valon family's upstate New York mansion just outside of Harlin Falls, the quiet, sleepy town he was raised in. He's an honest, hard-working man who wants nothing more than a beer and a hockey game on TV at the end of the night. Except, when the ice princess starts to melt, Nathan pictures his future in a way he never has before.

Camille Valon's life has taken place in the spotlight. Until, that is, her parents are murdered in a mysterious Christmas Day fire. Now all she wants is to flee the prying news cameras and slow-moving investigation. She's an upper crust ice princess who is good at keeping everyone at arm's length. Grief-stricken and still fearing for her life, Camille arrives at her family's safe haven estate with secrets and a chip on her shoulder. What she didn't count on was the kind, ridiculously attractive man who caters to her every need. As the months go by, and an impending threat grows closer to discovering Camille's location, the line between employer and employee becomes dangerously blurred. Nathan and Camille could be each other's saving graces, if only they'd put aside their visions of a perfect life and take the chance fate has put right in front of them.

Blind Landing ( Flipped, Book 1) Fear stops dreams in their tracks before they even have a chance. Then again, so do injuries. Natalia Grekov was born to win Olympic gold. As the USA’s top gymnast, she’s calm, confident and ready to make her country proud in just two short months. And her

elite athlete lifestyle includes no time for distractions—especially men. When a disastrous fall in practice puts her dreams at risk, it seems the only person who can help her is the one person she wants nothing from. Spencer Russell is gymnastics’ bad boy. A cocky, laid-back charmer with abs of steel and a witty mouth, he waltzes around the U.S. Gymnastics Training Camp like he owns the place—even though he doesn't anymore. After an injury sidelined his career and any chance at Olympic glory, he’s now just a coach, helping other gymnasts reach their goals. Serious is not a word in Spencer’s vocabulary. But when Natalia tumbles into his life, he's suddenly sincerely interested in helping the blonde beauty in any way he can. Can they vault over the obstacles standing in their way? Or will Spencer be the distraction that causes Natalia's chance at gold to crash and burn?

Grasping Air ( Flipped, Book 2) We were the seconds after a grip released the bar, body floating through the air with nervous

wonder. Would we successfully grab it again, or would we hit the mat, shattered and defeated? Peyton Adams learned a long time ago that selfish and detached is the only way to be in life. What most people call shameless or obnoxious behavior, she considers key to getting where she needs to go. Most disapproving of all? USA Gymnastics’ golden boy with an eight-pack, Jared Hargrove. After being cut from the women’s team right before Rio, Peyton is back on the postSummer Games tour. Not only is she the only one without a gold medal, but her history with Jared won’t stay buried for long. Control and good manners; the two things drilled into Jared Hargrove’s head from birth. As a four-time gold medalist, he’s always obeyed the rules and reaped the reward. Well, except for the whirlwind week four years ago in London when wild-child Peyton Adams finally got under his skin, and into his bed. She broke his heart, and he hasn’t removed the ice wall around it since. Now she’s back to redeem herself to the world of gymnastics, and it seems, to push his buttons more than ever. After years of resentment and heartache, can they repair a

relationship so badly broken that most people wouldn’t even try? Or will they continue to fall, grasping at any last emotion before they finally collapse?

LOST ( Captive Heart Duet, Book 1) We knew each other a lifetime ago. And then... We lost childhoods. We lost opportunities. We lost love. Fate is giving us another chance. But a chance at what? Because even though we've been brought back to each other under the worst of circumstances... We are still. So. Damn. Lost.

FOUND ( Captive Heart Duet, Book 2) We found each other where no else could. Found a purpose. Found ourselves. Found love. Again.

But then life got in the way. Three years later and the people that we once were are nowhere to be found. Can our love survive everything we've put it through? Can we find a way back to each other... Again?

Kissed by Reality Falling in love is hard. Falling in love on national television is impossible. Right? Leighton Aldridge did not sign up to meet her soulmate. She signed up for the lights, camera and action. So when the Hollywood-native ends up with the wounded war veteran and a ring on her finger, it's a surprise to everyone. What isn't a surprise is the way she breaks Finn Wyatt's heart, or the massively public breakup that follows. But a year later she's

back, ready for another round on the reality TV show that brought them together. She knows he was the real thing, and she's ready to fight for him. Finn is the new Mr. Right. The country's favorite single guy, and the object of 25 women's affections. But when his exfiance steps onto set and back into the limelight, he wishes he never agreed to another season. Leighton shattered his heart for the world to see, and he's not ready to face that reality. Can Leighton convince him, and America, that she's the one? Or will her future with Finn only consist of 15 more minutes of fame?

Red Card She spent five years planning a future that will never exist. He spent five years trying to erase a past he can’t forget. London is Leah Watson’s fresh start. When she secures the perfect internship during her study abroad semester, with an infamous celebrity public relations firm, she is determined to forge her own path one that is nothing like her life back in

Oklahoma. That plan is tested when British football’s bad boy, Killian Ramsey, decides that she's the one he wants and he's playing for keeps. Will she put her future on hold — again — for the type of man she swore she'd stay away from? Killian is one bloody good football player. After a tragedy shattered his entire world, the cocky and arrogant face he puts on for the media is a complete lie. When he meets Leah, his heart starts to beat for the first time in years. But when the feelings get too real, his perfectly constructed facade starts to slip. Will he risk it all to be with her — taking whatever penalties are thrown his way — or will he play it safe?

Pitching to Win ( Over the Fence, Book 1) What do you do when the town golden boy, who never noticed you in high school, decides to make a play for your heart? For Minka Braxton, high school has been anything but easy. After a humiliating scandal sophomore year, she's avoided the social scene and anything having to do with boys, especially of the popular variety. But with senior year approaching, Minka decides its time

to take life back into her own hands. That is, until Owen Axel, the type of guy she's always avoided, decides he wants her in his hands. Owen Axel is the definition of popular. Good looks, all-star worthy pitching arm and a former pro-athlete father make him Mitchum's town God. Returning from college for the summer, his plan is simple. Beach, booze, and beautiful girls. But one look at Minka Braxton and he knows what he wants. He just doesn't count on her not wanting him. As the summer unfolds, both must decide how much to reveal, how deep they should fall, and what might happen if they strike out.

Hitting to Win ( Over the Fence, Book 2) After a lifetime of neglect and sorrow, Miles Farriston has hit rock bottom after his lying ex-girlfriend proves that no one in his life sticks around. On the outs with his friends, in jeopardy of losing his baseball career and this close to getting kicked out of Kappa Eta Sigma, Miles is forced to compete in the Greek Life dance

competition. What he didn't bank on was getting bright, cheery Chloe Trabucco as a partner. Ballet, friends and her sorority. The only three things Chloe Trabucco wants to focus on and excel at. So when she is asked to compete, as a freshman, in the popular Greek dance competition, she couldn't be happier. That is, until she learns Miles is her partner. The same Miles she's had a huge crush on for half of her life, and the same guy who made it clear months ago that he wants nothing to do with her. Her positivity and patience annoy him. His attitude and anger finally drive her to the breaking point. Can they hit a home run, both on and off the dance floor, or will they go down swinging?

Catching to Win ( Over the Fence, Book 3) Kelsey O'Brien is the definition of a free spirit. She goes where she wants, when she wants, and takes to bed who she wants. And when she arrives back at Grover University after eight months on an African animal preserve, it’s her newly hunky best friend that has caught her

eye. As their friendship turns physical, Kelsey begins to form feelings she swore she'd never have for anyone. But when the past she's not ready to face finds her, she must make a decision whether to stop running, or confront the truth. The first time Clint Bellows laid eyes on Kelsey, he fell hard. Too bad she looked right through him. A year and countless hours in the gym later, she's back and hardly recognizes him and his new body. After a drunken encounter takes them over the line of friendship, Clint agrees to Kelsey's proposal of a benefits-added relationship. Only he's playing for keeps, and is willing to round all of the bases trying to score the self-proclaimed gypsy. She's running from her demons. He's committed to winning her over. Can he catch her in time, or will she be out of his grasp before he can blink?

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